March – Markov Estate
Arrival at the Gates
The Markov estate gates didn't open often.
When they did, it was never for ordinary reasons.
Jay stood near the top of the south terrace, arms crossed over a neatly pressed jacket, his bruised ribs hidden beneath black layers and quiet breath. From here, he could see the cobbled path winding past the gardens toward the gate, flanked by guards in black and silver. Movement stirred at the entrance. Carriages. Motor escorts. A slow, dignified arrival.
He wasn't told who, only that there were diplomatic guests arriving. And that he should be present.
Vincent appeared beside him like a shadow summoned.
"They're early," Vincent murmured.
"Who exactly is 'they'?" Jay asked.
Vincent didn't answer.
Which, of course, answered everything.
Jay remained silent as the first car rolled into view. The doors opened smoothly. From the lead vehicle stepped a man with silver-streaked blond hair and a dignified, straight-backed posture. Lord Aldwynn.
Then, behind him—
The second figure emerged.
She wore a soft winter coat of pale blue, high-collared and tailored to perfection. Her long silver hair was braided over one shoulder, eyes half-lidded beneath the faintest smile.
Christin Aldwynn.
Jay blinked once.
She was not supposed to be here.
Not yet.
Not like this.
Vincent cleared his throat politely. "Shall I announce you, young master?"
Jay's eyes narrowed. "No. Let's not make this more dramatic than it already is."
Vincent bowed and disappeared again.
Jay adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, straightened his spine, and descended the stairs just as the delegation began moving toward the courtyard.
Reintroductions
Jay reached the base of the stairs at the same time the Aldwynn delegation crossed the inner arch.
Christin caught his gaze immediately.
She didn't flinch.
Instead, she smiled.
Like they were old friends.
Like nothing had ever been cold or calculated between them.
"Lord Jay," she said smoothly, dipping her head just enough to be polite.
"Lady Aldwynn," he replied, equally measured.
He looked past her to her father. Lord Aldwynn's eyes were unreadable.
"You've traveled far," Jay said.
Christin nodded. "We received a most gracious invitation from your father. A diplomatic residency—how could we refuse?"
Jay blinked. "A residency?"
She tilted her head. "We'll be staying for a few weeks. Negotiations require time, don't they?"
Behind her, attendants began unloading carefully marked luggage.
Weeks.
Jay kept his face still.
"That's generous of him," he said.
"Oh, very," she replied. Her smile sharpened. "I was hoping I'd get the chance to see the estate in winter."
"I'm sure it's exactly as you imagined."
She looked around slowly. "No. It's colder."
Jay gave a short laugh. "The stone keeps its secrets."
"And its frost," she murmured.
Lord Aldwynn stepped forward. "We look forward to building a prosperous understanding between our families."
Jay bowed slightly. "We're honored to host you."
It was all fake. Perfect. Smooth.
Exactly as it had to be.
And yet, under it all, Jay could feel something wrong. Like an unspoken message hidden in every glance.
III. The Escort
Jay was tasked with escorting Christin to the Aldwynn-assigned guest wing. Half the estate's staff was already scrambling into position—carrying trunks, preparing rooms, arranging minor luxuries.
Christin walked beside him in silence for several minutes.
"You're not surprised to see me," she said at last.
"I'm never surprised anymore."
"Liar."
Jay glanced at her. "Why are you really here?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she ran her hand lightly along the banister of the marble corridor.
"My father believes in leverage," she said. "Your father believes in testing resolve. I believe in showing up."
Jay snorted. "You've always been good at that."
"You still hate me for the dance?"
"I don't hate you."
She stopped walking.
He stopped a beat later.
Christin looked up at him. Her voice was softer now. "Then what do you feel?"
Jay didn't answer. Not directly.
Instead, he asked, "How long have you known this was happening?"
"Two weeks."
"And you didn't warn me?"
She lifted her shoulder in a small shrug. "You would've found a way to disappear."
Jay turned away, exhaling slowly.
She followed.
At the end of the hall, she paused again. "Are you afraid of me?"
"No," Jay said. "I'm afraid of what this place turns people into."
She didn't smile.
"I already know what it turned me into," she said. "I'm here to see what it's doing to you."
Jay didn't respond. He walked ahead.
And she followed.
Dinner Without Questions
Later that evening, a formal meal was hosted—not grand enough to be a banquet, not casual enough to breathe.
Jay sat between his cousin Clara and Christin, which felt, frankly, like being trapped between a knife and a chessboard.
Clara eyed Christin coolly. "I trust the guest rooms meet your standards?"
"They're beautiful," Christin replied, lifting her glass. "Though I imagine your own wing is more... intimate."
Clara smiled. "We prefer not to discuss personal quarters at the dinner table."
Jay glanced at the soup. It seemed like the safest thing in the room.
His father sat at the head, silent but present. Lord Aldwynn spoke in smooth, practiced lines—phrases about diplomacy, cooperation, mutual prosperity. Jay tuned most of it out.
Vincent stood behind him, subtly watching every word.
Christin leaned in a fraction. "Do they always stare this much?"
Jay replied without turning. "Only when they're measuring something."
"Me?"
"Me."
Dessert arrived. It tasted like cold sugar and pressure.
When the meal ended, everyone stood with clockwork precision. A servant escorted the guests back toward their wing. Jay stayed behind a moment, catching his father's glance across the now-empty table.
His father didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Jay had just become the most watched person in the room.
And the most uncertain.
Beneath the Frost
That night, Jay sat at the edge of his bed, staring at a letter he still hadn't opened.
Outside, the courtyard was still.
Inside, his chest was not.
Christin's arrival had changed everything. Or maybe it had confirmed something he already feared: this wasn't a temporary exile. It was a test. A forge.
He didn't know what Christin wanted.
But he knew it wasn't just diplomacy.
And he knew it wasn't just him.
He looked out the window. She was somewhere behind another wall, maybe thinking the same thoughts. Or maybe planning his next step before he could take it.
He didn't trust her.
But part of him wanted to.
He hated that.
He closed the curtain. Blew out the lamp. Lay back.
And slept badly.