The morning sunlight crept gently through the tall curtains of the room, painting soft gold across the white linens. The fire had gone out hours ago, but the warmth still lingered faintly, trapped in the heavy blankets wrapped around her.
Catherine lay on her side, silent and still. Her breathing was slow, shallow—each rise and fall of her chest accompanied by dull aches under layers of gauze and cotton. Her body throbbed with memory. Every scar whispered of the past. Her mind, despite its exhaustion, could not escape.
She stared ahead at the distant edge of the bed's canopy.
The room was far too soft.
Far too quiet.
Far too safe.
It made her nervous.
Her hands curled unconsciously into the sheets, fingers trembling. She should have woken up in chains again. On cold stone. Her wrists should've been raw, her hair clotted with blood, her back split open. This wasn't right.
Why is it so quiet?
The silence was terrifying.
No boots stomping above.
No keys rattling outside the door.
No voices shouting threats.
No screams.
Where… am I?
And then, his face returned to her.
That man—Duke Brooklyn Harperwood.
She remembered waking to him standing above her the night before.
At first, she'd thought it was another soldier. Maybe one of the commanders who had tortured her before. Another man come to remind her of her place.
But instead—
He knelt.
And spoke with a calmness that confused her.
And when she bowed, apologizing, expecting punishment, expecting humiliation—
He said, "Calm down."
That was it.
No whip.
No sneer.
No cruel words.
Just—"Calm down."
Her throat tightened as her fingers dug deeper into the sheets.
Who is he?
He had asked her name, and she'd told him. She'd offered to call him 'Master'—because that was what she had been taught to say. Her mind, her body, everything had been trained into obedience.
But he…
He looked… uncomfortable.
He didn't want me to call him that.
Why didn't he want that?
Her breath hitched. Her ribs still hurt when she inhaled too deeply.
She remembered the moment his hand rested lightly on her head. Just once.
A small gesture.
Warm.
Too gentle.
Too dangerous.
No one had touched her like that in years. No one had touched her like that ever.
Why didn't he mock me?
Why didn't he laugh?
Why didn't he call me worthless, like they all did?
She blinked slowly. Her chest felt tight again—but not from fear. It was something else now. Something unfamiliar.
She didn't trust him. Of course she didn't.
She couldn't.
But...
He could have hurt me last night.
He didn't.
He could have forced me to do anything.
He didn't.
He left.
Told her to rest.
Told her she wasn't here for his entertainment.
The words echoed strangely in her mind, rubbing against every scarred memory like a soft cloth over an open wound.
Was this a trick?
Would it all change soon?
Was he just waiting for her to let her guard down?
Or…
Or was this real?
She didn't know.
She didn't want to hope.
But she also didn't want to forget the way it felt when his voice didn't carry cruelty. When his hand didn't strike. When his presence didn't suffocate her.
Brooklyn…
What kind of man are you?
She closed her eyes again, unable to stop the quiet tears forming once more.
And she whispered into the pillow:
"Please… don't change."
She didn't know if anyone heard.
But she meant it more than anything she'd ever said.
The candlelight flickered in the corner of the room, casting a soft amber glow against the shelves, the drapes, the high-vaulted ceiling. The room was warm, filled with a silence so gentle it almost lulled her to sleep.
Catherine sat on the bed, propped up by feathered pillows, a book resting on her lap. Her eyes skimmed the page, but her mind often wandered. The letters blurred every now and then—partly from fatigue, partly from the memories that refused to fade.
The story in her hands was a simple one—an old tale about a brave sailor crossing the southern sea to rescue his sister from a storm goddess. Nothing too heavy. The maid, Anna, had chosen it for her.
She didn't know why she kept reading the same page.
Maybe because she couldn't quite believe this was real.
The door creaked gently open.
Her body tensed instinctively, but only for a moment. She already knew whose presence it was.
Duke Brooklyn Harperwood.
He stepped into the room without ceremony, his boots muffled by the thick carpet, his overcoat heavy with the scent of outside wind and cold metal. He looked tired, though his expression didn't show it. He always wore that same unreadable look—a sculpted mask of composure and restraint. Yet somehow, she had come to recognize the small details. The slight twitch of his eye. The quiet drag in his steps.
He dragged a chair closer to the edge of her bed and sat.
"You seem awake," he said, folding his gloved hands on his knee.
She bowed her head slightly. "Yes, Master."
He frowned faintly. "Still calling me that?"
"I… I don't know what else to call you."
He sighed. "Use my name. Or… at least something gentler. You're not a slave here, Catherine."
Her eyes widened at the sound of her name from his lips.
She lowered her gaze to the book, clutching its edges. "Alright… Brooklyn."
A pause lingered between them before he spoke again. His voice was softer this time.
"Does anything trouble you here?"
She looked up, startled.
"Trouble me?"
"Yes. If there's anything wrong. Something bothering you. The food. The servants. The room. Anything at all."
She stared at him as if the words themselves were impossible.
"No," she said after a long silence. "Nothing is wrong. Everything is… more than I deserve."
He narrowed his eyes. "That's not how I measure what people deserve."
She gave a faint, sad smile. "It's how others always did."
Brooklyn didn't reply right away. He looked down at something in his coat pocket, then pulled it out slowly.
A delicate bracelet.
Silver, with a slender chain and a small emerald embedded in the center—cut into the shape of a leaf. The metal shimmered slightly in the candlelight.
He held it toward her. "Here."
She blinked, confused. "W-What is this?"
"A gift. For you."
Her hands trembled as she reached out for it, hesitating just inches from the chain. "For me?"
He nodded once. "If you want it. You can wear it."
Catherine took the bracelet into her palms like it was made of glass. Her fingers closed around it, pressing it gently as if to convince herself it was real.
"I…" Her voice cracked slightly. "I haven't been given anything in a very long time."
Brooklyn leaned back slightly in the chair. "Then it's about time, isn't it?"
Her eyes shimmered, but she looked down, flustered. Her lips parted as if to say more, but she only managed a whisper.
"Thank you… I will cherish it."
She raised the bracelet slightly in her hand, the emerald catching the flicker of the candlelight like a firefly.
And for the first time since her arrival, she smiled—small, fragile, but real.
Brooklyn stood. "Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yes… Brooklyn," she said shyly, barely above a whisper.
He paused at the door.
And he smiled, too—just faintly, almost imperceptibly.
Then he left.
Catherine remained seated, staring at the bracelet for a long while after he was gone.
As if it was the first proof in years that kindness still existed.
The morning air in Faolinshire was crisp, laced with the earthy fragrance of pine and autumn frost. Beyond the high balcony windows of Duke Brooklyn Harperwood's chamber, the gray skies loomed low, casting a muted silver glow across the cold stone floors and antique furnishings.
Brooklyn stood by his mahogany desk, his hands gloved in dark leather, a steaming cup of black tea forgotten by his side.
A sealed letter rested in front of him—emblazoned with the royal sigil of House Harperwood: a golden falcon clutching a silver scroll, wings outstretched over a crown. It was from the capital.
His parents.
King George and Queen Marliana.
He had sent them word days ago—explaining the conquest, the state of the fallen kingdom, and... her.
The girl found beneath the ruins.
The chained survivor of cruelty.
With practiced calm, Brooklyn slid a letter opener beneath the seal and unfolded the parchment. The wax cracked, the edges curling as he began to read.
"To our dearest son, Duke Brooklyn Harperwood,
We received your report and read it with careful attention. We are pleased with the swift resolution of the campaign and commend the minimal losses. Your ability to execute such a clean victory is no small feat and remains a testament to your discipline and foresight.
As for the girl you mentioned—'Catherine'—we were both moved and disturbed by your description of her condition. Such cruelty as she endured... it is beyond barbaric. Your decision to spare her and bring her to Faolinshire is one we support entirely. We trust your judgment in this matter, as always.
However, we ask that you remain cautious. Trauma runs deep, and though she may seem fragile now, fear and pain can birth unpredictability. She may carry memories she herself does not yet understand. Guard her well—but also, give her room to recover.
If the girl was royalty or noble by the enemy's standard, consider discreetly investigating her past. Sometimes, in the ashes of fallen kingdoms lie seeds of future unrest—or fragile hope.
We shall dispatch a royal historian and a court physician from the palace, should you require them. They will arrive within the week.
Be patient with her. And remember: kindness is not weakness, but the choice of the strong.
With pride in your strength, and love always,
– King George & Queen Marliana"
Brooklyn let the letter rest in his hands for a moment longer, his amber eyes scanning the words once more before folding it neatly and tucking it into the drawer beside him.
He stood in silence.
Their words echoed in his mind—"kindness is not weakness."
It was strange, how they knew just how to read between the lines. He had barely written a few paragraphs about her. Just a few words. Yet they'd understood something even he hadn't completely grasped.
He glanced toward the distant hallway—toward the wing where Catherine's room lay, bathed in quiet solitude.
He remembered her voice from the night before.
"Thank you… I will cherish it."
Something flickered behind his eyes, but he said nothing. He simply turned away, walked toward the tall windows, and looked out across the gray morning that sprawled endlessly beyond the mountains.
Something was beginning.
He didn't know what.
But he could feel it.
A storm had passed.
And in its place, something soft and strange had begun to grow.
The amber light of late afternoon spilled through the arched windows of Faolinshire's northern gallery, casting warm hues across the velvet tapestries and tall marble columns. The sound of distant wind chimes echoed faintly, carried by a light breeze.
Brooklyn stood near the grand fireplace of the study, one hand resting along the edge of the hearth, eyes fixed on the slow dance of flames. He was not dressed in his usual regalia—no ornate overcoat, no gauntlets—just a black undershirt and loose-fitting trousers. There was something quieter in him today, as though the past few days had finally begun to settle.
Anderson stood nearby, dressed in his usual refined coat, posture relaxed but alert, hands clasped neatly behind his back. The man had aged with grace—his hair now fully white, his face lined with the wisdom of decades—but his voice still carried the strength of a former commander and the softness of a father.
Brooklyn broke the silence first.
"She said her name is Catherine."
Anderson tilted his head slightly. "A gentle name. It suits her more than the chains ever did."
Brooklyn turned from the fire. His expression was unreadable. "You've seen her. Heard her speak. What do you think of her?"
Anderson did not rush to answer. He took a moment, eyes distant, as if sorting through the images that had lingered since they found her—bruised, bloodied, and leash-bound beneath the enemy palace.
"She is…" he began slowly, "a reflection of the world we live in, my lord. Torn apart by men who crave power, who mistake domination for strength. A victim of ambition's cruelest side. But she's also alive. That alone tells me there is a will in her, buried deep."
Brooklyn frowned faintly. "You believe she can recover?"
"I believe the heart is more stubborn than we think," Anderson said, stepping forward, folding his arms. "But it will depend greatly on what she is shown from this point forward. Mercy... or further commands."
Brooklyn's gaze sharpened.
"I've given her a rule: she obeys everything I say. Without question."
Anderson did not flinch. "I know."
"She accepted. Too quickly." His voice was low. "Like someone who no longer has a voice of her own."
"That's because she doesn't," Anderson replied calmly. "Not yet."
The duke said nothing for a moment.
Anderson approached the window, peering outside where the wind stirred the trees in the lower courtyards. "She asked me today if she had any work to do. While barely able to walk."
Brooklyn's jaw tensed. "What did you tell her?"
"That she's to rest. That your orders are to treat her with dignity."
He turned back toward Brooklyn now, his voice low but firm.
"But if I may speak honestly, my lord... I think what she needs is not to be told what to do, but to be reminded she can still choose."
Brooklyn met his gaze.
A beat passed.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he moved back to the hearth, resting one gloved hand on the stone ledge.
"Do you believe she fears me?"
Anderson looked at the duke—at the man who had brought nations to heel, who had never once lost in war, who bore the coldness of steel in his eyes. And yet, here he was, asking about a broken girl's fear.
"Yes," Anderson said plainly. "But not because you've been cruel."
Brooklyn looked back, waiting.
"She fears everything. That includes kindness."
At that, Brooklyn's expression shifted—something unspoken pulled tight beneath his skin. Then he nodded once, slowly.
"That will change," he said at last, voice quiet. "Even if I have to force it to."
Anderson allowed himself a small smile, not mocking—simply tired, and fond.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to force, my lord. Sometimes, softness is more terrifying than swords."
Brooklyn smirked faintly, turning once more to the flames.
"She said she'd call me 'master.'"
Anderson arched a brow.
"And do you want her to?"
"No," Brooklyn said. "But I didn't stop her either."
Anderson bowed his head gently. "Then perhaps one day, she'll call you something else. When her voice is truly hers again."
The fire crackled between them, quiet and slow.
Brooklyn said nothing more.
But the question lingered long after Anderson left the room.
What would she call him—when she was no longer afraid?