A pale wind swept through the hunting grounds of Vaelhurst — a region known for its thick woods, frostbitten cliffs, and ancient ruins swallowed by moss and time. There, among the echoing howls of wolves and rustling birches, a lone rider stood on a rise.
Count Sebastian Viremont — age twenty-five, lean and hawk-eyed, hair silver like moonlight, bound back by a velvet ribbon. His cloak, embroidered with obsidian feathers, swayed gently in the breeze. In his gloved hand, he held the Duke's letter. Not the one written to King George, nor the one received. But one meant for only him.
Sebastian had known Brooklyn since they were boys. They had trained under the same master, bled side by side during border skirmishes, and spent nights discussing everything from swordplay to philosophy.
But Brooklyn had changed.
Since his return from war. Since the darkness had rooted itself deeper inside him. Sebastian watched his childhood friend build a wall around his soul — quiet, cold, calculating. No one ever scaled that wall.
No one, until her.
Sebastian's eyes narrowed. Catherine.
"She did something none of us could," he murmured aloud, folding the letter. "She got him to feel again."
A gust carried the scent of pine and snow. He looked over his shoulder as his squire approached.
"My lord," the squire said, bowing, "We've confirmed it. Prince Damien has already departed his manor. Destination unknown, but scouts say he's bringing his hunting party... and some of the more… volatile men."
Sebastian's jaw tightened. Damien Faolinwood — Brooklyn's younger brother. Spirited, but poisoned by envy. Always the second son, always shadowed by his brother's brilliance. The perfect storm of charm, pride, and cruelty.
"I had hoped he'd matured," Sebastian muttered, mounting his jet-black horse. "But it seems time only sharpened his arrogance."
He turned toward the woods, speaking louder now. "Gather my men. We ride in shadow. If Damien seeks to ruin what Brooklyn finally began to rebuild…"
His gloved fingers tightened on the reins.
"Then I will be the blade that stands in the dark."
He pulled the reins, and his horse reared.
The Count of Viremont rode not with banners or brass — but with purpose.
To protect his oldest friend.
To guard a fragile, blooming peace.
To shield the one soul who had made Brooklyn Harperwood feel human again.
Catherine.
And should Damien Faolinwood dare harm her—
He would not leave unscarred.
The midday sun bathed the grand hall of Faolinshire in hues of soft gold and warm ivory. Stained glass windows cast colored shadows across the marble floor as Catherine sat beside Brooklyn at the long oak table, the remnants of their lunch before them — warm bread, a berry tart, and untouched tea.
She was wearing a pale lilac dress today, modest yet elegant, her scarlet-blonde hair brushed to silken waves cascading past her shoulders. Her emerald eyes sparkled faintly, though her fingers still clutched the edge of her seat — shy, but calmer now, safer. Especially beside him.
Brooklyn, as always, sat composed in his obsidian coat, eyes unreadable, yet something softened when he glanced at her. She had said something quietly — something about the smell of roses in the corridor — and he had actually smiled.
The moment was rare.
Warm.
Fragile.
And then—
Tap… Tap… Tap…
The sound of polished boots on marble.
A voice floated through the hallway. Mocking. Smooth like silk, yet stained with venom.
"Well, well… what a pleasant domestic scene."
Both heads turned.
From the archway, in swept Damien Faolinwood.
He looked every inch the younger brother — just one year Brooklyn's junior, but with all the flair and extravagance his elder had long abandoned. Hair a brighter brown, tousled perfectly. Eyes sharp, violet-gray, glinting with mischief and something more dangerous beneath. A smirk curled his lips as he approached.
"Brooklyn, brother," Damien said with open arms, as if the world were his theater. "You've grown warmer since returning. And who is this radiant flower beside you?"
Catherine instinctively lowered her gaze.
Brooklyn stood slowly. "Damien. What brings you here?"
"Oh, family, of course," Damien chuckled. "And curiosity. I heard whispers, you know. Whispers of a mysterious girl taken from the enemy palace, now resting here like a rose in your thorns."
He leaned forward dramatically, eyes shifting to Catherine. "A pleasure, my lady. I must say, your beauty does eclipse even the capital's finest."
Catherine, uncomfortable, murmured, "Thank you…"
Brooklyn stepped slightly between them.
"I assume this is not just a courtesy visit," he said coldly.
Damien smirked. "Must everything be political with you, brother? Perhaps I just wanted to meet the woman who turned the Iron Duke into a man who smiles."
Brooklyn's eyes sharpened. "Tread carefully."
There was silence for a moment.
Then Damien laughed — a sound both charming and sinister.
"I mean no harm," he said. "But I'll be staying a few days. Surely, you won't throw your own blood out the gates, now would you?"
"You may stay," Brooklyn said flatly. "But you will respect her."
Damien raised his hands playfully. "Of course. Of course."
He looked once more at Catherine, who still sat quietly, her fingers trembling under the table.
"Until next time, dear lady," he said with a wink, then turned on his heel and strode out, his boots echoing like a fading threat.
Brooklyn sat down again beside her, his jaw clenched.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
She nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Yes… just… he reminds me of them."
Brooklyn's eyes darkened.
He reached under the table and gently took her hand in his.
"I won't let anyone harm you," he murmured. "Even if it's my own blood."
And in her heart, Catherine believed him.
But the shadows were growing.
And Damien had not come just to talk.
The atmosphere in the hall had only just begun to settle.
Catherine, though still shaken from Damien's arrival, sat more closely to Brooklyn now. The warmth of his hand had steadied her, and though her heart still trembled, she found comfort in his nearness — in the silent assurance his presence offered.
Brooklyn glanced at her occasionally, speaking in his low voice, one hand gently resting on the table, the other occasionally brushing hers. They were discussing the new garden renovations — light, pleasant talk meant to ease the mood.
Until the grand doors creaked open again.
Click… click…
The sound of heels now, deliberate and poised.
Brooklyn stiffened instantly.
Catherine's breath caught in her throat.
Framed in the golden light of the corridor stood a woman clad in emerald green silk, her gown clinging and flowing like water, embroidered with glinting silver vines. Her deep crimson hair was twisted into a regal coil, not a strand out of place. And those eyes—those calculating violet eyes—scanned the room like a hawk.
Christiana Alorsbuth.
Daughter of House Alorsbuth. Socialite. Heiress. Duchess-in-waiting, if fate allowed it. Or so she believed.
"My, my," she said, stepping into the room as if she owned the estate. "So it is true. The mighty Duke Brooklyn brings home a ghost of the enemy palace and now sits tenderly beside her."
Her voice was sweet — too sweet. Like sugar hiding arsenic.
Brooklyn stood immediately.
"Christiana," he said, his tone clipped. "I wasn't expecting you."
Christiana smiled, her lipstick flawless. "And yet I came. Imagine that."
She glided toward them, her perfume heavy with roses and something darker. Her eyes flicked to Catherine, assessing her like one might a flawed painting.
"And you must be Lady Catherine," she said, though there was nothing ladylike in her tone. "Forgive me, dear — I hadn't realized you'd recovered so well. You look… alive."
Catherine stood slowly, trembling slightly as she lowered her head in a polite bow.
"Thank you, Lady Christiana," she said quietly.
Brooklyn stepped between them, again. "What are you doing here?"
Christiana turned to him, all velvet and venom. "Why, to visit you, of course. We were once so close, Brooklyn. And now the estate hums with rumors. Of war, of change… of romance."
Her eyes narrowed as she tilted her head toward Catherine again. "Is it true, then? She holds your favor?"
Brooklyn didn't answer.
But the silence was answer enough.
Christiana's lips twitched.
"Well. I suppose every man has his… preferences."
The insult hung like smoke.
Catherine looked down again, swallowing hard.
Brooklyn's voice was low, cold. "If you came here to insult her, you can leave."
"Oh, don't be so cruel," Christiana said with a musical laugh. "I only came to observe. And maybe… stay a few nights. I wouldn't want the noble Duke to grow… distant from his old friends."
Her gaze lingered on him, predatory.
Brooklyn didn't answer.
Instead, he reached back and gently touched Catherine's hand. A small gesture. Deliberate.
Christiana saw it.
And her smile soured for the briefest moment.
Then she curtsied dramatically.
"I'll find myself to the guest wing. Don't worry, I won't disrupt your happy little palace."
With one last look — one final dagger — she turned and left, her heels clicking again like nails being driven into the calm.
Catherine exhaled once she was gone. She looked up at Brooklyn.
"…She doesn't like me."
He met her eyes and spoke quietly.
"She doesn't matter."
But in his mind, he already knew—
Christiana was not here simply to visit.
And peace would not last long with serpents in the walls.
The garden courtyard gleamed under the soft mid-morning sun. The air was still, as if the estate itself was holding its breath — sensing the friction of unwanted guests lingering within its marble halls.
Inside, Brooklyn sat in the solar chamber, still tense from Christiana's venom-laced visit. Catherine sat near him, quiet, but her hand gently gripped his sleeve. She didn't speak — she didn't need to. Her presence was his tether to calm.
Then the doors opened again.
But this time, it wasn't with arrogance or perfume.
It was a loud, firm shove — wood against marble.
"Oi, Brooklyn!" came the cheerful, teasing voice.
Brooklyn's eyes immediately widened in disbelief, and then softened with something dangerously close to relief.
Count Sebastian Rothwell.
The tall, blond-haired nobleman strode in with the kind of chaotic grace only old friends carried. A confident smirk rested on his lips, a rapier swung at his side. His long cloak danced around his ankles, and his sharp blue eyes scanned the room — before landing directly on Brooklyn.
"Well, you could've sent a damn letter, you cold bastard," Sebastian grinned.
Brooklyn stood from his seat, something rare — an actual smile — flickering at the edge of his face.
"Sebastian."
The two approached and clasped hands, their palms gripping tight in a silent exchange of years passed and wars fought.
"You still alive, I see," Brooklyn muttered.
Sebastian laughed. "Disappointed?"
Brooklyn shook his head once. "Mildly."
Sebastian grinned wider and turned his gaze to Catherine. "And you must be the reason he's stopped looking like a soulless marble statue."
Catherine blinked, flustered, bowing politely. "I—I'm Catherine."
"Count Sebastian Rothwell, childhood friend, partner in crimes, and occasional savior of this thick-skulled Duke." He gave a theatrical bow. "It's a pleasure, milady."
"She's not used to that kind of tone," Brooklyn said dryly.
Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Then it's time someone made her laugh. Gods above, she's been through enough."
His smile vanished for a brief moment — replaced with a quiet seriousness that didn't suit him but felt genuine.
He turned back to Brooklyn. "Heard Damien's in the area."
Brooklyn's face darkened. "Yes."
"And Christiana, too?"
"She arrived yesterday."
"Lovely. Serpent and wolf at your table." Sebastian clicked his tongue. "What a feast you're hosting."
Brooklyn crossed his arms. "And you?"
Sebastian looked over his shoulder, lowered his voice. "I've been watching Damien's movements. He's been speaking to members of the council behind closed doors. He's planning something. Something bold."
Brooklyn's jaw tightened.
Sebastian continued, "And as for Christiana… she's not here just for you. Her House has financial troubles. She needs power. And you? You're the last obstacle between her and an unstoppable seat at court."
Catherine looked between them, anxiety filling her emerald eyes.
"I shouldn't be here…" she whispered.
Brooklyn turned to her immediately. "Don't."
"But—"
"You are not the problem," he said firmly, his voice cutting through her panic. "They are."
Sebastian nodded. "He's right. You being here doesn't make you weak, Lady Catherine. It makes you a threat."
Catherine looked down, unsure.
Sebastian knelt slightly to meet her eyes and added, softer, "And trust me… threats tend to scare the ones already losing."
She blinked at him. For the first time in days, her lips curved — just a little — into a smile.
Brooklyn exhaled slowly.
The pieces were gathering.
The players had entered the board.
And now?
The game would begin.
The chandelier glimmered above the long dining table like a watchful eye. Silver cutlery clinked politely against porcelain, but the mood was far from elegant.
Catherine sat beside Brooklyn, her back straight, hands folded in her lap. Though she tried to appear composed, her fingers trembled faintly under the table. The fabric of her gown whispered with every nervous shift, the warmth of Brooklyn's presence beside her the only shield she had.
Across the table, Christiana Alorsbuth raised her wine glass and gave a venom-laced smile.
"So, Lady Catherine," she said, voice sweet as poisoned honey, "how charming you look tonight. The maids truly have performed miracles."
Catherine flinched, ever so slightly, her gaze lowering.
Brooklyn's amber eyes darkened. His fork halted in the air.
Sebastian's smirk had long since vanished. His fingers drummed irritably against the wooden table as he stared at Christiana, unimpressed.
"Christiana," he said with a forced smile, "is your tongue always this sharpened, or do you simply mistake cruelty for conversation?"
"Oh, forgive me," Christiana replied with a faux-innocent pout. "I simply assumed that when one is seated at a Duke's table, they ought to have… noble training."
Damien laughed — not loudly, but with that soft, malicious amusement that made everyone tense. "I must admit, Christiana, you've a way with words. Dangerous, but quite entertaining."
Brooklyn finally set down his fork. "Christiana."
"Yes, Your Grace?" she answered sweetly.
His voice was calm. Deadly calm.
"I suggest you remember that I invited Catherine to this table. She sits here not as a guest, but as someone under my protection. You will show her the same respect you show me."
The air went cold.
Christiana blinked, then gave a slight tilt of her head. "Of course, Your Grace. I meant no offense."
Sebastian muttered under his breath, "Liar."
But before another word could spark, a sudden noise echoed from the grand entryway.
CLANG.
The gates swung open with authority.
All heads turned.
A servant raced into the hall, pale-faced and breathless. "M-My Lords… a Lady has arrived…"
The doors of the dining room opened.
And there she stood.
Lady Luciane Alorsbuth.
Tall, graceful, dressed in a deep navy cloak lined with silver embroidery. Her long, silver-platinum hair was twisted into an elegant braid that swept over one shoulder. Her violet-gray eyes — so different from Christiana's violet-pink ones — scanned the room with clarity and confidence.
Christiana's face immediately paled.
"Sister…?" she said, half-standing from her seat.
Luciane's gaze didn't waver. "Christiana. Brooklyn. Forgive the late hour."
Brooklyn stood, formal but surprised. "Luciane."
Sebastian's eyes flickered with recognition and hope. "Now things might get interesting."
Luciane stepped forward, her gaze finally settling on Catherine.
A faint, kind smile touched her lips.
"You must be Lady Catherine," she said, her voice calm but powerful.
Catherine nodded hesitantly, eyes wide. "Yes, my Lady…"
Luciane walked to her, gently took her hand, and bowed slightly. "I have heard much. I hope we can speak soon. In private."
Christiana's voice rose, nervous. "Sister, why are you here without notice?"
Luciane turned her head slowly. "Because I had no intention of alerting you. I came to speak with the Duke… and her."
The room fell silent again.
Brooklyn looked toward Catherine, whose hand Luciane still held.
And in that moment, Catherine felt something she had not known from another noble woman in years—
Gentleness.
Luciane Alorsbuth had just turned the game.
And she wasn't on her sister's side.