The air that night was thick with warmth, the kind that came not from fire or wine, but from the quiet hum of approaching joy. The moon loomed over the estate like a silver guardian, casting its soft glow across the terraces and flowering trees.
Inside a quiet room lined with old portraits and amber lamps, Brooklyn stood near the window, arms crossed, watching the moon. Behind him, Sebastian poured two glasses of aged wine, humming a wedding tune under his breath.
"Sebastian," Brooklyn said finally, his voice even but faintly curious, "do you truly believe Luciane is ready for all this?"
Sebastian paused, the bottle midway to the glass. "Why ask?"
Brooklyn turned, his amber eyes sharp but not unkind. "You and I… we've seen enough to know what nobility demands of women. Especially those who marry into titles."
Sebastian handed him a glass, then slumped onto the couch with a sigh. "Brook, Luciane doesn't need to be ready. She already is. She's been ready since the day she walked into that cold court chamber and spoke her mind in front of three barons and a priest. You think I chose her because she's pretty?"
Brooklyn raised an eyebrow.
"Well," Sebastian chuckled, "that helped. But truly, it's her silence that impresses me. She doesn't talk like us. She watches, listens, learns. And still, with all that restraint, she manages to be kind."
Brooklyn took a slow sip, glancing outside again. "She's very different from Christiana."
Sebastian's face stiffened, but he nodded. "And thank the gods for that. Luciane doesn't need to compete. She just… is."
They sat in silence a while longer. Then Brooklyn muttered, as if confessing something to the night, "Catherine said she doesn't know if she wants to be Duchess."
Sebastian looked over, more curious than surprised. "And what did you say?"
"I told her she didn't have to marry me to carry the title. That she could wait."
Sebastian gave a soft whistle. "That's rare for you."
Brooklyn smiled bitterly. "She's not a conquest, Sebastian. Not a prize. She's the first light I've ever known that didn't burn."
–––––
Meanwhile, in a warmly lit guest chamber overlooking the garden, Luciane sat beside Catherine on the cushioned bench near the window. Catherine clutched a cup of warm milk, her legs curled beneath her as Luciane softly braided her long scarlet-blonde hair.
"You seem nervous," Luciane murmured.
Catherine nodded slightly. "I've never seen a wedding up close. And you… you seem so calm."
Luciane chuckled. "That's because I've already panicked. A month ago. In the library. I tripped over Sebastian's boots and broke a vase while sobbing into his coat."
Catherine turned, surprised. "You? But you always look so graceful."
"Graceful people cry too," Luciane smiled. "Especially when they're about to marry a man who wears velvet at breakfast."
Catherine laughed at that, her voice light for the first time in days.
Luciane tilted her head, examining the braid. "Do you love him?"
Catherine blinked. "Sebastian?"
"No," Luciane said softly, "Brooklyn."
A pause.
"I… I don't know if I understand what love is," Catherine whispered. "But I want to be near him. I want to make his pain stop, even if it means carrying it for him."
Luciane nodded. "That sounds a lot like love to me."
Catherine's eyes glistened. "And you? You're happy?"
Luciane's voice came so gently, it was almost like a lullaby. "Sebastian is wild and careless and loud. But when I fall apart, he never flinches. He never looks away. That… that's my peace."
Catherine rested her head on Luciane's shoulder. "Then I hope you both find all the joy in the world."
Luciane closed her eyes, whispering against her temple, "And I hope you learn that you deserve the same."
Outside, the night continued singing its quiet lullaby over two hearts that had once been broken, now learning how to mend—together.
The sun had barely climbed above the horizon, but already the estate buzzed with gentle energy. Servants moved in polite flutters, the scent of fresh bread and garden roses riding the morning wind. On the back patio, shaded by a lace-like pergola of flowering vines, the four of them gathered—Brooklyn, Catherine, Luciane, and Sebastian.
Laughter rolled through the air like birdsong.
Sebastian was in rare form, gesturing wildly with his hands. "So then I told the merchant, 'If that's really dragonbone, I'll eat my own boot.' And the man—gods bless his ignorance—actually brought me a fork."
Luciane chuckled behind her gloved hand. "You have the most absurd stories, Sebastian. Honestly."
"Absurd but real, love," he grinned. "I only exaggerate when I breathe."
Brooklyn smirked. "That explains why no one trusts you at council meetings."
Sebastian placed a mock-offended hand over his heart. "Wounded! Betrayed by my own friend at my wedding eve."
Catherine, sitting beside Brooklyn with a soft smile, glanced around. "This feels… surreal. To laugh like this. With all of you."
Luciane reached across and gently touched her hand. "You deserve it. Don't let the world tell you otherwise."
Sebastian suddenly snapped his fingers. "Wait! Speaking of which, I nearly forgot—Luciane, I had something for you."
"Oh?" she tilted her head.
Sebastian patted his coat. Then his trousers. Then turned his cloak inside out. "Where—? I swear I had it—Brook, back me up—I asked the footman for it this morning."
Brooklyn raised a brow. "Don't look at me. I'm not your valet."
Luciane giggled. "What was it?"
"A bouquet," Sebastian said sheepishly. "A specific one. Wild forget-me-nots and ash-blush roses. You mentioned once it was your mother's favorite blend. I thought—well—I wanted to surprise you."
Luciane's smile turned soft, touched. "You remembered?"
"Of course I—"
Suddenly, a quiet cough broke their moment.
All eyes turned to the stone steps behind them where stood Anderson—the old steward with his hands tucked behind his back, posture straight despite the weight of years. In his gloved hands, he held a perfectly arranged bouquet—wild forget-me-nots, small and blue, surrounded by pale pink ash-blush roses.
"I believe this is what you were looking for, young Lord Sebastian," Anderson said, voice as smooth as aged oak.
Sebastian's jaw dropped. "Anderson! You old fox!"
Brooklyn couldn't help but smile. "You always did have a way of saving the moment."
Anderson stepped forward with deliberate grace, handing the bouquet to a stunned Luciane. "When you've served as long as I have, you learn to anticipate when a man might forget something important. Especially when he's too in love to keep his thoughts in order."
Luciane clutched the flowers close, eyes shining. "Thank you, Anderson."
The steward bowed lightly. "It's my honour, my lady."
Sebastian was still staring at the bouquet like it was a miracle. "I could kiss you, old man."
Anderson shot him a withering look. "Try it, and I'll have you polishing the chandelier in your wedding coat."
Catherine laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea.
Brooklyn, watching the three of them with an unfamiliar warmth in his chest, leaned slightly closer to Catherine and whispered, "It's strange. I've always thought of this world as cold. Yet with them… and with you…"
She looked up, green eyes glowing.
"It feels… like coming home," he finished.
Catherine smiled softly, leaning into him.
Under the morning sky, as laughter bloomed and old servants saved the day, four hearts that had suffered so long finally knew what peace felt like—even if just for a little while.
The sun had never seemed more golden than it did that day. Light filtered through the high glass windows of the estate's private chapel, bathing every pew and polished floorboard in a warm, holy shimmer. White lilies, blush gardenias, and silver ivy curled around the marble pillars like whispers of spring, and the gentle hum of a violin quartet filled the air with grace.
Sebastian stood tall near the altar, his dark sapphire coat embroidered in gold thread that matched the eyes of the woman walking slowly toward him. Luciane, dressed in a pale ivory gown with soft lace sleeves, had her hair adorned with tiny pearls that shimmered like starlight. She clutched her bouquet tightly, eyes locked on him with a love so quiet and powerful it could drown mountains.
The chapel was full of noble faces, each watching the ceremony with reverence. But toward the left side, slightly back from the front row, Catherine sat silently beside Brooklyn.
She was dressed in a modest but beautiful dove-grey gown, her long scarlet-blonde hair falling in waves. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, and her eyes shimmered—not from tears, but disbelief.
Brooklyn glanced at her. She was staring ahead, lost in the beauty of the moment. He leaned closer, gently draping an arm around her shoulders.
"What's wrong?" he murmured, his voice soft against her ear.
Catherine blinked, cheeks flushing slightly. "I… never believed I'd see something like this. People who love each other, and are actually allowed to show it. To be… happy. I never thought I'd see it up close."
Brooklyn gave a slow, lazy smirk. Then, without warning, he raised a finger and flicked her forehead.
"Idiot," he said flatly.
"Ow!" she pouted, rubbing the spot. "What was that for?"
"For saying something that stupid."
He leaned in, voice low but serious now. "You deserve to see it. You deserve more than just witnessing it—you'll live it. Soon."
Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn't answer. Instead, she leaned closer against his side, her heart quietly dancing beneath her ribs.
The vows were exchanged in hushed reverence. When Sebastian kissed Luciane, the entire chapel erupted in gentle applause, the music swelling as they turned to face their guests—husband and wife.
Evening rolled in gently like a velvet curtain. The after-ceremony feast echoed with laughter, clinking glasses, and light dancing. And when the stars began to rise, Brooklyn and Catherine stood near the carriage, ready to return to Faolinshire.
Luciane embraced Catherine tightly. "Write to me," she whispered.
"I will. Every week."
Sebastian pulled Brooklyn into a tight, gruff hug—only to slap him hard on the back. "Oi, don't go hiding from happiness now."
"I don't hide," Brooklyn replied coolly.
As the carriage doors opened and Catherine stepped in, Brooklyn turned to give a final wave.
That's when Sebastian shouted from the second-floor balcony of the estate, voice echoing through the night:
"Hey, Brooklyn, you bastard—remember to invite us to your wedding!"
Laughter burst from inside the estate.
Brooklyn paused, one foot on the carriage step, before smirking over his shoulder. "I will. But only if you bring decent wine this time."
Sebastian howled with laughter, Luciane tugging at his arm to quiet him.
As the horses began their slow trot into the moonlit path, Catherine leaned against Brooklyn inside the carriage, her head resting softly on his shoulder.
The night was calm, the stars quiet. But inside their chests, something had shifted—something permanent, warm, and quietly growing.
And somewhere deep in the woods of their hearts, a new beginning waited.
The return to Faolinshire was quiet, even peaceful. The carriage wheels crunched softly along the gravel path, the gates to the estate parting to welcome the Duke and his companion home. Servants lined the steps respectfully, heads bowed, but eyes curiously flickering to the girl by Brooklyn's side—still shy, still a shadow of elegance wrapped in something far humbler.
The moment they stepped into the drawing room, Anderson was already waiting.
He bowed, holding out a cream-colored letter sealed with a royal emblem—the gilded crest of Archenleigh's sovereign family. Brooklyn raised a brow and took it with one hand, slowly breaking the seal with his gloved thumb.
Catherine stood beside him, curiously tilting her head.
He read the note in silence. His amber eyes skimmed the words with practiced calm, but a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a flicker of reaction. Then he gave a low, almost amused sigh and turned toward her.
"It's from them."
Catherine blinked. "Them?"
"My parents," he said casually, tossing the parchment onto a side table. "The King and Queen of Archenleigh."
Her face paled instantly. "What?"
"They want to meet the Duchess," he added. "They want to see who exactly caught their estranged son's interest after all these years of silence."
Catherine froze, eyes wide as saucers. "They know about me?!"
Brooklyn smirked. "And apparently they're intrigued."
She backed up a step, stumbling into a nearby chair. "I-I can't meet royalty—I mean more royalty—I'm not ready. I'm not even officially a Duchess yet!"
"You're acting like you're going to be eaten," he said flatly, removing his gloves. "They're not wolves."
"You said your mother once shot an arrow past your head during dinner because you rolled your eyes at her," Catherine snapped.
Brooklyn considered this with a nod. "Well, yes. But she doesn't do that unless she's really annoyed."
"Reassuring," she muttered, sitting down with a thump.
He walked toward her and crouched at her feet, resting a hand on her knee, voice softening. "Hey. Listen to me. They just want to meet you. That's it. You don't have to impress them or pretend to be something you're not."
She met his gaze. "But what if they don't like me?"
"I don't care if they don't," he said bluntly. "They're not the ones I plan to live with for the rest of my life."
Her breath caught, heat crawling up her neck. He didn't say it in a romantic whisper, but there was weight in those words that left her reeling.
"Still…" she murmured. "What if I embarrass myself?"
Brooklyn smirked. "Then at least I won't be the only disgrace of the family anymore."
Catherine shot him a flat look, which only made him laugh.
"Get ready," he said, standing up and offering his hand to her. "We're leaving tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow?" she squeaked.
"You've got admirers now, Duchess. Time to show them what they missed."
She stared at his outstretched hand, then hesitantly placed hers in it.
And as he pulled her to her feet, she whispered, "What if I trip in front of the Queen?"
"Then I'll trip beside you," Brooklyn replied.
A long silence passed, then Catherine nodded. For once, she didn't feel entirely like the girl from a cage anymore. Maybe she could become someone worthy of walking beside him—even if her knees trembled all the way there.
The sound of horses' hooves echoed through the still morning air as the grand black carriage made its way across the paved royal highway. Inside, the world was quiet but full of energy—nerves, amusement, anticipation—and at the center of it all, Catherine sat beside Brooklyn, her hands resting tightly on her lap, her mind already racing toward the palace.
She glanced sideways at him, chewing her lower lip. "So… how are they?"
Brooklyn, eyes half-lidded and relaxed with an arm stretched behind her on the seat, lazily turned his gaze toward her. "Hmm?"
"Your parents," she clarified. "What are they like?"
A pause.
He leaned his head back, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Too kind. Too warm. The type who hug guards and remember the names of horses."
She narrowed her eyes instantly, crossing her arms. "And you're like this?"
Brooklyn looked at her sideways. "Like what?"
"You're cold, arrogant, sarcastic, and clearly the black sheep of a golden nest," she muttered with a small pout. "Did you fall on your head as a child or something?"
He leaned in, his voice smooth as silk and low enough to make the hairs on her arms rise. "Well, if you'd like to see how dominant this 'black sheep' can be… I could give you a small flashback of last Wednesday night."
Her eyes widened in horror, and before he could continue that suggestive smirk of his, her fist lightly punched his shoulder. "Brooklyn!"
He laughed, the deep, lazy kind of chuckle that made his amber eyes gleam with mischief. "Red already? And I was being tactful."
"You were being impossible."
"And yet…" he drew her in with the arm still behind her, sliding his fingers around her waist and pulling her against him until her head was against his shoulder. "You're not pulling away."
Catherine went stiff for a second, but then melted slowly, eyes fluttering closed for a breath. "You're evil."
Brooklyn smiled into her hair. "Only mildly. And only with you."
The carriage jolted gently as the wheels transitioned from gravel to polished marble flooring—the sign that they'd arrived at the inner palace grounds. Catherine's stomach dropped.
He felt her tense immediately.
His voice came low near her ear, "Don't let the titles or gold crowns make you forget who you are. You belong here as much as I do. Probably more."
She nodded slowly, trying to bury the panic in her throat.
The carriage door opened.
Servants bowed.
Trumpets blew.
And standing on the grand marble steps of the palace were King George and Queen Marliana.
The Queen, a woman with brilliant snow-white hair braided into an elegant crown, wore an emerald-green gown that shimmered under the sunlight. Her warm blue eyes landed on Catherine before anything else.
Beside her stood King George, tall and imposing, though his smile was softer than expected. His hair was grey streaked with gold, his posture regal but not stiff. He clasped his hands behind his back, watching closely as Brooklyn stepped down and turned back to help Catherine descend.
"Your Majesty," Catherine whispered, her eyes glued to the floor as she bowed deeply, her heart racing wildly.
Before she could straighten herself fully, Queen Marliana stepped forward and engulfed her in a gentle, firm embrace.
"Oh dear child," Marliana said softly into her ear. "We've waited so long to meet you."
Catherine froze, but her arms hesitantly rose and returned the embrace. Her chest burned—not from fear, but from the fragile warmth she had long forgotten.
Brooklyn, standing to the side, watched with folded arms, the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips.
King George stepped closer to his son. As Marliana was still holding Catherine and chatting softly, George leaned toward Brooklyn, voice low. "You never mentioned she was this beautiful."
Brooklyn's smirk deepened. "That's because I didn't want to tempt anyone to steal her."
George chuckled, his gaze drifting back to Catherine. "You finally did it, didn't you? You found something you didn't want to let go of."
"I told you I wasn't broken," Brooklyn said flatly.
"No," his father agreed. "Just cracked enough to let something good inside."
Brooklyn didn't answer that.
Catherine finally pulled back from the Queen's arms and gave a nervous curtsy.
"Please, Your Majesty—"
"Oh none of that, please," Marliana waved it away, holding Catherine's hands. "Call me Marliana, child. You're family now."
Brooklyn stepped forward and wrapped his hand around Catherine's waist, nodding. "Shall we go in?"
George turned, leading the way with Marliana beside him.
As they entered the palace's grand gold-inlaid foyer, Brooklyn leaned down and whispered, "See? Told you they wouldn't bite."
"I'm still shaking," she muttered back.
He gently traced the small of her back. "I'll hold you steady, then."
And together, the Duchess and the Duke walked into the lion's den—not to face judgment, but to be welcomed as one of their own.