The summer sun was merciless, a punishing weight pressing down on the city.
The streets seethed with people — merchants shouting over each other, hawking fruits and fabrics; children darting under carriage wheels; drivers cracking whips and cursing in the heat. Even the cobblestones seemed to radiate fire, turning the air into a shimmering haze.
Eleanor dabbed at her face for the tenth time with a handkerchief already damp, her patience fraying with each breath. She had no parasol, no patience, and absolutely no good reason to be here — unless lying counted as one.
She had arrived unannounced at the Grand Duke's residence, claiming she had business with him. The lie tasted sour in her mouth. It wasn't just reckless; it was dangerous.
The butler had met her with unnervingly steady eyes, heard her flimsy explanation without a flicker of surprise, and simply bowed. "I will inform His Grace," he had said, as though women appeared on the Duke's doorstep every day with dubious stories.
Then he'd vanished, leaving her to stew in her carriage, the sun turning the air into molten glass. An hour crawled by. Sweat clung to her back. Every tick of time scraped her nerves thinner. She could not go home — not without speaking to him. Not without ending this once and for all.
When the butler returned, he opened her carriage door with an expression that revealed nothing. "His Grace will receive you."
Eleanor stepped down, her skirts clinging uncomfortably to her legs, and followed him toward the looming mansion. Her legs ached from the journey — three hours from her family's estate, plus the hour she'd already spent roasting outside. She had never been one to venture far; as the sickly child of a count, she'd rarely been outdoors longer than twenty minutes without company. Now she was walking toward the home of the most dangerous man in the realm, uninvited.
The shock of cold air hit her the moment they crossed the threshold. It was too cold, enough to raise gooseflesh in her arms. She rubbed them instinctively, but the chill wasn't just in the air. It crept under her skin like a warning.
The mansion's interior was all gilt and polish, but something was wrong. There were no servants bustling about, no maids carrying trays, no distant footsteps echoing down the marble halls. Only the butler's quiet stride ahead of her and her own breath behind.
Where is everyone? she wondered.
The silence pressed in as they walked. The corridors stretched on and on, the air so still it felt like holding one's breath. Thirty minutes passed before they stopped at two massive double doors carved with intricate patterns of steel and gold.
The butler knocked, and a deep voice — smooth, commanding — granted entry. A shiver rippled down her spine.
"You may proceed alone, madam," the butler said with a bow. And then he stepped aside.
Eleanor's heart thudded painfully in her chest. She could turn back now. She didn't.
The doors shut behind her with a heavy thud.
Her eyes swept the space — and froze.
It was a bedchamber.
For a moment she stood perfectly still, pulse hammering in her ears. Her gaze darted across the room, searching for the Duke, when a shadow loomed behind her.
A presence — large, close, un-ignorable.
Eleanor spun around, her skirts tangling around her legs. She stumbled and landed hard on her tailbone. Pain flared up her spine, forcing a hiss from her lips. She clutched at the sore spot, but the ache only deepened.
And then she saw him.
The Grand Duke Casimir.
Half-naked. Shoulders broad enough to block the light, skin mapped with scars earned in wars that had become legend. His chest was bare, muscles honed to a sharp perfection. And blood — streaking his face, drying on his hands, dripping from the sword still clutched in his grip. His eyes, an unnatural shade of red, locked on her.
He moved forward. Each step was slow, deliberate, a predator's approach. Eleanor's breath caught, every nerve in her body screaming at her to flee — but when he reached her, he passed without a word.
She twisted to follow his movement. He stopped at the bed, setting the sword aside. Beside him waited a bowl of water, steam curling faintly into the cold air, and two folded towels.
Silence stretched until it became unbearable. When she risked another glance, she found him watching her, his lips curved into a smile that did not belong in polite society.
"Princess," he said at last, his voice low and smooth, "aren't you going to wipe the blood from your soon-to-be husband's body?"
Eleanor stared. "What?"
"I am the Grand Duke you came to see. You have ten seconds to speak your piece."
Her mind went blank. She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Ten seconds passed like a guillotine blade dropping.
He raised a brow. "Still nothing? Then start wiping."
She pushed herself up from the floor, dusting her skirt with quick, jerky motions. "What is wrong with you?" she snapped.
He didn't answer.
Her mission — the reason she had endured the journey, the heat, and the crushing anxiety — was to end this betrothal before it destroyed her life. Instead, she was standing in the Duke's bedchamber with a man who looked like death incarnate and spoke like he owned the air she breathed.
Once, long ago, they had been friends. Before he vanished without a goodbye. Before she wrote him three years' worth of letters he never answered. Before her father sent a marriage proposal — which was met with the same silence — and, years later, petty cruelty.
The Duke leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Well?"
Eleanor lifted her chin. "I know you're not interested in women. So let's not pretend this engagement is anything but a mistake."
His smirk sharpened. "Not interested? You sound certain."
"I am," she said. "And I'm here to—"
The doors slammed open.
A soldier stumbled in, blood blooming through his uniform, collapsing to one knee. "Your Grace… they've breached the north gate."
The Duke rose, already reaching for his sword. "Stay here, Princess," he said without looking at her. "Unless you've suddenly learned to fight."
And then he was gone — leaving her alone in the bedchamber, surrounded by the scent of blood, the echo of his voice, and the sick realization that whatever she had planned to say, the war had arrived first.
The moment the Duke disappeared through the door, Eleanor was left with the cold and the smell of blood. It clung to the air, metallic and heavy, sinking into her lungs. The walls felt closer now, the room colder still.
She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to breathe. The soldier's words echoed in her head — breached the north gate. War wasn't supposed to reach this far. Not here. Not today.
She had come for one purpose: to sever a tie that had been nothing but a shackle around her neck. But the man she had faced… was not the boy she once knew.
Once.
Once, they had been childhood friends. Or something close to it, as close as the aloof son of a duke could be to the sickly daughter of a count. He had been quiet, yes, but not cruel. Back then, his silences had been filled with dry remarks, the kind that made her bristle even as they made her laugh. He would smirk when she tripped over her own feet, mock her terrible handwriting, and steal her hair ribbons — only to return them hours later, perfectly tied.
He had been possessive in strange little ways. "Only I can laugh at you," he'd once told her after chasing off a boy who teased her about her cough. "Others don't get the right."
But those days ended when she turned fourteen. He was seventeen then, already taller, already stronger — and already gone before her birthday cake had cooled. No goodbye. No letter. Not even a trinket to say he remembered her.
She had written to him anyway. Every week, for three years. Little updates, questions, memories she thought he might smile at. She waited for answers that never came, for she had heard the news of the emperor forcing him onto the battle grounds after summoning him at such age...
Her father had noticed her persistence — and, disastrously, misread it. When she turned seventeen, Count Darven sent a marriage proposal to the Grand Duke's household.
Eleanor had been horrified. She stormed into her father's study demanding to know why. He told her he only wanted to protect her future. Her mother chimed in with talk of alliances, stability, and affection she was certain must exist between them.
The Duke's answer never came. Not a yes. Not a no. Just silence.
Eleanor stopped writing letters that day. She told herself she had been a fool, that the bond she thought they shared was one-sided from the start. She poured her energy into forgetting him.
Years passed. Rumors trickled in. He had inherited the dukedom at nineteen and gone straight to war. When she was twenty-five, he returned for a year — and their paths crossed exactly once.
It had been at the Royal Victory Ball - the day of the founding day ceremony. She remembered him striding across the floor, soldiers parting for him like the tide. A woman in crimson silk had approached him, her smile sweet as poison. The Duke had looked her over, then poured an entire glass of wine over her head. When the ballroom froze in shock, he had stepped behind Eleanor, bent low, and pressed his teeth into her neck. A deliberate bite. No greeting, no words. Just a smirk as he walked away, leaving her with a mark that burned hotter than the wine-drenched woman's glare.
It had felt like vengeance — for the marriage proposal she had never wanted to send.
The years since had only hardened his reputation. Merciless in battle, feared by his enemies and barely tolerated by his allies. A man who laughed rarely and killed often. And now here she was, standing in his bedchamber, with his blood still on the floorboards.
She paced, the silence chewing at her nerves. Outside, somewhere beyond the thick stone walls, shouts rose and fell. Her father's voice echoed in her head — He's the strongest man in the realm. Being tied to him is safety.
Safety. She almost laughed.
The door stayed shut. She had no idea if he would come back, if the fight would be over in minutes or hours, or if she'd be dragged into the chaos herself.
Eleanor sat on the edge of a chair, fingers twisting in her skirt. She thought of the last look he'd given her before leaving — the same eyes she remembered from childhood, only darker now. Eyes that had once teased her now weighed her like a threat.
She had come here prepared to speak quickly, clearly, and without hesitation. Instead, her words had frozen, trapped somewhere between her throat and her pride. The moment was gone. And she suspected the next time she saw him, it would be on his terms, not hers.
Somewhere far off, steel clashed on steel. A horn blared. And Eleanor knew, with a cold certainty, that whatever her plans had been, they were already ash and smoke.
Preparing to leave, Eleanor stood up just to be shook by the sound of metallic lock.