The Blackwood Duchy was not a land. It was a mood.
The carriage crested a final, brutal mountain pass, and the stronghold of the Cold Duke lay sprawled in the valley below. It was not the gilded, delicate palace of the capital. This was a fortress hewn from the mountain itself, a brutalist masterpiece of dark grey stone and piercing towers that clawed at a sky the color of bruised steel. Glaciers clung to the highest peaks, and a deep, ancient forest of pine and fir surrounded it like a shroud. The air was so crisp it felt like inhaling needles, and a profound, commanding silence hung over everything, broken only by the distant cry of an eagle. It was stark, severe, and terrifyingly beautiful.
As our carriage rolled across the final bridge and through the massive, raised portcullis, I felt the weight of a thousand eyes upon me. The people of the town huddled outside the castle walls were a different breed from the capital's citizens. Their faces were ruddy and wind-chapped, their clothes practical wool and sturdy leather. They watched the Duke's carriage pass not with cheers or waves, but with a respectful, deep-seated silence that bordered on reverence. And when their gazes flickered to me, seated beside him, the reverence turned to open, icy suspicion.
The carriage halted in the main courtyard. Before a footman could move, Lysander was out, his presence immediately dominating the space. He did not offer me a hand.
A line of household staff was assembled to greet their master, their postures ramrod straight. At their head stood a severe-looking man with silvering hair and a spine so stiff it looked painful. His eyes, the same storm-grey as the Duke's, but colder, swept over me with a disdain that was almost impressive.
"Your Grace," the man said, his voice like the grating of stone. "Welcome home." His tone suggested my presence was a slight against the very castle walls.
"Steward Valerius," Lysander acknowledged with a slight nod. "This is Lady Seraphina. She is to be shown to the Duchess's chambers. See that she is not disturbed."
She is to be shown. Not This is your new mistress or You will serve her. The dismissal in his tone was a physical blow. He had delivered me to my new cage and was already turning his attention to more important matters—a report Valerius was handing him, the state of the granaries, the patrol schedules. I was a task on a checklist, already completed.
A maid, a girl with mousy brown hair and fearful eyes, curtsied so low she almost toppled. "If my lady would follow me," she whispered, not meeting my gaze.
I was led into the bowels of the keep. The interior was just as imposing as the exterior. Grand, but not opulent. Tapestries depicted grim battles and stark landscapes. Suits of armor stood guard in shadowy niches, their helmets like skulls watching me pass. The air smelled of cold stone, woodsmoke, and a faint, clean scent of pine. It was bitterly cold, and I pulled my fur-lined cloak tighter around me, the ring on my finger feeling like a lump of ice.
My new chambers were in the East Wing. They were spacious, with a large canopied bed and a roaring fire in the hearth, but the luxury was functional, not indulgent. The windows offered a breathtaking view of the frozen, jagged mountains, a vista that was both magnificent and utterly isolating.
The maid, who introduced herself as Brigid, helped me out of my traveling clothes with trembling hands.
"The staff..." I began, trying to sound gentle, not like the haughty villainess they expected. "They seem... efficient."
Brigid flinched as if I'd raised my voice. "Aye, my lady. His Grace values efficiency above all."
"And what does he value next?" I asked, attempting a smile.
She looked utterly bewildered by the question. "Loyalty, my lady," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The Duke protects us. The mountains, the winter... they do not forgive weakness. Nor does he."
Her words were not a threat, but a simple statement of fact. I was an unknown, a variable from the soft and corrupt South. I was weakness until proven otherwise.
After she left, I wandered the room, feeling the oppressive silence press in. This was to be my life. A beautiful, frozen prison with a warden who barely acknowledged my existence and subjects who saw me as a threat.
My wandering took me to the door. Peering into the hall, I saw two maids hurrying away, their heads bent together in fervent whispers. Their voices, though hushed, carried in the silent corridor.
"...true, then? The master brought back a Southern bride?" "From the capital itself!A pretty, fragile thing. What was he thinking?" "It's the madness,I tell you. It makes them do strange things. His father, before the end... he—"
They turned a corner, and their words were lost. But I had heard enough.
The madness. The words from the novel, the gossip I'd overheard. It wasn't just a rumor. It was a accepted truth here, a specter that haunted the very foundation of this castle. It was the reason the Duke was doomed in the original story.
That night, as I lay in the enormous bed, listening to the wind howl like a grieving spirit around the towers, the reality of my situation settled upon me. I had traded a swift execution for a slow, cold exile in a fortress of suspicion, married to a man fighting a curse I didn't understand.
The wind died down for a moment. And in that pocket of silence, I heard it.
A blood-curdling scream of pure, unadulterated rage. It wasn't from outside. It was from within the castle. And it came from the West Wing—the part of the castle I was expressly forbidden from entering.