Sleep was impossible.
The image of Lysander—kneeling, tormented, the dark veins of corruption snaking across his skin—played behind my eyelids every time I closed them. The sound of his enraged, pain-filled roar echoed in the silence of my chambers. The cold, silver fury in his eyes when he saw me was a brand on my memory.
What would he do? Would he have me thrown in the dungeons? Sent back to the capital in disgrace? Or would he simply make me disappear, a tragic accident befalling the fragile Southern bride in the harsh North? His warning from the balcony felt like a lifetime ago, but the threat was now immediate and terrifyingly real.
The first grey light of dawn was filtering through the windows when a firm, rapid knock sounded at my door. My heart leaped into my throat. This was it. The summons.
I wrapped a robe around myself, my hands trembling. I took a deep breath, forcing Seraphina's mask of haughty composure onto my face. If I was to be condemned, I would not go weeping.
I opened the door.
Steward Valerius stood there, his expression, if possible, even more pinched and disapproving than the day before. He did not greet me. His eyes, like chips of flint, scanned me from head to toe, noting my disheveled state with clear contempt.
"His Grace requires your presence in his study," he intoned. "Immediately."
He turned on his heel, expecting me to follow. No "my lady," no courtesy. I was a prisoner being escorted to the warden.
I followed him through the silent, freezing corridors, my bare feet cold on the stone. The castle felt different in the dawn's light—not just cold, but hostile. The portraits of grim-faced Blackwoods seemed to glare down at me, judging the intruder who had witnessed their shame.
Valerius stopped before a heavy oak door. He knocked once, sharply. "Enter."The voice from within was the Duke's. But it was not the cold, precise tone from the carriage. It was hollow. Drained. It was the voice of a man who had fought a war all night and lost.
Valerius opened the door and gestured for me to go in, then closed it behind me, leaving me alone with him.
Lysander stood by the large window, his back to me, silhouetted against the weak morning light. He was impeccably dressed once more in a black coat, every button fastened, every line perfect. He looked every inch the unshakeable Duke. But the air in the room was thick with the aftermath of the storm.
He did not turn around.
"You disobeyed a direct command." The words were flat, devoid of the anger I expected. They were simply a statement of fact, and somehow, that was worse.
I swallowed, my mouth dry. "I heard a sound. I was concerned." The excuse sounded pathetic even to my own ears.
"Concern is a luxury you cannot afford here," he said, his tone bitingly cold now. "Your concern could get you killed. Or worse, it could jeopardize everything I have built."
Finally, he turned. His face was a pale, handsome mask, but the signs of his ordeal were there for anyone who knew to look. The skin around his storm-grey eyes was tight, shadowed with a profound exhaustion. A faint tremor, almost imperceptible, ran through the hand he held at his side.
"What did you see?" he asked, his gaze finally meeting mine. It was not the feral silver from last night, but the cold grey was back, shuttered and more dangerous than ever.
This was the crossroads. I could lie, pretend I saw nothing. I could try to use the information as leverage. But I remembered his one, unwavering rule: You will never, ever lie to me.
I chose the truth. It was my only currency.
"I saw you," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "On your knees. In pain. There were… black lines. Like cracks. On your back. And your eyes…" I trailed off, unable to describe the terrifying silver light.
He was silent for a long, agonizing moment, his expression unreadable. I braced for the explosion.
It did not come.
Instead, a muscle twitched in his jaw. "The Blackwood curse," he said, the words tasting like ash. "A rot in the bloodline. It gifts us power, but demands a price. A slow descent into agony and madness. It is what killed my father. It is what will eventually kill me."
The blunt, horrific confession shocked me into silence. He had just handed me the weapon that could destroy him. His greatest vulnerability.
"Why are you telling me this?" I whispered.
"Because you have seen it," he said, taking a step toward me. The air grew colder. "You now hold a secret that could unravel my duchy. My people believe I control it. If they knew the truth—that the monster is winning—their faith would break. The border lords would revolt. The capital would invade. Everything would fall to ash."
He stopped in front of me, looking down at me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"So, this is our new deal, wife," he said, layering the word with a new, dark significance. "You will forget what you saw. You will never speak of it. You will never go to the West Wing again. In return, I will not have to consider you a security risk that needs to be eliminated."
The threat was赤裸裸的, colder and more direct than any before. My survival was no longer just about avoiding execution; it was about navigating the volatile danger of the man I had married.
I met his gaze, the fear hardening into a sharp, clear resolve. "I have no desire to see your duchy fall, Your Grace. My survival is, as always, tied to yours. Your secret is safe with me."
A flicker of something—surprise, perhaps—crossed his face. He had expected tears, denials, bargaining. He had not expected a calm acceptance of his horrific reality.
He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "See that it is. You may go."
I turned to leave, my legs feeling like water.
"And Seraphina," his voice stopped me at the door. I glanced back.
His eyes held mine, and for the first time, I saw not a Duke, not a monster, but a man standing alone against an inevitable darkness.
"The walls have ears," he said quietly. "And not all of them are loyal to me. Remember that."
It wasn't an apology. It wasn't kindness.
It was the first real warning he had ever given me. And it was more valuable than any promise of protection.