The echo of my true name—Elara—hung in the corridor long after the Duke's study door had closed. It was a key turned in a lock I hadn't known existed, opening a chamber of both terror and thrilling possibility. He knew. How long had he known? Had he always seen the stranger behind Seraphina's eyes? The thought was as unsettling as the curse I'd witnessed.
I didn't return to my rooms. The opulent East Wing felt too much like a gilded cage, its silence oppressive. Instead, I wandered, guided by a restless energy and a need to understand the fortress that was now my prison and my shield.
The castle was a living history of the Blackwood line. I found a long gallery, its walls lined with portraits of stern-faced Dukes and Duchesses, their eyes all sharing the same storm-grey hue, their postures rigid with the same unyielding authority. But as I moved down the line, I saw it—the subtle change. In the earlier portraits, the subjects stood before summer forests or fields of grain. Later, the backgrounds grew harsher: winter mountains, jagged cliffs, battlefields shrouded in mist. And in the eyes of the most recent Dukes, including Lysander's father, a new, grim shadow had taken root behind the authority. A shadow of the pain I had seen firsthand.
This was more than a family. It was a dynasty marching steadily toward a frozen doom.
My footsteps led me down, away from the state rooms and into the functional heart of the keep. The air grew warmer, smelling of yeast, roasting meat, and hard work. I found the kitchens—a vast, cavernous space bustling with a controlled chaos of servants. The moment I appeared in the doorway, the activity ceased. A dozen pairs of eyes, wide with surprise and fear, fixed on me.
A large woman with flour dusting her apron and a face that looked carved from granite stepped forward, wiping her hands. "My lady," she said, her tone wary but not unkind. "Is there something you require? You need only ring, we would have brought it to you."
"I require nothing," I said, offering a small smile I hoped looked genuine and not like Seraphina's practiced smirk. "I was just… exploring. The castle is magnificent."
The woman's expression softened a fraction. "It's a hard home, my lady. But it's ours. I'm Hilda, the head cook." She gestured around the bustling room. "We're preparing the midday meal for the guard rotation. They've just come in from the northern ridge."
"Can I help?" The question was out of my mouth before I could stop it, a reflex from a life where helping in the kitchen was normal.
A stunned silence fell. Hilda blinked. A young scullery maid dropped a metal pot with a clatter that echoed through the sudden quiet.
"Help, my lady?" Hilda repeated, as if I'd spoken in a foreign tongue.
"I'm told the North values utility above all else," I said, gently throwing the Duke's own words back into the space between us. "I may be from the South, but my hands are not afraid of work."
I saw the calculation in her eyes, the same weighing of risk and gain I'd seen in her Duke. Finally, she gave a curt nod. "Very well. Brigid," she called to the mousy maid from yesterday, who was peeling a mountain of potatoes, "show her ladyship how to peel a root properly. We don't want her losing a finger on her first day."
It was a test. A small one, but a test nonetheless.
I sat on a stool next to a wide-eyed Brigid, took a knife and a knobby potato, and began to mimic her movements. My first attempts were clumsy, the peel coming off in thick, wasteful chunks. But I was a quick learner. Soon, I found a rhythm. The simple, repetitive task was a balm to my frayed nerves.
The kitchen slowly came back to life around me, the silence replaced by a hesitant, curious hum. I didn't try to make conversation. I just worked, listening to the easy banter of the staff, learning the rhythms of the household.
I learned that Captain Killian, who commanded the guards, had a newborn son. That the stable master was sweet on one of the dairymaids. That the first snow was expected within the fortnight, and everyone was busy preparing. They spoke of "His Grace" not with the fawning fear of the capital court, but with a rugged, earned respect. They feared him, yes, but it was the fear one has for a cliff face or a coming storm—a recognition of immense power that was also a fundamental part of their world.
I was just finishing my third potato when a shadow fell over me.
I looked up. Lysander stood in the doorway.
He had changed out of his formal coat into simpler, dark trousers and a tunic, but he was no less imposing. His gaze swept over the kitchen, taking in the scene: the bustling staff, the head cook overseeing it all, and me, seated on a low stool with a peeling knife in my hand and a smudge of dirt on my cheek.
The entire kitchen froze again, this time in sheer terror.
His storm-grey eyes found mine. There was no anger there. No approval either. Just that unnerving, absolute focus.
"My lady," he said, his voice neutral. "A word."
I set down the knife and potato, wiped my hands on a cloth, and followed him out into the cooler hallway. He didn't speak until we were around a corner, out of earshot.
"What was the purpose of that?" he asked. Not an accusation. A genuine question.
"Gathering intelligence," I said, meeting his gaze squarely. "The kitchen is the heart of any household. Loyalty is forged here as much as it is in the training yard. They are afraid of me. I was making them less afraid."
He studied me for a long moment, and I saw a flicker of that same calculating respect from the study. "And what intelligence did you gather peeling potatoes?"
"That Captain Killian's men are loyal to him, and he is loyal to you. That the first snow is coming early. And that your people don't need a Southern ornament. They need to see that their Duchess isn't afraid to get her hands dirty."
A silence stretched between us. He took a step closer, and again, I was struck by the sheer, physical presence of him.
"You continue to be… unexpected," he said finally. He reached out, and before I could flinch, his thumb brushed against my cheek, wiping away the smudge of dirt. The touch was startlingly gentle. "The emissary is gone. He will report what he saw. The performance is over."
His thumb lingered for a fraction of a second against my skin, a brand of warmth in the cold corridor.
"For now," I replied, my voice barely a whisper.
His eyes darkened, and for a heartbeat, the air between us crackled with the same charged energy from his study. The performance was over. But something else, something far more real and far more dangerous, had just begun.
He dropped his hand, his mask of icy control sliding back into place. "Do not dull the kitchen knives, wife. They have a purpose more critical than your… diplomacy."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the corridor, my cheek burning where he had touched me, and the scent of sandalwood and frost lingering in the air.