The cold of the North was a living entity. It didn't just chill the skin; it seeped into the stone, the wood, the very marrow of one's bones, a constant, whispering presence that spoke of endings. My chambers, for all their grandeur, were a poor defense against it. The fire in the hearth roared, a valiant, desperate soldier fighting a losing war against the endless winter night, casting frantic, dancing shadows that did little to dispel the deep, settling silence.
Sleep was a futile pursuit. My mind raced, replaying the feast, the strategy room, the look in Lysander's eyes—that fleeting, unguarded moment of stark, calculating wonder. You see the board differently. The words were a brand, filling me with a terrifying, thrilling sense of purpose. I had value here. Not as a ornament or a pawn, but as a mind.
But the memory was chased by the darker specter of what I had witnessed in the West Wing. The black veins. The agonized roar. The journal's grim testimony. His power was a predator he kept chained within himself, and the chains were fraying.
A sound shattered the silence. Not a scream this time. It was lower, more visceral. A crash of shattering pottery, followed by a groan of such profound, gut-wrenching anguish that it tore through the castle's stone heart.
It came from the West Wing.
My body moved before my mind could counsel caution. I was out of bed, my bare feet silent on the icy floor, pulling a heavy wool robe over my nightdress. The Duke's warning echoed in my head—You will wish the executioner had found you first—but it was drowned out by a newer, more insistent impulse. He was in pain. Not the political pain of a burdened Duke, but the raw, physical agony of a man being torn apart from the inside.
The corridor to the West Wing was a tunnel of darkness, the torches unlit. Moonlight streamed through the arrow-slit windows, painting silver bars on the stone floor. The reinforced door to his chamber was ajar, the strange, silvery runes on its bands glowing with a faint, sickly light.
I pushed it open.
The scene within was one of devastating ruin. The elegant study was a shambles. A chair was splintered against the far wall. Books and scrolls were strewn across the floor like fallen leaves. The source of the crash was a beautiful blue-and-white vase, now a thousand shattered pieces scattered across the hearth.
And in the center of it all, on his knees amidst the wreckage, was Lysander.
He was shirtless, his body a canvas of torment. The dark, intricate lines I had seen before were no longer confined to his back. They crawled over his shoulders, down his arms, pulsing with that same malevolent, dim light. His head was bowed, his black hair falling over his face, and his hands were fisted at his sides, the knuckles white with the strain of his fight. Every muscle in his back and arms was corded, rigid, shaking with the effort of containing the storm within.
He was losing.
A low, continuous sound of pain was being wrenched from his throat. It was the most horrifying sound I had ever heard.
"Lysander," I whispered, my voice barely audible.
His head snapped up. His eyes were not the glowing silver of before, but a terrifying, chaotic swirl of storm-grey and violent, bloody crimson. There was no recognition in them, only a feral, cornered animal's rage and agony.
"Get out," he snarled, the words distorted, guttural. He tried to surge to his feet, but his body convulsed, and he cried out, collapsing back onto his hands and knees, his breath coming in ragged, tortured gasps. "Get out! Don't… look at me… don't see…" The command dissolved into another groan as his body arched against an invisible tormentor.
I did not run. A strange, cold calm settled over me. This was not the time for fear. This was the time for the truth he had demanded.
I took a step into the room, my feet careful on the debris-strewn floor. "I'm not leaving you," I said, my voice stronger now.
He let out a harsh, broken laugh that was devoid of any humor. "You foolish… woman… You think this is a choice? Run. Before I cannot… stop it…" A violent tremor wracked his frame, and the black lines on his skin flared brighter.
I took another step, then another, until I was standing before him. I could feel the energy radiating from him, a chaotic, destructive cold that raised the hair on my arms. I knelt.
The action brought me to his eye level. Up close, the torment was even more devastating. Sweat beaded on his brow, mingling with tears of pure, unadulterated strain. The beautiful, severe lines of his face were twisted in a rictus of suffering.
"Look at me," I commanded, gently but firmly.
His wild, pain-glazed eyes struggled to focus on mine. The crimson swirl was receding slightly, the storm-grey fighting its way back.
"You are Lysander Blackwood," I said, my voice low and steady, a lifeline thrown into his personal hell. "The Duke of the North. The shield that does not break. The man who holds the line." I repeated the words his people used, the legend he embodied. "This is just the price. And you will pay it. You will master it."
I reached out. My hand hovered in the air between us for a heartbeat, then I placed it against his cheek.
The moment my skin touched his, a jolt, like a spark of static, passed between us. He flinched violently, a sound of protest tearing from his throat. But I didn't pull away. His skin was fever-hot, despite the glacial energy pouring off him.
His eyes widened, the crimson receding further, shock cutting through the pain. No one touched him. Not like this. Not during the curse. His entire body was trembling, the fight within him still raging, but his gaze was locked on mine, a drowning man seeing a distant shore.
"Elara…" My name was a ragged breath, a plea and a warning.
"I'm here," I said simply, my thumb stroking his cheekbone, a slow, rhythmical motion against the chaos. "I see you. And I am not afraid."
It was a lie. I was terrified. But it was a necessary lie. The most important one I would ever tell.
The tension in his body began to shift. The violent tremors softened into shudders. The terrifying light of the black veins dimmed, fading from a malevolent pulse to a dull, bruised shadow beneath his skin. The fight was not over, but the crisis was passing. He was coming back to himself.
His eyes never left mine. The storm in them calmed, leaving behind a devastation so profound it stole my breath. The raw, naked vulnerability there was more shocking than any display of power or rage. I was seeing the man with all his defenses obliterated.
His hand, which had been fisted at his side, unclenched. Slowly, hesitantly, as if moving against a great weight, he lifted it and covered mine where it rested against his cheek. His fingers were ice-cold, his grip weak, but the gesture was one of utter, desperate need. He was holding onto my touch like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
We stayed like that for a long time, kneeling amidst the wreckage of his control, the only sound our mingled breathing and the crackle of the dying fire. The hierarchy of Duke and Duchess, of predator and prey, had dissolved. There was only a man and a woman, and the devastating, fragile truth that passed between them in the silence.
Finally, his grip on my hand tightened almost imperceptibly. His eyes, clear now and filled with a weary, bottomless shame, closed.
"You should not have seen that," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
"I see you," I repeated, the words a vow. "All of you."
He opened his eyes, and the look he gave me was so complex it made my heart ache. There was gratitude, and shame, and a dawning, terrifying wonder.
Slowly, using my hand for support, he pushed himself upright. He didn't let go of my hand as he stood, pulling me up with him. He was unsteady on his feet, the aftermath of the battle leaving him drained.
He didn't speak. He just stood there, holding my hand in the moonlit ruins of his sanctuary, his head bowed, our joined hands the only point of warmth in the frozen room.
The calculus of our arrangement had irrevocably changed. The transaction was void. In its place was something far more dangerous, far more compelling. It was no longer a pact of convenience.
It was a pact of need. And as I stood there with him in the shattered silence, I knew with a certainty that shook my very soul, that the need was not his alone.