Dawn broke over the Blackwood peaks not with a gentle light, but with a harsh, crystalline clarity that etched every sharp ridge and deep shadow into stark relief. The night's intimacy, the raw vulnerability shared amidst the shattered ruins of his study, felt like a dream in the unforgiving morning light. Yet, the memory was a live wire under my skin, a secret warmth in the castle's pervasive cold.
I was breaking my fast in my chambers when a firm knock preceded Steward Valerius. His expression was, as ever, unreadable, but his posture held a new, grudging tension.
"His Grace requests your presence in the outer bailey, my lady," he intoned. "The royal emissary takes his leave. Your attendance is… required."
Required. Not requested. The performance was back on. The private man who had clung to my hand in the dark was once again the public Duke, and I was to play my part beside him.
I dressed with care, choosing a gown of deep charcoal grey wool, trimmed with black fox fur. It was warm, practical, and projected an authority that silks and velvets could not. Armor for the day's battle.
The outer bailey was a scene of controlled chaos. A company of the Duke's guard was forming up for a patrol, their breath pluming in the air, the Blackwood wolf picked out in silver thread on their black tabards. Grooms held the bridles of restless, snorting horses. And in the center of it all, looking absurdly out of place in his flamboyant traveling cloak, stood Lord Tavish, his carriage ready to depart.
Lysander stood a few paces apart, a pillar of impenetrable calm. He was dressed for the cold in a long, black leather coat edged with silver fur, his hands clasped behind his back. The Duke in his element, surrounded by the machinery of his power. There was no sign of the ravaged man from last night. His expression was a mask of cold civility, but his storm-grey eyes were chips of flint.
As I approached, every eye in the bailey turned to me. The guards, the stable hands, the stewards—they all watched. My actions at the feast had been noted. My standing was no longer a matter of gossip; it was a subject of strategic interest.
I came to a stop beside Lysander, not touching him, but close enough that our alliance was visible. He didn't look at me, but a subtle shift in his posture acknowledged my presence.
"Lord Tavish," Lysander's voice cut through the morning air, devoid of warmth. "I trust your journey south will be swift. Convey my… sentiments… to the Crown Prince."
Tavish offered a bow that was slightly too deep to be sincere. "Of course, Your Grace. And please, accept my congratulations once more on your… fortuitous union." His eyes slid to me, lingering with a mixture of curiosity and unease. "The capital will be eager for news of the North' newest… treasure."
The insult was veiled in courtly language, reducing me to a shiny object, a prize won.
Before Lysander could eviscerate him, I spoke, my voice clear and carrying. "I hope you will also convey the strength and resilience you witnessed here, my lord. The North is not a treasure to be coveted from afar. It is a bastion to be respected. His Grace's household is in order, as you have seen." I let my gaze sweep over the disciplined guards, the efficient staff, finally landing back on Tavish. "There are no weaknesses here for the capital to… misunderstand."
Tavish's smile tightened. The message was received: We know why you were sent. And we found you wanting.
Lysander's lip twitched, the barest hint of a smirk. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod of approval.
"Indeed," Tavish said stiffly. "I shall report… accurately." With a final, shallow bow, he turned and climbed into his carriage, eager to be gone from this frozen, unwelcoming place.
We stood in silence as the carriage rattled through the main gate and across the bridge, disappearing into the pine forest. The moment it was out of sight, the atmosphere in the bailey shifted. The formal tension broke. A groom laughed at a joke. A guard shifted his weight, relaxing.
Lysander finally turned to me. His eyes were still guarded, but the flinty coldness had softened a fraction. "Your wording was precise. 'Misunderstand.' A usefully ambiguous term."
"I find ambiguity is often a sharper weapon than a direct accusation," I replied.
He held my gaze for a moment longer than necessary, the unspoken memory of the previous night hanging between us. Then, his attention shifted to the captain of the guard who was approaching, helmet under his arm.
"Your Grace," Captain Killian said, bowing his head. He was a bear of a man with a weathered face and shrewd eyes that now flickered to me with a hint of that new, assessing respect. "The patrol to the Northern Ridge is ready to depart."
Lysander's gaze swept over the two dozen mounted men. "The worg sign has been fresh there. Be vigilant. Report anything unusual by falcon immediately."
"Aye, Your Grace." Killian bowed again and turned to mount his horse.
As he did, Lysander's voice stopped him. "Captain."
Killian turned back.
Lysander's next move was so calculated, so politically brilliant, it left me breathless. He unclasped the silver brooch that held his own fur-trimmed cloak in place. It was not a simple pin. It was the Blackwood sigil—a stylized, snarling wolf's head carved from polished jet, its eyes two tiny, piercing sapphires. It was the badge of his house, a symbol of his personal authority worn by the Duke alone.
Without a word, he stepped toward me. His fingers were sure and steady as he pinned the heavy brooch to the collar of my gown, his knuckles brushing against the skin of my throat. The metal was warm from his body heat.
The action was witnessed by every soul in the bailey. The murmuring ceased. All movement stopped. It was a declaration, louder than any speech.
Captain Killian's eyes widened slightly. He looked from the brooch on my chest to the Duke's impassive face, and then back to me. Understanding dawned in his gaze, followed by a slow, deep nod of acceptance. He slammed a fist against his chest in a formal salute—to me.
"My lady," he said, his voice deep with newfound gravity.
Lysander stepped back, his face an unreadable mask, but his eyes held a fierce, possessive light. "The Duchess's word carries my authority in my absence. You will accord it the same respect."
It was a seismic shift in the hierarchy. He had just formally, publicly, and irrevocably integrated me into the chain of command. I was no longer an outsider. I was a Blackwood.
"Understood, Your Grace!" Killian barked. He swung onto his horse, gave the signal, and the patrol thundered out of the gate.
The bailey slowly returned to its work, but the energy was different. Where I had been watched with curiosity or suspicion, I was now met with quick, respectful nods. The weight of the jet wolf on my collar was immense. It was a shield and a shackle.
Lysander turned to me, the public audience over. "The ledgers in my study require your… particular perspective. When you are ready." He paused, his gaze dropping to the sigil on my breast. "Do not lose it. It is the only one of its kind."
And with that, he turned and strode back into the keep, leaving me standing in the cold morning air, the physical weight of his trust heavy upon me, and the emotional weight of it threatening to undo me completely.
The plot had thickened, the side plots converging. The emissary was gone, but the threat from the capital remained. The Northern lords were watching, their loyalties a complex web of ancient families and old grievances. The worgs were a growing danger on the border. And at the center of it all was a Duke fighting a curse, and the woman from another world who now carried his sigil—and a piece of his fractured, formidable heart.