Alaric Duskbane walked through the estate, his footsteps measured and deliberate. His eyes, sharp and calculating, took in the surroundings, the lush garden, and the subtle signs of excess that seemed to suffocate the southern kingdom. The air here was thick with indulgence, too heavy with the scent of wine and perfume. Every corner, every room whispered of shallow luxury and careless living. He hated it all.
He was on his way to the meeting, his mind already clouded by the political duties that pulled him south, but his irritation reached a peak when he saw her.
At first, it was just the flash of movement—a figure lounging by the window, too comfortable, too casual for someone of her stature. Alaric's eyes narrowed as he slowed his pace, an unsettling feeling creeping up his spine. His mind registered the woman's appearance before he fully understood why his blood began to boil.
She was dressed in a gown that, at first glance, could have been mistaken for something elegant, but Alaric immediately recognized it for what it was: inappropriate. The color—dark crimson—was bold, but the entire outfit seemed designed to draw the eye, to make anyone who looked at her think only of desire.
He hadn't recognized her immediately, but now it was clear. The same name that filled the gossip of every court, the same name that was spoken with a mixture of disgust and fascination. The daughter of Lord Hestian Valemont, the rival of his father. The woman who had no respect for herself or for the title she bore.
Alaric's jaw tightened, a flush of irritation spreading across his face. The entire sight of her disgusted him, as did the thought that someone like her might ever hold the title of nobility. The Valemont name, reduced to nothing but an accessory for a woman who didn't know the meaning of the word respect.
Then, unexpectedly, she looked up. Her eyes met his across the room. It wasn't a flirtatious glance, but one of mild confusion. She didn't recognize him. Her gaze flicked over him before dismissing him completely.
Alaric felt a jolt. His chest tightened. Hatred burned through him. The way she stood there, unbothered, made him despise her more. She didn't even seem aware of how ridiculous she looked.
He held her gaze for a moment longer, his eyes cold with fury. He hated the way she acted like nothing mattered, like she didn't care about her family's reputation or her own legacy.
Without a word, Alaric turned away. His steps were firm, his body tense with anger. He couldn't understand why she bothered him. She didn't matter. But that feeling lingered, and it gnawed at him as he walked away.
He would remember her face now, but not for anything positive. She would forever be etched in his mind as the example of everything the south represented: self-indulgence, superficiality, and a complete lack of respect for the legacy she was supposed to uphold.
---
The grand hall of Lord Hestian Valemont's estate echoed with the soft murmur of noble conversations. The flickering glow from the chandeliers bathed the room in warm golden light, but for Lady Sarah, the atmosphere felt suffocating. She leaned against the windowsill, absentmindedly swirling her wine glass, her eyes scanning the crowd of guests.
She wasn't particularly interested in the political scheming happening around her—she preferred the frivolous pleasures of her life, the luxury, the parties, the adoration. That's what she'd been raised for, after all. But when she had heard that Alaric Duskbane, the Duke of the North, was arriving, it piqued her curiosity—though not for the reasons most people might expect. His reputation preceded him: cold, calculated, and utterly unyielding.
The rumors she'd heard about him painted him as a ruthless man, a warrior of ice who saw the world through the lens of power and duty. Sarah had never cared much for his type—men who thrived on control and order, who lived by duty rather than pleasure. So, when he entered the hall, all tall and brooding, it didn't faze her. She barely even looked up from her glass as he walked by.
But then, their eyes met.
It was fleeting, a simple glance from across the room, but it was enough to make her pause. For a moment, Sarah felt a strange chill creep through her chest. His gaze was cold, evaluating. Unimpressed. He didn't see her as anything of importance—just another Southern noblewoman to tolerate. That much was obvious.
Her father's voice cut through her thoughts. "Ah, Sarah. There's someone I want you to meet."
Sarah blinked and turned to face him, expecting the usual introduction to some irrelevant lord or gentleman, but when she saw who he was gesturing toward, her stomach twisted.
Alaric Duskbane.
The Duke of the North.
She took in his appearance with detached interest—tall, with piercing eyes and a face chiseled like stone. He had a presence, there was no denying it, but it wasn't enough to make her care. Still, a part of her couldn't help but notice the way he commanded attention, as if the room bent to his will. And yet, there was something in the way he held himself, something calculated, as though he already knew everything about her without ever speaking a word.
"Duke Alaric," Lord Hestian greeted him warmly, though Sarah noticed the subtle tension in his posture. "This is my daughter, Lady Sarah Valemont. You'll be working together on the upcoming project with the North."
At the sound of her father's words, Sarah's smile faltered slightly. Working together? She had no interest in doing so. Her thoughts were interrupted as the Duke turned to her, his eyes briefly skimming her form. His gaze wasn't warm, wasn't interested, just… calculating. She felt a stir of discomfort, but it was nothing compared to the icy feeling that ran down her spine when he grasped her hand in greeting.
He didn't bow, didn't even offer a polite nod. Instead, his grip was firm, but lifeless, as if it were nothing more than a transaction.
"Lady Sarah," he said with a clipped tone, his voice cold and distant. "I trust you understand the gravity of this project, despite your… extracurricular activities."
Sarah's lips parted, a bitter laugh threatening to escape her. Did he just—?
Her father was still speaking to him, but Sarah didn't care. All of her focus was on the Duke, who was already dismissing her with his words, as though he had already decided what kind of woman she was based on rumors.
She tilted her head, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she leaned forward slightly. "Oh, absolutely. I'm sure my 'extracurricular activities' are a great concern to you, Duke Duskbane. After all, I wouldn't want to be a distraction in your oh-so-important world of duty, would I?"
Alaric didn't flinch, but Sarah could see the flash of irritation in his eyes. Her father looked uncomfortable, his brow furrowing slightly as if he didn't know how to respond. But it didn't matter. Sarah didn't care anymore. She had no interest in playing the docile, obedient daughter for him or anyone else.
"Sarah…" her father's voice warned, but it was too late. The damage had been done.
"Oh, don't worry, Father," she continued, her tone sweet but sharp, "I'll play my part. I'll make sure to keep my 'extracurricular activities' to a minimum. Wouldn't want to ruin the reputation of the great and noble Duke."
Alaric's expression remained stoic, but there was something there, a flicker of disdain in his gaze. It was as if he thought she was beneath him—unworthy of his time, unworthy of respect.
"Lady Sarah," he said, his voice laced with a hint of condescension, "I don't expect you to be anything other than what you've proven to be. But let's not pretend this isn't a serious matter. It's for the greater good."
A deep, biting laugh escaped Sarah's lips, more out of frustration than humor. She couldn't believe he was speaking to her this way. "Oh, yes. The 'greater good.' How noble of you, Duke. Please, do enlighten me on how you've come to such a conclusion about me. You know nothing of who I am."
Alaric gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "I know enough. Your behavior speaks volumes."
At that moment, something snapped inside Sarah. He didn't just think she was a fool—he knew she was one. Or at least, that's how he saw her. A shallow woman concerned only with parties, wine, and superficial pleasures. She felt her heart constrict with something sharp—something that bordered on anger, but beneath it, there was a raw, deep wound of hurt.
She clenched her fists, her pride too wounded to keep up the act any longer. "You don't know me, Alaric Duskbane," she spat, her eyes narrowing. "You don't know what I've had to endure to get where I am. And I'll be damned if I let some arrogant northern lord tell me what I'm capable of."
Her father finally stepped in, his voice calm but dismissive. "Enough, Sarah. This is not the time for childish tantrums."
But the damage was done. Alaric had succeeded in doing something few could—he had ignited something in her, a fury that burned deep and personal. Her pride, her sense of self, had been shattered. He saw her as nothing more than a tool to further his own political gain, a woman to be controlled and managed. And she couldn't stand it.
"Fine," she bit out, her smile gone, her voice laced with sarcasm and venom, "I'll play my part, as you so kindly suggest. But don't expect me to respect you for it."
Alaric didn't answer, his face an implacable mask of indifference. But Sarah knew one thing for certain now—he wasn't just another nobleman. He was a man she could never trust, and the disdain she felt for him? It was only just beginning.
---
She woke to the faint creak of the wooden door and the rustling of old curtains that hadn't seen the sun in weeks. Her eyes blinked open, unhurried, not from fatigue, but from the numb familiarity of waking up to the same dim ceiling every day. The ceiling above her bed was cracked slightly at the corners, and dust floated in the still air like ash from a long-dead fire.
It was morning—at least she assumed so. In this part of the manor, light rarely visited.
She sat up, slowly, deliberately, like a porcelain doll being lifted by invisible strings. Her hair, a river of pale strands, fell onto her shoulders. A maid, rough in manner and careless in motion, barged in without a greeting. There was no bow, no acknowledgment—only the swift, business-like fling of her day dress onto the edge of the bed.
"Get ready. The duke has visitors," the maid said flatly before leaving, the door slamming shut behind her.
Sarah stared at the dress. Dark maroon, the same color they always gave her, as if her presence were something to blend into shadows, not to stand out. She stood up and undressed with a sense of detachment, slipping into the stiff fabric. The corset bit into her ribs, tighter than it should be. She never complained. What for? Complaints didn't echo in this house—they vanished.
In the mirror, her reflection looked elegant, her posture perfect. But her eyes were glassy, tired, vacant. There were no tears. Lady Sarah did not cry. Not anymore.
A knock on the door that didn't wait for a response. Another maid, this one younger, entered with a tray. A piece of toast half-burned, grayish scrambled eggs, and a cup of tea so pale it looked like it had only passed by a teabag. Sarah glanced at the tray, and then at the girl.
"Breakfast, my Lady," the maid muttered, not meeting her eyes.
Sarah's lip twitched—not in surprise, not in offense. But in amusement. Bitter amusement.
"Ah, such royal treatment," she said with a honeyed tone, sitting by the table. She tapped the cup with a single finger. "Is this water flavored with resentment today, or is it just dishwater again?"
The maid stiffened, unsure if it was sarcasm or genuine inquiry. Sarah didn't wait for a reply. She pushed the tray aside gently, as though it were beneath even the act of rejection.
"You may go. I won't eat this filth."
The maid left, mumbling something under her breath.
Once the door shut again, Sarah reached beneath the folds of her dress, pulling out a tiny wrapped candy from the seam. Her hidden stash. She peeled the paper carefully and popped it into her mouth.
Sweet. Artificial. But it kept her standing.
She walked to the window, which was bolted shut from the outside, but the cracks allowed thin strands of light to slip through. This morning—perhaps the first in weeks—the sun had managed to pierce the gloom. A single beam rested against the floor near her bed.
She leaned down until her face was bathed in it.
Warmth.
It was almost enough to feel alive.
She closed her eyes. She didn't smile. But she stayed like that for a while, letting it touch her skin, pretending it was the hand of something kind.
The manor behind her remained cold. Empty. Just like her.
But for a moment, she felt real.
And that, perhaps, was enough to survive the day.
Lady Sarah turned, her expression unreadable, and prepared to meet the world once more—with her spine straight, her chin raised, and her silence louder than any scream.
--
Laughter floated like perfume through the air, light and hollow. Crystal chandeliers blazed overhead, glittering like stars trapped in gold cages. Silk rustled with every elegant step. Perfumed gloves brushed against champagne flutes, voices were soft and performative—like petals before the thorns.
Lady Sarah stood near the marble staircase, her crimson gown a subtle rebellion against the pastel-drenched nobility. Her lips were painted, but her eyes—her eyes were quiet, searching.
She wasn't looking for friends. She was looking for truth.
And there she was.
Lady Miren.
Dripping in elegance. Velvet blue gown, hair curled like paintings, and around her neck—an obsidian necklace. The same one Sarah wore three years ago during the trial of House Velarne. A piece given to her by the servant who saved her life.
It wasn't the necklace that twisted Sarah's stomach. It was the woman wearing it.
Earlier that evening, Sarah had wandered briefly from the main hall, taking the east corridor. There, past the servant's pantry, she'd seen it—
An old man, crumpled at the base of a stone column. His cheek red. The faint tremble of age and fear in his hands.
And Lady Miren—her hand still raised. Her voice sharp, like shards of wineglass.
Sarah said nothing then. She simply turned back toward the ballroom. Her jaw clenched. The image sealed behind her eyes.
Now, she approached.
"Miren," Sarah greeted softly, voice low like a violin string under tension.
Miren turned, all sugar and roses. "Lady Sarah, how radiant you look tonight. Crimson suits you. Very... dramatic."
Sarah smiled, a faint curve of lips—polite, unreadable. "And that necklace suits you. I wonder—did you know it once belonged to a servant of mine?"
The temperature dropped a fraction.
Miren blinked. "A servant? Darling, don't be sentimental. It's just a trinket."
"No," Sarah replied. "It's not. He gave it to me before he lost his hand for protecting my mother. You slapped him tonight."
The music played on. The people danced. But nearby eyes turned slightly. Ears tilted.
Miren's lashes fluttered. "Is this some kind of accusation?"
"No," Sarah said, calm. "It's a question. What did he do to deserve it?"
Miren's smile thinned. "He spilled wine. On my sleeve. That is enough."
"You slapped an old man," Sarah said, voice dipping. "A servant who can barely walk without shaking. I saw him on the ground."
Miren's fan snapped shut. "Do not speak to me as if you are my mother. You and your pet peasants—"
Sarah's expression didn't change. But her body leaned slightly forward. "I asked with kindness."
"Kindness?" Miren scoffed. "The ballroom isn't a charity parade, Sarah. If he's a lowlife, he should be grateful he even breathes in our presence."
The room didn't go silent. But it felt like it had.
Sarah chuckled softly, as if enjoying a secret only she understood. "So that's what you believe? That our titles give us the right to step on the ones who polish our floors?"
"Oh, spare me your philosophy," Miren snapped. "You act as if you're better than the rest of us. You think hiding behind good manners makes you holy?"
Sarah tilted her head, voice sweet like honey laced with venom. "No. I don't think I'm better. I just refuse to be a coward with expensive taste."
"You arrogant—"
Before another word could stain the air, Sarah raised her hand.
And slapped her.
The sound cracked through the hall like a whip. Startled gasps followed. Champagne froze in mid-sip. A string from the quartet trembled and fell flat.
Miren staggered slightly, her cheek flushed in scarlet, eyes wide with disbelief.
Sarah stepped closer, her voice soft—too soft.
"I used to admire you," she whispered. "Your confidence. Your beauty. But now I see it clearly. It's just cruelty, dressed in silk."
Miren's hand trembled, clutching her fan like a dagger. "How dare you—"
"I dared," Sarah cut her off, still smiling, still quiet. "Because someone should."
Her gaze swept over the onlookers—dignitaries, heirs, wives, and warriors. "We talk of nobility like it's divine. But real nobility isn't in blood. It's in how you treat someone who can do nothing for you."
Miren glared, eyes wet but furious. "You'll regret this."
"I already do," Sarah said. "Not the slap. The kindness that came before it."
She turned, red gown sweeping behind her like a flame. The crowd parted as she passed. Not because she demanded it—
But because they felt it.
Something had broken.
Not her composure. Not her place.
But the lie that they were all too scared to say out loud.