The morning broke gray and heavy, with clouds that clung low over the sea like a blanket refusing to lift. The scent of rain lingered in the air, though the storm had passed. Pale silver light slipped through the drapes, brushing against Cassandra's face like the gentlest touch. Her eyes fluttered open, blinking against the soft golden hue that filled her chambers. For a moment, she didn't move. She simply breathed.
Her limbs felt heavy, as if the ocean's grip still lingered. The memory came rushing back: the salt in her throat, the weight of her gown, the cold that had sunk into her bones. And Leoleta—his voice cutting through the waves, his arms holding her fast.
She sat up slowly, the blanket falling into her lap. Her body ached, and her tangled hair clung to her skin. But it wasn't just her muscles that hurt. Something inside her had shifted. A prickle of dread followed the thought: Had anyone seen her at the shoreline? Were the servants whispering already—about water and tears and the Duke's favorite child losing her composure?
Turning her head, she saw the low fire still burning in the hearth and the neatly folded towel on the chair beside her. A steaming bowl of herbal water sat nearby, the scent of mint and chamomile curling through the air.
Someone had watched over her. Of course, it was Liraen.
The door creaked open.
"My lady?" a soft voice called.
Liraen. Her handmaid, and dearest and longest friend, whose presence always seemed to bring balance.
"I have your dress prepared and breakfast on the way," she said, stepping into the room. Her hair was neatly pulled back in a long braid, her pointed ears peeking through.
Cassandra gave a small nod. "Thank you, Liraen."
"How are you feeling?" she asked, her tone gentle, though worry edged her voice.
"Weary," Cassandra murmured, "but still breathing."
"What on earth were you even thinking, Cassandra?" Liraen approached with a basin and cloth. "You rattled Sir Leoleta. I've never seen him so unsettled before—he looked like the storm followed him back inside."
Cassandra flushed and looked away. "I wasn't trying to die. I just—"
"—needed to escape," Liraen finished for her. "I understand."
As the handmaid gently worked scented oils and soothing cream into her tangled curls, Cassandra sat quietly, her gaze drifting out the window—unfocused, distant, lost to thought.
Liraen broke the silence. "Lord Alistar and Lord Alfonse met with Sir Leoleta late last night. They've taken the matter seriously."
Cassandra's brow furrowed. "What matter?"
Liraen hesitated. "There are… whispers. Of Lord Merek of House Avedane. He said cruel things—publicly. About your right to be here snd carry the Delmar name."
Cassandra's breath caught.
"Stars above," she groaned, dropping her head into her hands. She had hoped it would pass quietly. If the insult had reached Liraen, it had reached the corridors. Had half the hall heard him?
"Did my brothers say what they would do?"
"Only that they would not let it pass."
Cassandra nodded slowly. The warmth of the fire could not reach the cold coil tightening in her chest.
"Help me dress," she said, her voice firmer now. "I need to see them."
~
Outside, the clouds still lingered—but the storm had passed. Hopefully she could quell the tension.
Cassandra entered the small private dining room a short while later, her presence composed though her steps were careful. Alistar and Alfonse sat at the table already, the morning meal spread before them—warm bread, spiced porridge, cured meats, and strong tea.
Alistar, the elder twin by mere minutes, was bold and commanding. He looked up and rose from his seat immediately. "Sister. I didn't expect you so early."
Alfonse, the younger, offered a kind smile and gestured to the seat beside him. His scholarly nature lent him a calm presence that contrasted sharply with Alistar's fiery demeanor.
"I needed to speak with you both," Cassandra said, seating herself with grace, though her spine remained rigid.
Alfonse poured her a cup of tea. "Then speak freely."
She glanced at them both, searching for understanding in their eyes. "Liraen told me what happened. About Lord Merek."
"We are aware," Alistar said. "And we've acted."
Alfonse tore a piece of bread and gestured toward her. "House Delmar is suspending all trade with House Avedane until they offer a formal, public apology. Effective immediately. Any caravans en route will be turned away at the border. Half the hall heard him, Cassandra. The slight was public; the answer must be, too."
Cassandra blinked. "That will cause ripples."
"Good," Alfonse said flatly. "Let it be known our blood cannot be insulted without consequence."
Alfonse's tone softened, though his words held weight. "This is about more than retaliation, Cassandra. You cannot let the words of petty men undermine your place."
Alistar leaned forward, expression firm. "You must be above this. If someone dares question your standing, let them see how far beneath you they are."
She looked down at her tea, the steam rising steadily.
"You will learn from it, in time, sister," Alfonse said gently. "But don't carry the shame—it isn't yours."
"And don't ever let it happen again," Alistar added, conviction in his voice.
"You're stronger than they think," Alfonse added. "A force to be reckoned with."
The door opened slowly. Leoleta stood in the doorway and quietly moved to his post beside the other servants.
"Yes, brother." Cassandra pushed her porridge around with the spoon and stared out of the large windows that looked out into an endless horizon. The early morning fog lingered above the water, thick and unmoving, as if the world itself held its breath.
"What happens now?" she asked softly, barely above a whisper. "Father is gone."
Her spoon stilled. "Who will be Duke now?"
The question hung in the air.
Alfonse set his cup down gently. "There's no formal announcement yet… and there won't be for another six months."
Cassandra looked up. "Why six months?"
"Because tradition demands it," Alfonse said. "When a head of house dies and there are twin heirs, the Heir's Game must be held."
Alistar leaned back, expression darkening. "It's an ancient custom—part academic, part martial. It always ends in a sword match."
"Even if one of us wished to forfeit, we can't," Alfonse added, his voice heavy. "Refusal is weakness—grounds for stripping the family of rank."
"Father despised it," Alistar muttered. "But even he didn't dare defy the Empire."
Cassandra's brows drew together. "So… you'll have to fight each other?"
Alfonse met her gaze. "Yes."
"And one of you will lose," she whispered.
Alfonse held her eyes. "Yes. But we will do this together. You are not just our sister—you are Delmar blood. That means something."
"We cannot escalate beyond what's measured," Alfonse added, eyes narrowing in thought. "Trade pressure, censure—no needless provocation."
Alistar's jaw tightened. "Caution is not the same as timidity."
A beat, then Alfonse inclined his head. "Nor is resolve the same as recklessness."
Cassandra watched the exchange pass like the shadow of a blade, swift and clean, and wondered how either could bear to lift a sword against the other.
Cassandra exhaled slowly, the weight of their words anchoring her. She turned back to the window. The fog had not yet lifted—but now, at least, she could see a little further.
Alfonse gently reached for her hand. "This doesn't concern you, Cass. The Heir's Game is between Alistar and I."
Alistar nodded. "You should focus on your future. You are nearing the end of your seventeenth year, almost eighteen—of age. You can choose your own path."
Alfonse offered her a tentative smile. "Would you like a private tutor? Perhaps to study abroad for a time? Father had contacts in Eridale and Galvenreach. You could learn politics or trade… maybe even the arts. Cassandra you have many talents"
Cassandra stared at them both. The warmth of their care was real—but it didn't soothe the cold truth sitting in her chest.
She looked down at her hands, then forced a small smile. "I may be of Delmar blood… but I'm still Cassandra Eostre in name. My place isn't in a noble council hall or Father's ledgers."
Her smile tilted, brittle at the edges. "More likely in some stranger's marriage contract."
The words hung there, light on her tongue but heavy in the silence that followed. She knew the reality of women in her position.
Alfonse's brow furrowed, his mouth parting to protest. "Cass—"
But Cassandra rose before he could finish, smoothing the folds of her dress as if the motion could erase the sting.
"Thank you," she said softly. "But I think I need some air."
Without waiting for permission, she stepped away from the table, leaving her porridge untouched.
Cassandra stepped into the corridor, her slippers barely making a sound on the cool stone floors. The fog outside still clung to the windows, pale and ghostly. She didn't have a destination in mind, only the need to move, to breathe beyond the suffocating weight of titles, traditions, and unspoken truths.
Behind her, another pair of footsteps echoed softly in tandem with her own.
Leoleta.
He didn't speak, didn't intrude. But she knew it was him. It always was.
She continued through the arching halls until the air grew cooler, scented with earth and dew. She stepped through a vine-covered archway and into the estate's private garden. Stone paths wound through trimmed hedges and flower beds, still wet with morning mist. Here, away from the world, the silence felt sacred.
Cassandra wandered to a bench beneath an old willow tree. She sat slowly, letting the stillness settle around her. The garden was built by her father. Took an entire summer, he told her to remind her the home she shared with her mother. It was her sanctuary.
She should have been thinking about the future—about tutors, foreign cities, political training. But all she could think about was how alone she felt in a house full of people who shared her blood.
And yet—she wasn't entirely alone.
Her gaze drifted, and there he was.
Leoleta stood a respectful distance away, watching the garden, not her. A silent guardian, as he had always been.
How many years had he served her family? How many times had she passed him in the corridors without a word? How many moments had he stood just like this—ready, waiting, and unnoticed?
Today, though, she truly looked at him—the way the early light caught in his dark hair, the quiet strength in his posture, the calm, unreadable expression that never wavered.
She rose, the hem of her dress whispering across the grass as she crossed the space between them. "Yesterday was the first time you and I truly exchanged words," she said softly, a laugh escaping her. "Beyond commands."
She hesitated, then added, "You've been at my side since I was a child, and yet I know nothing of you. Do you need my permission to speak?" Her tone lightened, almost teasing. "My station means nothing here."
Up close, details revealed themselves in fragments. His eyes first—deep, endless blue, ringed with vivid brightness, like the sky clearing after a storm. His lashes were long and dark, too delicate for a man carved by war.
Her gaze lingered on the scar, sharp and jagged like lightning, climbing from beneath his collar to the edge of his jaw. It cut across the quiet nobility of his bearing, tempered only by the small mole beneath his left eye—a reminder he was still human, not stone.
Cassandra's breath caught. He was striking in a way that didn't demand attention, but quietly held it all the same. The realization startled her
"My lady—" he cleared his throat, his voice lower than usual, a note of hesitation in it. "You've never withheld permission before."
The words startled her. Not just the dry humor, but that he had said them at all. For a heartbeat she blinked, caught between laughter and disbelief. Then, to her surprise, a smile spread across her lips.
"You jest," she whispered, as though testing the weight of it.
And though his posture remained rigid, she thought—just for a moment—that something flickered at the corner of his mouth.
She tilted her head, curiosity stirring. "So you can speak," she teased softly. "I wonder what else you're hiding from me. Tell me—how old are you, Sir Leo?"
He hesitated, drawing a slow breath as he straightened. "Twenty-three."
A pause stretched. Then, with a teasing lift of one brow, he added, "So casual now, are we? After a morning stroll and a few exchanged words?"
Cassandra blinked, startled—this was not the guard's voice she knew, but a man's, lighter, unarmored.
"Is this sudden familiarity because I saved your life, my lady?" he continued, amusement warming his tone. His voice carried low, like distant thunder rolling under clear sky—steady enough that the knot in her chest loosened without her permission.
She let out a breath of laughter—surprised, but not unwelcome.
"Maybe," she said, trying to meet his energy. "You did carry me out of the sea like some knight from an old tale."
He inclined his head, mock-solemn. "Then I suppose I've secured myself a place in your stories."
She glanced away, smiling faintly. "Don't get cocky, Sir Leo. That would call for more heroics."
"Of course not," he replied. Keeping his head bowed, he added, "I wouldn't dream of it."
Her smile softened, lingering for a moment before she drew in a slow breath. "I know you have a duty, Sir Leoleta," she said, her gaze flicking toward the corridor where Liraen was approaching. "But I need people I can trust—those who can be honest, themselves, when they are with me. Without the veil society forces on us."
Her voice dipped quieter, almost to herself. "I think I enjoyed this…"