The door to Cassandra's chamber closed with a muted click. Leoleta exhaled, jaw tight, hand brushing the hilt at his side. The fire's warmth clung to him, but it did nothing to ease the knot in his chest. He had seen her slip from the ballroom earlier, her figure lingering on the gallery, but he had held his post instead of following. His hesitation gnawed at him now. He had missed the signs—her silence at the feast, the way her hand lingered on her pendant. It would not happen again.
He descended the spiral stair to his quarters, one floor below hers. His coat was soaked through, boots heavy with sand and salt. If he walked the halls like this, whispers would spread by morning. He stripped quickly, muttering under his breath. The damp fabric dried in his hands, the chill seared away with a ripple of neutral heat. No lightning—never lightning. Only simple magic, clean and discreet. He changed into a fresh tunic, belted his sword, and forced his posture straight. When he stepped back into the corridor, he looked as he should: unshaken, untouched.
Duty demanded he make his rounds. Boots steady against stone he knew by heart, he paced the estate's long halls. Tonight, the walls felt heavier, the storm lingering in the air. To the guests, Delmar's keep was a palace of wealth. To him, it was a fortress dressed in velvet. To Cassandra, he knew, it was a cage. He had seen her retreat to gardens, balconies, even the sea itself. He had not grasped how deep the fracture ran.
At the western windows, he paused, counting waves until his thoughts steadied. Still, unease coiled in him. Cassandra was cautious, never reckless. What had driven her into the night?
Whispers gave him his answer. Two servants lingered in an alcove, unaware he was near.
"…Lord Merek of House Avedane made such a scene," one said.
"Poor Lady Cassandra, he made such a fuss over her mother's pendant, and that slight? Goodness."
Leoleta raked a hand through his hair— how did he miss that? It was not grief alone that had sent her into the tide—someone had pressed the wound.
He turned away before they noticed him. There was work to be done.
At the heirs' study, he knocked once.
"Enter," came Alistar's voice, rough with fatigue.
Inside, the room bore the look of a battlefield fought with ink and paper. Ledgers lay in precarious stacks, letters sealed and unsealed in half-sorted piles. Wax cooled in broken droplets across the desk. The twins stood out like statues carved from the same marble but finished by different hands.
Alfonse, seated behind the ledger, leaned forward, sleeves rolled, hair swept back from his brow with practiced precision. His hazel eyes were sharp but weary, calculating the shape of every word before it left his mouth. He was beautiful in the way their late Duchess had been, every feature deliberate, poised—yet exhaustion tugged faint shadows beneath his eyes.
Alistar, by contrast, could not sit. He paced the hearth like a storm bottled into a man, jaw set, dark eyes sparking with unrest. His chin-length hair fell untamed around his face, his resemblance to their late father undeniable in the hard lines of his jaw. He carried the Delmar fire too openly, emotion spilling where reason faltered.
Between them stood Henrik Dastrel, First Secretary of House Delmar. Ink stained his fingertips, and silver streaked his neatly combed hair, but his bearing was that of a man used to standing at a duke's shoulder. He held a ledger open against one palm, spectacles perched low, his voice the steadying line between two brothers.
"My lords," Leoleta said with a bow. "I have an incident report regarding Lady Cassandra."
Alistar stopped pacing, eyes sharp. "Go on."
"Lord Merek denounced her presence tonight. Called it a disgrace. He mocked her pendant as an insult before others."
Alfonse's brow tightened. He sat up straighter, wine forgotten. "That pompous bastard."
Alistar's fists clenched. "And none told us during the ball?" His voice rose hot. "Not one of those cowards spoke?"
Leoleta inclined his head. "Several guests witnessed it, including household staff. They can testify. Lady Cassandra should not be pressed for her account."
A silence hung, broken only by the crackle of the hearth.
Henrik cleared his throat, calm but firm. "The insult was undeniable. Yet what troubles me more is the silence that followed. Not a single noble chose to speak on your behalf — a silence that carries its own weight."
Alistar cursed under his breath, resuming his pacing. "Then we answer. Strip Avedane of their docking rights. Or better—send him back his own words with steel."
Henrik closed the ledger softly. "Retaliation must be measured. Docking rights will rouse the guilds. Steel will rouse the court. You will have no allies left by morning. Better we begin with inquiry. Quiet investigation. Find which houses echoed his words and which only listened. Then you will know where to press."
Alfonse rubbed his brow, voice tight. "You suggest we wait."
"I suggest," Henrik said evenly, "you act in ways that do not weaken Velastra. A response is required—yes. But not one that costs more than it gains."
Alistar muttered, "Caution is cowardice."
Henrik met his gaze without flinching. "Boldness wins battles, but it is caution that preserves a house. Your father walked with care, making few enemies — and he never drew the emperor's gaze."
That cut sharper than any reprimand. Alistar looked away, chest heaving.
Alfonse's fingers tapped against the ledger. "We investigate first. Quietly. If others whispered while Merek shouted, I will know. When we answer, it will be with precision, not noise."
Henrik inclined his head, the barest smile ghosting his lips. "Wise, my lord."
Henrik inclined his head, the barest smile ghosting his lips. "Wise, my lord."
Then, turning slightly, he addressed the knight who had stood silent through it all. "Your report was thorough, Sir Leoleta. You have our gratitude. You are dismissed."
The words carried the weight of courtesy, yet to Leoleta they rang of distance—a reminder of where he stood, and where he did not.
Leoleta inclined his head in turn, the movement crisp, measured. He was not their counselor, not their secretary. His silence was necessary; it was not his place to share his opinions. Yet as he bowed and turned to leave, Cassandra's pale face lingered in his thoughts.
He was loyal to Cassandra Eostre of House Delmar. The young lords might claim the name, but their whims carried no weight with him. The Delmar sigil carved above these halls was no compass he followed. His charge was singular, unshakable. Cassandra.
Later, in his quarters beneath her chamber, he set his sword within reach and sank into the chair by his window. The twin moons flickered through restless clouds, casting silver over the sea. The estate was quiet now, but not at ease.
He told himself duty kept him awake. He almost believed it.