Greta slowly came to, her breathing heavy, her entire body aching like she'd just been dragged through a storm. Her eyes fluttered open, blinking a few times before finally adjusting. Soft candlelight flickered around the room, casting dancing shadows across the smooth wooden walls. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and balsam, warm, calming, but unfamiliar.
The bed beneath her was far too comfortable for some kind of emergency shelter. Crisp white sheets wrapped around her, and a thick blanket pressed gently against her chest. But that comfort did nothing to soothe the dread that crept in as her mind started catching up.
"Where... where am I…?" she whispered, her voice hoarse and dry.
Greta tried to sit up, but the moment she moved her leg, a sharp pain shot up from her right calf. She bit her lip, stifling a hiss. Pulling the blanket aside, she found her leg neatly bandaged. White gauze covered a wound she couldn't even remember getting.
Then it all came flooding back, like a storm tearing through her mind. Flashes of twisted faces. Three men. Rough hands grabbed her. Laughter that scraped her skin. The stench of booze and sweat. Her own screams. The panic. Her cries that went unheard. And then blackness. Not even the sound of West's neigh could be found in that void.
Gripping the blanket tight, Greta's body trembled. Tears welled up but she held them back. She was alive. But where?
With what little strength she had left, she turned toward the window beside the bed. The sheer curtain swayed with a soft breeze sneaking in through a crack. Outside, darkness loomed. Night had fallen. No bustling noise, no distant voices. Just an eerie, oppressive silence.
She bit down on her lip again, trying to smother her anxiety. This wasn't an inn. It wasn't her home. And worse, she was completely alone.
Or not.
Someone had dressed her wounds. Someone had lit the candles. Someone had brought her here.
Then the only door in the room creaked open.
A tall man stood in the doorway, striking even in the dim light. His clothes were still perfectly put together, not what you'd expect from someone at this late hour.
"I gotta say, I'm impressed," he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "A noble's daughter showing up in Eisthal all alone? No guards? No magic? Not even a charm to keep away beasts, or worse, the bastards I already slaughtered out there."
In the dark, Greta caught a glint in his eyes, red, glowing, like a predator locking eyes with its prey. And the aura rolling off him… something about it made her skin crawl. It felt like he wanted to devour her whole.
Her voice was shaky, but firm. "You're… Duke Matthias Von Ignaz, aren't you?"
He didn't answer. Just stared at her with that same unnerving grin, his eyes never leaving hers.
"This is unexpected," Greta murmured, shifting gears, trying another tone. "I was looking for you, and yet you're the one who ended up saving me."
No response. Instead, the Duke walked over to the table behind him, lifted a teapot, poured its contents into a porcelain cup, and handed it to her.
Greta didn't take it.
She just stared at the cup in his hand. That teapot hadn't been there earlier. And if it had been brought in by a maid, surely she would've noticed before Matthias entered.
"What's wrong? Afraid I poisoned the tea?" he teased, his voice dripping with amusement.
Greta looked up, meeting those glowing red eyes in the dim room.
Without waiting for a reply, Matthias took a slow sip from the cup himself. "See? I'm still breathing, aren't I?"
"I never said you poisoned it, Your Highness."
He smiled again. "You were smart enough to come here alone, risking your life in these frozen woods. That was bold. Suicidal, maybe. But bold."
Then, without warning, he spilled the rest of the tea onto the floor.
But what hit the ground wasn't tea.
The moment the liquid touched the polished floor, it hissed, like acid. Steam rose as the surface began to corrode, burning and melting away.
Greta's heart nearly stopped.
Her fingers gripped the sheet beneath her, shaking. Her vision blurred, mirroring the way the marble beneath him seemed to dissolve.
What the hell?! She thought in horror. He drank that. I saw him. But now it's melting the damn floor? What kind of tea does that?!
"But no one ever said you'd live just because you made it to Eisthal," he said coldly, before tossing the empty cup to the floor. It shattered with a sharp crack that echoed through the room.
"If you meant to kill me, why let me cross the border at all?" she snapped. "What am I to you, some kind of game? Did you drag me here just to break me down later?"
"Why would I bring you into my mansion just to kill you?"
"Then why serve me tea that could poison me?!"
Matthias didn't answer.
He just stared at her for a long, unreadable moment, then stepped forward.
His footsteps echoed softly against the marble floor. Greta sat at the edge of the bed, fists clenched, her spine straight. Fear tugged at her, but she forced herself to stay upright. Her breath caught unevenly, though she tried to steady it.
The Duke stopped in front of her, leaning in slightly—just enough to catch her eyes. She looked away for a heartbeat, then snapped her gaze back, refusing to yield.
His presence pressed down like a shadow, cold yet controlled. Dangerous, but not wild—quiet in a way that unsettled her more than open rage ever could.
He bent closer, not touching her, only letting the silence stretch. Greta froze, her heart pounding so loud it felt like the walls could hear it.
Matthias sat beside her, the space between them almost nonexistent. His fingers trailed down her arm, like he was handling something fragile. Greta wanted to pull away, but her body wouldn't move. Fear anchored her in place.
"No need to be afraid," he murmured, his voice low and unreadable. "I'm not going to hurt you."
But it didn't sound like a promise. It sounded like a warning.
He kissed her forehead, light, almost like a breeze.
But instead of warmth, she felt a chill crawl down her spine. Like every barrier she'd built to protect herself had just collapsed.
That kiss wasn't harsh. In fact, it was unexpectedly gentle for a man with such a fearsome reputation. And maybe that was what unsettled her most—how soft he could be.
Because every touch carried meaning. Not affection, not cruelty, but something she couldn't quite name.
Greta bit her lip, eyes closing briefly. She refused to break, even as her chest tightened.
Matthias stayed silent.
He simply watched her, as though trying to read an emotion she herself couldn't put into words.
And she realized, no matter how steady her outward composure appeared, something within her had shifted—subtle, confusing, but undeniable.
"A second life, Lady Greta Albrecht Von Meier," he murmured at last, his voice low but calm, "isn't it strange… how it begins to change you?"