(Third POV)
"My Lord, Lady Evandelle wishes to have an audience with you."
Kael didn't even look up from his desk. His quill scraped steadily across parchment, the tip tapping lightly when he paused to think. The candlelight framed him in muted gold — all sharp lines, patience worn thin, authority balanced on restraint.
"Decline it," he said finally, calm but clipped. "Tell her I'm occupied."
The guard hesitated. "My Lord, she—"
Whatever came next was cut off by the slam of the double doors bursting open.
"Occupied with what?" Zelene's voice cut through the quiet like sunlight through glass. "Brooding?"
Kael froze mid-sentence.
For a long second, no one spoke. The guards at the door stood... very still.
His sigh was almost theatrical. He leaned back slowly, hand rising to his temple. "Now, what did you do to them?"
Zelene smiled sweetly, stepping past the unmoving guards. "Nothing fatal. Just placed them to sleep for a while. They looked tired."
Kael pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lady Evandelle, this is my office, not your training ground."
"Then maybe don't make it so easy to walk into." She looked around, curious eyes scanning the space.
The room was pristine — neat rows of documents, shelves lined with military maps and books worn from use. The scent of parchment and faint iron lingered. Everything was symmetrical, ordered. Predictable.
"Your handwriting is surprisingly elegant," Zelene murmured, eyeing the open ledger on his desk. "And this desk—gods, you could perform surgery on it. Not a speck of dust anywhere."
He gave her a flat look. "I don't take pride in chaos."
"That explains your personality," she muttered under her breath.
Kael arched a brow. "I heard that."
"I hoped you would."
He exhaled through his nose, that faint twitch of amusement betraying him before he could hide it. "What do you want, Lady Evandelle?"
She leaned against the corner of his desk. "You've been avoiding me."
"I've been working."
"That's a convenient overlap."
"You truly don't understand the meaning of privacy."
"Not when someone's hiding something interesting."
Their gazes met — the kind of silence where neither would back down.
And then — a knock broke the moment.
"Enter," Kael called, sounding far more composed than he looked.
A man stepped inside — tall, broad-shouldered, with silver-streaked hair tied at his nape and the quiet confidence of someone who'd seen too many battlefields. His name was Commander Darius Vale, Kael's right hand and Dravenhart's most trusted soldier.
"My Lord," Darius said, bowing slightly before noticing Zelene. His gaze flicked to her, then back to Kael. "I can return later."
"It's fine," Kael said. "Proceed."
Darius hesitated. "Are you sure? The report concerns the capital... and the northern front."
Zelene straightened slightly, curious. The shift in Kael's expression didn't go unnoticed — his jaw tightening just barely.
"I said proceed," Kael repeated, tone softer now. Permission. Trust.
"As you wish." Darius unrolled a small parchment. "There's been movement in the north — the border skirmishes are worsening. Our scouts confirm Dravenhart's forces are being requested to reinforce the High Court's command... again."
Zelene blinked. "Again?"
Darius hesitated. Kael motioned for him to continue.
"The capital's council expects your support, my Lord. But..." He looked uncomfortable. "They haven't offered any of their own."
Zelene frowned. "Wait—so Dravenhart fights the wars, but the capital takes the credit?"
Kael didn't answer. His gaze stayed on the parchment — unreadable.
Darius cleared his throat. "It's as you said, my Lord. The council holds the law, but Dravenhart holds the blade."
That silence spoke louder than anything else.
Zelene's stomach twisted. She looked between them — the man who ruled with strategy, and the system that used him as a weapon.
She'd always assumed the Dravenhart line was one of influence, power, prestige — not this... quiet servitude wrapped in fear and blood.
When Darius finished his report, Kael gave a simple nod. "Prepare the men. I'll send my response by dawn."
"Yes, my Lord." Darius gave a curt bow, then glanced at Zelene one last time before leaving. There was something in his eyes — not distrust, but pity. For her, maybe.
When the door closed, silence returned. Heavy, loaded.
Zelene finally spoke. "You're telling me all this time, Dravenhart has no voice in court?"
Kael's eyes lifted to hers, weary but steady. "We were never meant to speak. Only to fight."
"That's... barbaric."
"It's balance," he said simply. "They write the laws. We make sure the borders don't burn."
She stepped closer. "And you're fine with that?"
"No." A muscle in his jaw shifted. "But I'm used to it."
Zelene exhaled slowly, her anger tempered by the quiet sadness that lingered behind his words. "That's not something to get used to."
His gaze softened, if only for a moment. "You'd make a terrible noble, Lady Evandelle."
"I've been told."
He smiled faintly — that fleeting, rare thing that didn't reach his eyes but changed the air all the same.
For the first time since she'd arrived, Zelene saw him not as a Duke, not as a cursed heir — but as a man holding together a kingdom that didn't want to see him rise.
And it made her wonder — what else had the world demanded he endure in silence?
---
(Zelene's POV)
Night settled over Dravenhart like a held breath. I found myself awake long after the lamps had guttered and the keep sank into that particular hush that made even the portraits seem conspiratorial. I paced the span of my chamber once, twice, and finally went to the window. The courtyard below was a black lattice of stone and iron — and somewhere inside those walls, the quiet life Kael described was being lived out of sight and vote.
Why would a court silence a house that wielded the actual power of the realm? The question replayed itself until the logic behind it opened up like a map under my fingers. Law and rhetoric are fragile things; swords and banners are blunt. If the council gets to claim the moral high ground while Dravenhart does the dirty work, they keep the favor of nobles and the king without the stain of blood. Give the court the voice, give the swords the burden — maintain the balance. Keep the soldiers respected but socially voiceless. Keep them necessary, but never charming.
It felt orchestrated. Cruel, but effective. And if that was true, then being bound to Kael by name alone was a brittle, temporary protection. If the marriage meant anything real, it needed an entire other life built around it — not just a legal contract but a social one.
I slept badly, and the plan took shape in the margins of my exhaustion: not subterfuge or scandal, but a deliberate, visible elevation of Dravenhart's place in the social world. Make them want the Dravenharts to be more than swords.
I did not expect him to be anywhere near agreeable.
The next morning, I found Kael in the smaller council chamber — not the grand office, but the room where fewer guests would notice his absences. He looked up as I walked in; there was that acute alertness in him, the kind you get from someone used to being interrupted by trouble rather than pleasantries.
"Lord Dravenhart," I said lightly. "Busy?"
"Always," he replied. "Have one reason or another. Make it quick."
This was how it began: me, undeterred; him, distracted and efficient.
"I have a proposal," I told him, and watched the micro-reaction — a tightening at his mouth, that piston of suspicion. "Think of it as offensive diplomacy."
He folded his arms. "I'm not fond of offensive anything involving my name."
"Of course you are," I said. "But listen. You have military strength and reputation for victories. You do not have social capital. The court, the merchants, the salons — they don't know the man behind the blade. That's a problem when you inherit a title. They respect what kills them, but they won't defend what they don't like. If we're to make this marriage protect you and make the Evandelles safer, we need the appearance of a real, happy union. Public warmth. Shared patronage. Invitations, displays, house alliances. Controlled theatrics— "
Kael let out a single, blunt line: "Yeah — no thanks."
I didn't blink. I'd expected worse. "You can say more than no," I said, using my most reasonable tone. "Tell me why you refuse and I'll tell you why it's necessary."
He stared at me for a long moment, then a low sound came from him — half a scoff, half resignation. "Because this is vulgar. Because I'm not an actor. Because if they see me smiling to keep them sweet, they'll smell leverage and stab anyway. And because I will not be reduced to a performance for men who would gladly use me."
I folded my hands calmly. "All true. All dangerous. Which is why the plan isn't about performing weakness — it's about reframing strength. Listen to the pros, then the cons."
He gave me one of those looks that said do it, meaning humor me.
I drew a breath and laid it out, precise as a docket.
"Pros:
• Social Buffer — If Dravenhart has visible, voluntary social ties across courts, it becomes politically costly for the council to cut them off; removing your house becomes removing a social center, not just a military arm.
• Narrative Control — If we stage a believable marriage, we control the script. Public displays of unity make dissent look like personal spite rather than political cunning.
• Economic Reach — Joint patronage of guilds, charities, and festivals ties merchants and financiers to our household; their interests will defend the alliance.
• Personal Insurance — The more the realm believes in this union, the more personal enemies will hesitate. You cease being a sword alone and become a house with kin and obligations.
• Leverage — Visible goodwill gives us leverage in private negotiations; it buys time to groom allies within the Council."
He listened, all shuttered attention. When I paused he said, "Sounds like you want to make a stage out of my life."
"Stage, shield, or scaffolding," I answered. "Pick your word."
Then I turned the page.
"Cons:
• Exposure — staged affection creates visibility. If your vulnerability shows, our enemies will see it too.
• Performance Risk — any slip — a real argument, a genuine illness, a moment that betrays the rehearsed script — could be used as evidence of fracture.
• Loss of privacy — you'll be watched by sycophants and spies alike.
• Emotional labor — you'll have to look a way you probably don't feel, and that takes energy you might prefer to spend elsewhere.
• It may not change minds — some will always prefer to keep you voiceless and useful."
Kael's face darkened at the list of cons. It was honest, and I wanted him to see that honesty. He could argue with any of the points; I wanted him to judge them and thereby begin to own the solution.
"You want me to pretend," he said finally, "and the court to pretend with us. You want them to lie to themselves so they stop lying about us."
"If the choice is pretense that buys safety and opportunity or truth that invites exploitation, I pick pretense," I said. "For as long as I'm useful and alive, I will use whatever is needed."
He rubbed his forehead. The muscles in his jaw worked like a machine. "And you think a marriage — a show — will change centuries of balance?"
"No," I said. "But it changes optics. Optics can make kings and councils hesitate. It can give you allies who sit in salons rather than barracks. It gives us openings."
He was silent for so long I thought the room might swallow him. Then, unexpectedly, he gave a small, humorless laugh. "You think like a Duke when you want to. It's unnerving."
"That is my secret talent," I answered.
He stood, walked to the window, and stared out at the gray hills as if weighing the air itself. When he finally turned back to me his expression was not softened, but more complex.
"This is dangerous," he said. "You understand that, I hope. Not because of courtly snakes alone, but because what you propose will make you vulnerable too. The enemy does not take kindly to being made inconvenient."
"I know." I put my hands on the table, palms steady. "And if it means I risk being used politically, I accept that risk differently than you. I will be conspicuous by choice, not by captivity. We make them choose whether to fear the sword or the house that wields it."
He watched me for a long time. Then, in a voice that was half-offer, half-challenge, he said, "One trial. One event. A public feast in the city. We'll make it a charitable patronage — something that ties Dravenhart to the merchants. If they pull the sting, we retreat. If they bite, we expand."
I almost laughed with relief. "You'll do one event?"
"You didn't think I'd agree without terms, did you?" His mouth twitched. "I'm not reckless."
"Nor am I," I said. "We'll script it finesse-first. No ridiculous declarations of love. Simple — appearances of warmth, joint patronage pledges, recognizable allies in attendance."
He folded his arms. "You set the list. I will approve the attendees."
"Deal," I said.
He considered me, and there it was — for a heartbeat — an impression of something like respect. "For what it's worth, Lady Evandelle, I did not think you would be the kind to plan a campaign of courtly espionage through feasts and flowers."
"Don't underestimate a girl who grew up learning to read people instead of swords," I answered. "And don't worry — I'll teach you the language of salons. You'll be a terror in polite society in no time."
He allowed the ghost of a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Terror in silks," he muttered. "I suppose worse fates exist."
We set a date — a small feast three weeks out. Scoped to be public enough to be noticed but controlled enough to be contained if it went wrong. He instructed Darius to prepare logistical security; I would draft the invitations and the list of merchant houses to approach. We argued, negotiated, and bristled like old hands. It felt oddly like a treaty; each line we drew was a promise and a risk.
When I left his chamber, the keep felt different. Not safer. Not sleeker. But there was motion now — a plan with teeth, and both of us had agreed to risk a little of ourselves for the sake of leverage.
For the first time since the announcement, I felt the court's silence as something to be moved, not merely endured. And Kael — with all his shadows and curses — had agreed to step into a room full of polite enemies with me at his side.