The carriage rolled into WindMere just past noon, its wheels polished to a shine and its crest unmistakable — the Everhart sigil, etched in gold and arrogance. Townsfolk paused mid-step, eyes drawn to the velvet curtains and the gloved hand that parted them.
Elaine of House VireMont stepped out like she owned the sun.
Her gown shimmered with imported silk, layered in shades of rose and ivory. Pearls clung to her throat like promises, and her heels clicked against the cobblestones with practiced disdain. Behind her trailed Carmine — a quiet girl with downcast eyes and trembling hands, clutching a parasol she wasn't allowed to use for herself.
Elaine surveyed the town with a wrinkle in her nose. "It smells like bread and livestock," she muttered. "How quaint."
Carmine offered a soft, "Yes, my lady," but Elaine was already walking.
She didn't notice the way people stepped aside. She didn't care.
Her visit was ceremonial — a gesture of goodwill before the engagement announcement. Colden's name was already being whispered in noble circles, and soon, hers would be spoken beside it. She was to be his bride. His match. His crown.
She was not here to be impressed.
As they passed the inn, Marco stepped out with a tray of fresh rolls, brushing flour from his sleeves. His eyes met Elaine's for a moment — not out of defiance, but simple habit.
Elaine froze.
"You," she snapped, voice sharp as crystal. "Did you just look me in the eye?"
Marco blinked, confused. "I— I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean?" she echoed, stepping closer. "Do you know who I am?"
Carmine shifted nervously behind her, eyes darting to Marco in silent apology.
Elaine raised her fan — ivory, edged in gold — and struck Marco across the cheek with a force that silenced the street. The sound echoed, sharp and cruel. A red mark bloomed instantly.
"That," she said coldly, "is for your insolence."
Marco stood still, jaw clenched, eyes lowered now. Not out of respect — but restraint.
Elaine turned without another word, her heels clicking away as Carmine scrambled to follow.
Inside the inn, Colden watched from the shadows of the stairwell, fists clenched at his sides.
He had seen the mark. He had heard the words.
And for the first time in years, the weight of his name felt like a chain he could no longer ignore.