"You would do better to seek mercy from the Grand Duke, Mademoiselle, since the jewels were found in your home," the chief commissioner told me.
His tone tried to be sympathetic, but it sounded like a death knell in my ears. I sat across from him in that office, a cramped room that smelled of cold tobacco, old paper, and the bitter sweat of desperate people. The walls seemed to lean in toward me, gray and suffocating. I had spent the last hour begging until I lost every bit of dignity I owned. I spoke of justice, of honor, and the simple truth that my father could barely walk across a room. I told him that Leo was just a boy who still dreamed of wooden toys. But the man remained firm, his eyes fixed on a stack of official reports.
If the Duke did not withdraw his complaint, my father, my brother, and Arthur would stay in prison. The law was a deaf machine, and Alaric held the levers. My father, whose chest rattled with every breath, would not survive a week in a damp stone cell. The moisture in the air would fill his lungs until he drowned on dry land. Leo was just a child whose soul would be ruined by the bars and the shadows of men much darker than him. And Arthur... the thought of him in chains because of me made my chest ache with a dull, constant pain that no medicine could cure.
I wiped my tears with a rough hand, the skin of my palm feeling like sandpaper against my cheek. I was determined not to break before I tried everything. Leaving the station, the cool morning air bit at my face, but it could not clear the tightness in my lungs. I spent the whole morning wandering near the prison walls. The stones were black and weeping with grime. I begged the guards at the gate to let me in, to let me bring a wool blanket or a piece of fresh bread for the sick man inside. They refused. They looked at me with a cold, flat indifference. They treated me like a leper, the daughter and fiancé of thieves.
By noon, my legs were trembling from exhaustion. I had eaten nothing. I walked through the village streets, feeling the eyes of the neighbors on my back. Some turned away. Others whispered behind their hands. I felt the weight of their judgment like stones in my pockets.
The sun began its slow crawl behind the hills, staining the town in a bloody, orange light as I finally reached the gates of the Duchy. This place, which used to be a sanctuary of roses and fountains where I felt safe, looked like an iron fortress tonight. The shadows of the tall oaks stretched across the gravel like long, thin fingers reaching for me. I took the back door, the servants' entrance I had used a thousand times, but Mrs. Clara was there. She stopped me instantly, her body blocking the way.
"What are you doing here, Lydia?" she asked.
Her voice was a whip, snapping in the quiet of the hallway. Her gaze, once merely strict and demanding, was now full of a deep contempt. She looked at me with disgust, her lips curled as if she smelled something rotting. News travels fast in a palace; she already knew about the arrest and the gold. To her, I was no longer the talented gardener who knew the names of every flower. I was an accomplice to criminals who dared to rob the man who gave us work.
"I... I came to see the Duke. Please, Mrs. Clara," I said, bowing low.
I tried to keep my composure despite my wrinkled clothes, the dirt under my fingernails, and my eyes which were red and swollen. I felt small under her stare.
"Go away! He is far too busy to receive people of your kind!" she snapped.
She turned her back on me with a total indifference that felt like a slap. I reached out to touch her sleeve, a desperate move that I regretted the moment I did it.
"Please... just a few minutes. My father is sick, and my brother..." My voice caught in my throat, a sob threatening to break through.
"That is enough! Your family business is none of my concern. You have no dignity, coming here to cry after what your people did to this house."
I felt the world tilting. I was ready to collapse onto the gravel path, to let the darkness take me, when a silhouette stepped out of the gallery's shadow.
"Leave her alone, Clara," a calm, commanding voice said.
It was the Duke's personal assistant. He was a man known for being as quiet as he was efficient, a ghost who moved through the palace with no sound. Mrs. Clara turned, her shoes clicking on the stone like gunshots. She looked ready to argue, but the man's flat, empty look silenced her. He did not look at me with pity. He did not look at me with hate. He simply looked at me as if I were a task to be completed.
"Follow me, Mademoiselle. Next time, make an appointment before sunset," he added.
His neutral tone felt like the greatest kindness I had received all day. I followed him through the hallways of the castle, my footsteps echoing on the marble. It felt like an eternity. Every painting on the walls, every marble statue of a dead hero seemed to judge me as I passed. We climbed the grand staircase, the gold leaf on the railings glinting in the candlelight. We finally reached a massive double door of carved oak. The butler knocked, received a muffled permission, and stepped aside. He did not follow me in. The click of the lock behind me sounded like the bolt of a cage closing.
The office was drowned in long shadows, lit only by a few candles and the dying, purple light of dusk. The air smelled of expensive wax and old books. Before me, Alaric sat behind his massive desk. With a wine glass in his hand, he seemed to be waiting for me. His face was a mask of terrifying stillness, his features carved from the same cold stone as the statues outside.
I bowed so low I felt as though I would never stand straight again. I stared at the pattern of the rug, waiting for him to speak.
"Good evening, Your Grace," I whispered.
The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. It pressed against my ears until they rang. I felt his eyes crawl over my body, stripping away every defense I had left until I felt completely exposed. A cold shiver ran down my spine; the intensity of his gaze was a freezing burn that started at my toes and moved to my heart. Alaric wore a white silk shirt, half-unbuttoned at the throat, showing the glint of a thin gold chain against his dark, muscular chest. His dark trousers were perfectly tailored, marking the power in his long legs. His black hair, usually so neat and controlled, was slightly messy, giving him a wild, predatory look that made my breath hitch. His grey eyes, sharp as steel blades, watched me with a hunger that shook me to my core.
He rose slowly from his chair, moving with the grace of a hunter who has already caught his prey. He walked around the desk toward me. His gait was feline and smooth, yet it leaked a raw power that made me instinctively want to step back into the wood of the door. He stopped at a distance that was indecently close. He was a wall of heat and muscle standing over me. His warm breath brushed my forehead, smelling of dark grapes and danger.
"Lydia," he murmured.
His voice was deep and low, vibrating through the room like distant thunder. It was a sound that demanded I listen, that I submit.
"To what do I owe the honor of your visit? Have you finally realized you have nowhere else to go? That no one in this world will lift a finger to help a family of thieves?"
He stepped even closer, his body almost brushing mine. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin through the thin silk of his shirt. The scent of expensive wine and woodsy cologne filled my senses, making my head swim. My heart went wild, hammering against my ribs like a bird in a rusted trap. I could feel the hot blood rushing to my face, not from shame this time, but from the sheer weight of his presence.
He reached out, his long fingers grazing my jaw. He was not gentle, but he was not rough. He tilted my face up so I had no choice but to look at him, to see the darkness in his eyes. His skin was hot against mine, and for a moment, the world outside—the prison, the debt, the mud, the crying of my brother—all vanished. There was only him.