The Borgia Palace, a breathtaking proof of regal opulence wrapped in glacial splendor, does not draw its coldness from frost or snow, but from the very essence of its design.
This palace is not carved from ice, yet everything within it radiates an otherworldly chill—an elegant stillness, a silence too vast and reverent to be anything but awe-inspiring.
The grand hall stretches like a cathedral of stars. Vaulted ceilings arch high above in flawless symmetry, painted with deep celestial blues that mimic the night sky in winter, complete with glimmers of starlight embedded within like constellations.
Each arch is flanked by towering pillars of veined marble, so pale and polished they resemble columns carved from moonlight itself. Gilded capitals crown each one, their golden leaf accents glowing against the muted cold of the stone.
Cascading chandeliers of crystalline grandeur hang from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls. Each is layered with hundreds of prisms that catch and scatter the warm amber light of thousands of flickering candles, making the chandeliers look like golden stars suspended in time. The glow, though gentle, adds no warmth—only splendor.
The walls are sheathed in polished obsidian and sapphire-lacquered panels, seamlessly embedded with glowing motifs—constellations, frost-kissed vines, and glimmering aurora-like tracery.
Between the arches, mirrored alcoves and shadowed galleries reflect the light in fractured brilliance, exaggerating space and illusion, making the palace feel both endless and intimate.
"We're going to sleep in one room. I'm not using two rooms for us," Roxanne said as she set her bag down near the edge of the large, sun-drenched bed.
Vivianne blinked, a little startled. It wasn't an unusual thing for nobles to have separate sleeping quarters. In fact, it was expected. Most noble couples only shared a room when their rut or heat made it necessary. Even in her past life, when she was married to Dietrich, she had always had her own room, her own bed, and her own silence.
"Why?" She asked, her voice quiet but curious, her fingers brushing the fine stitching on the bedsheet.
Roxanne turned to face her, her expression warm but serious. "Because I don't want to be apart from you when I sleep," she said, as though the answer was simple and needed no further explanation.
There is no hesitation in her voice. No trace of the cold calculation Vivianne had become so used to in her old life. Roxanne's words were not a demand or a command. They were just honest. She looked at Vivianne like she had no intention of pretending. No intention of hiding her desire to be close.
Vivianne looked away, her heart beating faster than it should. She wasn't used to this kind of closeness. Not without strings. Not without expectation. She wanted to say something clever or lighthearted, but nothing came.
Roxanne stepped closer, not pressing, just near enough for her warmth to be felt. "I sleep better when you're with me," she added softly. "And I want to wake up and see you there."
Vivianne swallowed, not knowing how to answer. It felt like both too much and not enough. But she nodded slowly, trying to ignore the flutter in her chest that came not from fear but from the unfamiliar ache of being wanted. She's not used to it, because Dietrich in the past was never treating her like such.
As the heavy double doors creaked open, Vivianne stepped hesitantly into the room, her breath catching in her throat. The air was cool, touched by the winter wind that whispered through the high arches of stone, but the space itself radiated a kind of warmth that had nothing to do with fire.
"This…" she murmured, unable to finish her sentence as her eyes wandered across the bedroom.
Roxanne said nothing at first. She simply stepped beside Vivianne, watching her take it all in. The room was built like a sanctuary carved from winter itself—towering gothic arches framed an endless view of snow-covered mountains and pine forests beyond the open balcony. Thick snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, settling gently on the outer stone ledge before melting away.
Their bed, placed at the heart of it all, was something out of a fairy tale. Carved from pale wood, it was grand yet inviting, draped in layers of plush fur that shimmered silver under the soft glow of candlelight.
The headboard was intricately detailed with swirling patterns and symbols from an ancient noble lineage, and the bedding was done in shades of ivory and storm-gray, each piece stitched with care and wealth.
Roxanne watched Vivianne's stunned expression, then said softly, "This is ours."
Vivianne looked back at the bed, at the snow falling behind it like a dream. The room felt sacred, not just in its beauty, but in what it meant. A shared space. A chosen closeness. Not something bound by tradition, but something made by intent.
A faint blush rose on Vivianne's cheeks as she stepped toward the bed, her fingers grazing the soft fur throw that draped over it like freshly fallen snow. It was impossibly warm to the touch, a stark contrast to the winter air that slipped in from the open arches.
"It's warm," she whispered, her voice quiet, like the moment might vanish if she spoke too loudly.
Roxanne stood just behind her, watching her with a softness rarely seen in the sharp lines of nobility. "It's yours," she said, her voice low and steady. "Everything in here is ours. You don't have to be alone anymore, Vivianne."
Vivianne turned slightly, her eyes searching Roxanne's with something between gratitude and disbelief. "Thank you, your—"
Before she could finish, Roxanne reached out and gently placed two fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face upward. "No, 'your grace,'" she murmured. "Call me by my name."
Vivianne barely had time to breathe before Roxanne silenced the rest of her words with a kiss—soft, deliberate, and claiming. It isn't rushed, but it held weight. It spoke of promises that didn't need ceremony, only sincerity.
When she finally pulled back, Roxanne's voice dropped even lower, the edge of a smirk playing on her lips. "You look like you were made for my bed."
Then, as if correcting herself—though her gaze never wavered—she added, "Our bed."
Vivianne raised an eyebrow, her smile curling slowly as she stepped even closer, the silken fabric of her gown brushing against Roxanne's. "Is that how you want me to be on the bed? This early?" she teased, her voice smooth and low, almost daring, as she wrapped her arms gently around Roxanne's neck.
Roxanne blinked, momentarily caught between confidence and the nervous flutter in her chest. "Does it work?" she asked, a little sheepishly, her fingers instinctively settling on Vivianne's waist.
Vivianne leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched, her smile softening into something more tender. "It does," she whispered, letting her nose nuzzle against Roxanne's before pressing a featherlight kiss to the corner of her mouth.
Roxanne's breath hitched as Vivianne's fingers played gently with the ends of her hair, their faces so close that every shared breath felt like a quiet promise. The flicker of candlelight cast soft shadows over the carved stone walls, wrapping the entire room in a golden hush that felt almost sacred.
Vivianne's hands slid from Roxanne's neck to her shoulders, then down her arms, slow and careful, as if learning her for the first time. "You feel real," she whispered. "I didn't think I'd ever have this... someone choosing me, like this."
"Because I'm real," Roxanne said quietly, her voice thick with emotion.
Vivianne's lips trembled, her eyes glimmering like glass touched by snowlight. She leaned in again, this time not to tease, not to test, but simply to be close. Their lips met, not with urgency, but with quiet reverence—like a secret shared in a silent room.
They moved together toward the bed, steps slow, almost hesitant, but their hands never parting. Roxanne eased Vivianne onto the soft furs with a gentleness that made her chest ache, then joined her there, lying face-to-face, their foreheads touching again.