"My lady, are you okay?"
The voice came softly, like a whisper caught on the breeze. Behind Saoirse, Aliya approached with careful steps, almost in a tiptoe, her hands folded respectfully in front of her apron. Her eyes, wide and warm, drifted instinctively to the now-empty courtyard where the last echoes of horses' hooves were fading into the distance. The gates had closed, tall and unforgiving, sealing the estate—and her lady's heart—within its quiet walls.
Saoirse did not turn right away. She stood by the arched window, the soft light of early afternoon catching the strands of her hair, turning them into threads of amber and ash. Her fingers, delicate and pale, brushed down the cold surface of the glass—tracing the place where Fenris had just stood moments ago, as though her touch could summon him back.
There was a long pause, then her voice, thin and trembling, filled the silence.
"Honestly, I'm not," she said at last, and her breath fogged slightly against the glass, a fleeting cloud that vanished before it could linger.
Aliya said nothing. She simply lowered her gaze, giving her mistress the space to speak freely, as she had always done since they were girls together in the sunlit gardens of the Raven estate—before war, before titles, before duty twisted their paths.
"I didn't expect this marriage to prosper," Saoirse admitted, her voice laced with an ache that went deeper than disappointment. "I truly didn't. Not when I knew it was all for convenience… for status… for debts and contracts written before I even knew what love was." She let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but there was no humor in it—only sadness. "Even my gown felt more like parchment than silk. A signature written in thread."
She turned then, slowly, her expression open and unguarded in a way only Aliya had ever seen.
"But still…" Saoirse's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "Deep down, I hoped. I don't know when it started, maybe when I first saw him ride through the gates. Or maybe when I overheard the maids whispering about his valor in battle—how brave he was, how noble. I began to imagine he might be kind, too. That maybe… just maybe… he'd look at me and see more than a duty."
Aliya's brows pulled together gently, her heart twisting for her lady.
"Because marriages," Saoirse continued, voice cracking, "they're supposed to be sacred, aren't they? A union forged with love. That's what the priest said. That's what the stories promised me when I was a girl holding your hand and dreaming of veils and garlands and kisses beneath moonlight." Her arms folded against her chest, hugging herself, as if trying to hold together the broken pieces that threatened to scatter with every word.
"I knew I was marrying a stranger," she whispered, "but I still prayed that, in time, he'd become something more."
Aliya stepped forward then, slowly, gently placing her hand on Saoirse's arm. "You are not wrong to hope, my lady. Hope… isn't a weakness. It's a strength. Only those with soft hearts can carry it, even when the world tries to harden them."
Saoirse's lips trembled, but she smiled faintly through the pain.
"It's strange," she murmured. "He didn't say goodbye. Not a word. Not even a glance." She turned her eyes once more to the now-empty window. "And yet I stood there like a fool, waiting… believing I'd be something he'd want to remember."
Aliya squeezed her arm with quiet affection. "He may be brave in battle, but he is a coward in the heart."
For a long moment, the two stood in silence. Outside, the wind had shifted, carrying the scent of early spring—a cruel reminder that the world would go on, indifferent to broken hopes and unspoken farewells.
Finally, Saoirse blinked back the tears and drew a slow, steady breath. "He left with his men," she said softly. "Then I must learn to live with mine."
Aliya bowed her head gently, silently vowing she would not leave Saoirse's side. The air inside the manor was still, but outside the breeze stirred the budding branches, rustling against the glass like gentle knocking.
And then—there it was.
A flash of movement at the far end of the gravel path. Hooves clattered against stone as a lone rider approached the gates with purposeful speed.
Saoirse caught sight of him even before he was announced—still standing at the arched window, her fingers ghosting along the cold glass. Her brows furrowed slightly. The royal crest shimmered faintly on the man's shoulder, catching the sun.
"A royal messenger," she whispered.
Aliya had already begun to step forward, alert. "He must've ridden hard. Look at his cloak—dust all over."
The gates were opened with swiftness and precision. The man dismounted fluidly, handed off the reins to a stable boy, and approached the estate with a soldier's stride—measured, direct, confident.
By the time he reached the entrance, Saoirse and Aliya were already waiting in the grand vestibule, the heavy oak doors wide open to receive him.
He was in his early twenties, tall and broad-shouldered, with the sun-kissed complexion of a man who lived more under the sky than beneath a roof.
Tousled dark hair fell in soft waves just above his brows, framing a chiseled face that bore the gentle traces of road fatigue, though none of it diminished the quiet handsomeness he carried like a second uniform. His eyes were a sharp shade of steel-gray—clear, intelligent, and strangely familiar.
He bowed deeply. "My lady, I bring correspondence from the Royal Palace." His voice was smooth, professional, yet not unkind.
Saoirse accepted the scroll, its violet ribbon marked with the Queen's personal wax seal. "Thank you. And your name?"
The young man hesitated, then dipped his head again. "Egan, my lady. Egan Teryn. Messenger to Her Majesty's inner court."
"Safe travels, Egan," Saoirse said with a nod. "Would you care for rest or refreshment?"
But Egan gave a regretful shake of the head. "I am honored, but there are still three more estates I must visit before nightfall." He offered another bow and left with swift grace, leaving only the scent of horses and the weight of the Queen's seal behind him.
The doors closed with a muted echo.
Aliya was already at Saoirse's side, peering over her shoulder as she unrolled the scroll with careful fingers.
•••
To the new young Duchess of the Dankworths,
By the Queen's hand and seal, you are formally summoned to the Palace of Valoria to aid in the grand celebration of Her Majesty's 50th birthday. Preparations shall begin at once, and your roles will be vital in the oversight, curation, and success of the event. Attendance is not only expected—it is required.
May your grace shine under royal light.
—Royal Secretary to Her Majesty, Annalise Corven
••••
Aliya leaned in closer, brows knitting. "It's odd to get such a request from the Queen herself," she murmured, her tone more curious than suspicious. "Duchesses, handling the regulation of a royal affair? That's hardly ever happened before."
Saoirse said nothing for a moment, her eyes scanning the parchment again, line by line. The seal was genuine. The signature matched the Queen's chief scribe. Yet… the timing.
"It is," she agreed softly, lips pressing together. "Odd. Perhaps unusual. But…" A spark of something flickered in her chest—like the first flame lit in a long-abandoned hearth. "It's something."
She looked at Aliya, her voice steadier than it had been all morning. "It's fun. This is good for me, right? A chance to go to the capital. To leave these walls, even for a little while. To breathe somewhere he isn't."
Aliya's smile was soft and immediate, her heart swelling at the hint of hope in her mistress's voice. "Yes, my lady. It is. It's more than good. You'll be with other women, old friends, new ones perhaps… and who knows?" she added with a teasing tilt of her head. "Maybe a dance or two?"
Saoirse's laugh was faint, but it was real—and it reached her eyes, even if only slightly. She rolled the letter and tied it once more with the Queen's ribbon.
Then, with a breath that tasted like change, she said, "Prepare the carriage, Aliya. I'll need to look my best. It's time the Raven name shines again."
Aliya paused mid-curtsy, lips parting with an impish glint. "Oh, but you're Duchess Dankworth now, my lady," she corrected gently.
The correction, though soft, felt like a stone in Saoirse's throat. Her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly, eyes narrowing not in anger—but in something far more hollow. The kind of emptiness that bloomed quietly where hope used to reside.
"Yes," she said at last, her voice bitterly amused, "Duchess Dankworth. A title in ink, forged in convenience. But if my husband, Lord Fenris, himself seems to not see me as his wife—Mrs. Dankworth—then perhaps I am more Raven than Dankworth after all."
Aliya blinked, cautious now.
Saoirse folded the Queen's summons with crisp precision, her movements controlled, her breath steady—but her lips twitched with an ironic curl. "I wonder, if I were to stand before the court, dressed in midnight and draped in Raven jewels, would they dare remind me I belong to a man who refuses to even speak my name in affection?"
"My lady," Aliya cut in with a gentle warning, raising a finger like a schoolteacher. "The agreement—remember? That little contract sealed in red wax and suffocating tradition? It says quite clearly that the Dankworth name must be uplifted. You must ensure that when you walk among royalty, they see Fenris's house. Not your own."
Saoirse arched a brow, folding her arms and letting out a dry laugh. "Now that you say it like that, it sounds almost like plotting for a quiet rebellion, doesn't it? One Duchess, one crown event, one kingdom at a time—"
"My lady!" Aliya squeaked, practically flailing in alarm. She darted to close the nearby window, eyes wide, the hem of her skirts fluttering with urgency. "Not so loud!"
Saoirse covered her mouth in half-mockery, half-resignation, laughing quietly now as Aliya whirled around.
"And what did your father say?" Aliya pressed, hands on her hips now, scolding gently but fiercely. "'Act blind, act deaf, and you'll be safe.' Do you think he told you that just for poetry?"
Saoirse exhaled, the mirth dimming, and glanced toward the distance—where the echo of hooves no longer rang and the emptiness of her new life settled around her like a shroud.
"I know, Aliya," she murmured. "I know what I must be. And I know what I must appear to be." She lifted her chin, regal even in quiet rebellion. "But sometimes, I wonder if surviving is the same as living. Or if I'm just… slowly turning to ash in a castle of ice."
Aliya softened at that, stepping forward to adjust a strand of Saoirse's hair with sisterly care. "Then let this trip be the fire that thaws it, my lady," she whispered. "Who knows what awaits you in the capital?"
Saoirse looked down at the parchment once more, her thumb brushing the Queen's crest. She didn't know either.
But for the first time in weeks, she wanted to find out.