Seraphine stood near the stable courtyard, the sun rising faintly behind her. Her bag was small—too small for what was ahead. She had not yet spoken with Carlos. She feared what her departure might mean for them.
Alaric approached her, his cloak billowing behind him. "You are ready?"
She looked down at her worn shoes. "As ready as I can be."
"You won't return here," he said. "Not as the girl you were."
"I'm not sure who I am anymore," she whispered.
"Then we'll find out together."
Just as they turned to leave, a figure appeared from the orchard path—Carlos, breathless, eyes wide.
"Seraphine!" he called. "You're leaving? Now?"
She turned quickly. "Carlos—I'm sorry. I didn't know it would be so soon."
He reached her and grasped her hands. "Is this really what you want?"
"I… I don't know I dont have a choice."
Carlos's gaze darted to Alaric. "And you trust him?"
"Im sorry," she said.
Carlos's jaw clenched, but he nodded. "Then go. But if he hurts you…"
"I won't," Alaric said calmly.
Carlos blinked in surprise, but Seraphine was already walking away, her hand still warm from his touch.
---
Duke Alaric Vaelthorne, at only twenty-five, carried the weight and presence of a man carved from legend. His striking, almost mythical features—pale, marble-like skin, piercing silver eyes, and hair as dark as midnight—set him apart from mortals, as if descended from ancient gods.
Feared as much as he was respected, Alaric walked through courtrooms and battlefields with the same silent intensity that left men uneasy and women breathless.
Yet none dared approach him. His cold, calculating demeanor and sharp, unreadable gaze warned all who tried that he was not a man easily touched. Though noble houses paraded their daughters before him in desperate attempts to win his favor, Alaric turned away fourteen suitors without hesitation.
Celestine Delacroix had been the fifteenth—refused like the rest. He had never desired a wife, but mounting pressure from his family to produce an heir forced his hand. Still, when he finally chose, it was not any of the glittering noblewomen but Seraphine—the quiet, overlooked adopted daughter.
The carriage was silent save for the soft creak of wheels and the distant chirping of birds fading into the background. Seraphine sat as close to the window as possible, her hands folded tightly on her lap, knuckles pale from tension. Across from her, Duke Alaric reclined in his seat, arms crossed, eyes closed—his very presence swallowing the space.
The car moved at a steady pace down the forested path, away from the Delacroix estate. The further they traveled, the heavier the realization sank in: she was leaving behind everything familiar. Her childhood, Carlos, even the cruel whispers and long days of servitude. All gone, all replaced by a single man the world feared.
Seraphine dared not look directly at him, but her gaze betrayed her nerves. The Heartless Duke, they called him. Rumors said he could speak to shadows, that he bathed in ice and didn't bleed when wounded. A monster with a crown of beauty, emotionless and divine.
But as she stole glances at him now—quiet, eyes closed in rest—she found the rumors too loud, too harsh.
Alaric's lashes were long and dark against his pale skin, the sharpness of his features softened slightly in slumber. His expression, always stern and unreadable, was now peaceful. Almost… human.
She blinked and quickly turned her head, cheeks warming. Don't be foolish, Seraphine. You've barely escaped one prison—don't fall into another.
Still, her eyes betrayed her thoughts again and again, drifting back to him, drawn by some quiet magnetism.
The journey was long, and the gentle rocking of the car conspired with the weight of her exhaustion. Her eyelids drooped no matter how she pinched her palm or shifted in her seat.
Just a moment. She would rest for just a moment.
Sleep claimed her without warning.
---
She stirred hours later, head warm against something firm.
Her eyes fluttered open—and met fine black cloth and the faint scent of cold steel and cedar.
Her heart plummeted.
She was resting on his shoulder.
Seraphine jerked upright, mortified. "I-I'm so sorry, Your Grace!" she stammered, sitting up straight as a rod. "I didn't mean to— I must've fallen— I wasn't thinking—"
Alaric opened his eyes slowly and regarded her with the same unreadable calm. His silver gaze met hers, sharp and unreadable.
"You talk too much when flustered," he said blandly, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes again.
Seraphine stared at him, face burning.
She wanted to vanish into the cushions.
---
When they finally arrived at Alaric's estate—a grand fortress nestled in the cliffside, kissed by mist and moonlight. The embarrassment still burned on her cheeks, and she kept her gaze down, daring not to glance at him again.
He walked ahead without a word, cloak billowing behind him like wings.
She followed, heart pounding, wondering if she would ever understand the man she now belonged to—or if the rumors would become her reality.
But one thing was certain: this journey was only beginning.
As the wheels stilled and the coachman opened the door, Seraphine hesitated at the threshold. The weight of the manor's presence was immense, as though it held secrets older than the kingdom itself. Every vine that crept along its walls seemed to whisper in a forgotten tongue.
Alaric stepped out first, his boots silent against the stone. He did not glance back as he began walking toward the entrance. Seraphine scrambled to follow.
Before she could speak, the grand doors opened.
Lined up in two respectful rows were the estate's servants—four maids dressed in muted grays with silver clasps, and two butlers with perfect posture and crisp coats. At their head stood an older man with a neatly trimmed beard and an expression of composed authority.
"Welcome back, Your Grace," the butler said, bowing deeply. "The household is at your service."
Alaric gave a curt nod, then turned slightly to gesture toward Seraphine. "This is Lady Seraphine. She is to be treated with respect and care. She is no guest—she belongs to this household now."
The staff bowed in unison, murmuring, "Welcome, my lady."
Seraphine's mouth opened slightly, unsure how to respond. Lady? The word had never been used for her before—not even in jest.
One of the younger maids stepped forward, petite with auburn hair and a kind smile. "My lady, if you will come with me, I shall show you to your chambers."
Seraphine nodded awkwardly, casting a glance at Alaric, who now turned toward the butler.
"I have been summoned to the capital," he said in a low voice. "Send word to prepare the car. I leave within the hour."
"As you command, Duke Vaelthorne," the butler replied without question.
Alaric's gaze flicked back to Seraphine. "You will remain here. Explore the estate as you want."
Before she could question further, he turned, the tails of his dark cloak swirling behind him like smoke as he vanished through a side hall.