It began with a book.
Seraphine had returned to the library one quiet afternoon, where the dust motes danced like silver threads in the pale sunlight. She'd begun to find solace here, where the silence was gentle, not heavy, and the weight of her new role didn't press so sharply against her skin.
She was reading a thick leather-bound volume on ancient legends—her fingers tracing the golden ink of the mythical creatures etched on the page—when a shadow passed behind her.
She turned and almost dropped the book.
Alaric stood near the tall windows, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the snowy garden beyond.
"I didn't mean to intrude," Seraphine said, quickly standing. "I didn't know you were here."
He looked over his shoulder. "It is your home now as well. You do not need to flee when I enter."
Still, she held the book to her chest like a shield.
Alaric's gaze dropped to the spine. "The Chronicles of the Thirteenth Moon. That's not light reading."
"I was curious about the legend of the Carellos," she replied softly. "They say they could control everyone and also the realm of spirits."
He turned fully now, walking toward her with a measured step. "Most believe them to be myths. Cautionary tales told to children."
"Do you?" she asked before she could stop herself.
He paused a few feet away. "I believe all myths are born from truth. Twisted, forgotten… but never without roots."
Seraphine looked down at the book. "You sound like someone who's seen those truths."
For a long time, he said nothing. She feared she had overstepped.
Then, he surprised her. "When I was a child, I used to read that same book. I imagined myself a Carello, slipping past death and time to find answers no one else could."
Her eyes widened slightly. "I thought you were more of a sword-and-strategy sort of boy."
His mouth twitched—almost a smile.
"You'd be surprised, Lady Seraphine."
---
Later that evening, as the sky turned dusky gray, Seraphine returned to the library. She hadn't expected anyone else to be there—but to her surprise, Alaric sat in the corner chair, a book open on his lap. He didn't look up.
She hesitated at the doorway.
"I thought you'd be in your study," she said.
"I was," he replied without looking up. "Now I'm here."
Feeling oddly bold, she crossed the room and took a seat on the opposite side near the hearth. The fire crackled softly between them. She opened her book and began to read, though her eyes flicked to him often, catching the way his long fingers turned each page with quiet purpose.
They didn't speak for over an hour.
And yet… the silence felt different this time. Not cold. Not distant.
Shared.
A quiet truce.
When the fire burned low and the candles began to flicker, Alaric finally closed his book and stood. Seraphine rose instinctively.
He looked at her then—not as a duke to his future bride, but as a man seeing a woman for the first time without the weight of titles.
"You read well beyond your station," he said. "It suits you."
"I wasn't allowed to learn much before," she replied. "But I always wanted to."
"Then learn everything now," he said simply. "There's nothing stopping you anymore."
Then he turned and left.
And for the first time, Seraphine didn't feel like she was just surviving in his world.
She felt… noticed.
The moon was high, casting silver lace across the snow-covered garden paths. The manor had long since gone quiet, the staff retired, the firelight dim behind the frost-kissed windows.
Seraphine pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she stepped quietly through the east wing door. The cold bit at her cheeks, but she welcomed it—it cleared her mind. Tonight, rest would not come. Not with so many questions stirring in her heart.
Her steps took her down a path she had never dared to wander before. And when the trees parted, there it was—the garden's gazebo, covered in ivy and shadow, its white columns pale against the night.
She stepped closer—and stopped.
A tall figure stood within.
Alaric.
He turned slowly at the sound of her footsteps, his expression unreadable in the moonlight. "Couldn't sleep either?"
She hesitated. "No… I didn't expect anyone else to be out."
"You found my hiding place." His voice was quieter than usual, the cold softening the edge of it. "Come. There's room."
She stepped into the gazebo cautiously, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath her boots. The stone bench was cool beneath her as she sat beside him, keeping a polite distance.
For a while, they said nothing.
Just the wind in the hedges. The stars watching overhead.
Then, without looking at her, Alaric spoke. "What is your full name?"
She blinked. The question startled her—not out of place, but… unexpected.
"Seraphine Elira Delacroix," she said slowly. "At least, that's the name Lady Jane had written when they adopted me."
"Elira," he repeated. "It means 'star's grace' in the Old Tongue."
She looked at him, surprised. "You know Old Tongue?"
"I was taught many dead languages as a child. My family had… expectations."
She smiled faintly, then looked down at her hands. "I was told my birth mother named me. I never knew her."
Alaric turned slightly, as if encouraging her to go on.
"She died of a sickness. Something unknown. I don't even know what she looked like," Seraphine admitted, her voice soft, like unraveling silk. "They said we came from overseas. A land where creatures still roamed—the old bloodlines. Vampires. Lycans. Witches. A place where magic isn't just rumor, but... survival."
Alaric was quiet for a long moment. Then, "That explains your eyes."
She blinked. "My eyes?"
"They're different. Not just in color—there's a depth to them. Like they've seen things you don't remember."
A strange warmth crept into her chest. "And you? What's your full name?"
He looked away, toward the garden, his breath misting the air. "Alaric Vellaria Vaelthorne."
"Vellaria…" she echoed. "That's a noble bloodline, isn't it?"
He nodded once. "One of the oldest. The Vaelthornes were once guardians of the border between the human realm and the cursed lands. My ancestors were warriors. Judges. Executioners, even."
"That explains… everything," she whispered, half in jest.
He gave her a sidelong glance. "You mock me."
"A little."
His lips curved—barely. But it was enough to make her breath catch.
"Why did you agree to choose a wife?" she asked gently, emboldened by the quiet.
Alaric's smile faded.
"The council demanded an heir," he said after a pause. "Not out of concern for me. They fear the thinning of the bloodline. They think the right match will preserve it. I disagreed. But… they are rarely wrong."
Seraphine looked down again. "I was never meant to be chosen."
"No," he said, his voice calm. "But you were chosen anyway."
She turned to look at him, but he was already staring into the distance again, his expression shadowed.
A silence fell—comfortable now, like the hush between the stars.
Then, as the wind stirred the leaves overhead, Alaric stood.
"It's cold. Come, Seraphine Elira. You'll catch your death if you stay longer."
She stood with him, something fluttering behind her ribs at the sound of her name in his voice.
And as they walked back toward the manor under the moonlight, side by side in the snow, the distance between them—once wide as oceans—seemed to shrink just a little more.