Ilya awoke to birdsong.
She blinked against the light pouring through arched windows draped in pale blue silk. The bed beneath her was impossibly soft—layers of feather and velvet, stitched with threads of silver. Beside it sat a nightstand carved with roses, holding a crystal decanter of water and a plate of warm, honeyed bread.
She was still in her dress. Someone had removed her shoes, covered her with a blanket, and drawn the curtains halfway. But no one had disturbed her beyond that.
She sat up slowly. For a moment, she forgot where she was.
Then she remembered: the wedding. The carriage. The Archduke.
She had been married.
To him.
After they brought in her things and showed her to her room, she'd sat on the bed—so warm, so soft—and tried to think. The ride. The marriage. Her stepfather's greedy smirk... then she'd drifted off to sleep.
A quiet knock pulled her from her thoughts.
"My lady?" a gentle voice called from the other side. "May I enter?"
Ilya hesitated, then cleared her throat. "Yes."
The door opened to reveal a young woman in an indigo gown with hair like braided honey. She curtsied, her eyes warm and bright.
"Good morning. I'm Lysia, your personal handmaid. I brought breakfast earlier, but you were sleeping so soundly I didn't wish to disturb you."
Ilya nodded. "Thank you."
"You'll have time to settle in later today," Lysia continued, bustling toward the wardrobe. "Lord Elias has instructed that you have full access to the grounds, and if you're up for it, he's requested your company for tea this afternoon in the sunroom."
Ilya raised an eyebrow. "Tea?"
"Yes, my lady." Lysia smiled. "He doesn't often take tea with anyone, but this time he was quite adament."
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An hour later, Ilya found herself walking through a palace that looked more like a dream than a fortress.
Golden sunlight poured through stained-glass windows depicting phoenixes, forest spirits, and scenes of knights kneeling to crowned women. Flowers bloomed in every hallway—orchids, lilies, and fireblossoms that shimmered faintly when touched by light. Staff and nobles passed her with gentle bows, every face open and friendly.
She had been prepared for isolation. Coldness. Cruelty. Instead, there was warmth here. Light. No one looked afraid. No one flinched at the mention of her husband's name.
And it unsettled her more than anything else.
All she had heard—from her mother, brother, aunts, uncles, even the staff—was how cruel it was to send her to the demonic Archduke. The deformed thing hibernating in the North. She'd spent months feeling like she was being led to a grave, not a new home.
The sunroom faced a terraced garden filled with white roses, creeping vines, and citrus trees that perfumed the air. The floor was tiled in sapphire and ivory, and crystal dishes were arranged on a table beside a low fire.
Elias was already there.
He stood by the window, facing outward. The veil still covered the upper half of his face, but he wore no cloak this time. Instead, he wore a dark blue doublet trimmed in silver, with a phoenix clasp at his shoulder. His sword was sheathed and resting on a nearby stand.
He looked... regal.
Strong.
Ilya stood in the doorway longer than she meant to.
"Come in," Elias said, without turning.
She obeyed, walking quietly across the room and taking the seat opposite him.
He finally looked at her—or, at least, she felt that he did. She couldn't really tell, behind that iron mask.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"You're not what I expected."
Ilya blinked. "Pardon?"
He sat down, his movements slow and deliberate, as if each one ached.
"When men like your stepfather offer their daughters to monsters, they usually send someone like themselves—wicked in eyes and ways. Or someone already broken."
"You don't know me."
"I've been watching you since the temple. You carry yourself like someone who's survived many rooms you were never meant to stand in."
She didn't answer.
He poured her tea.
"I will not force you to my bed," he said simply. "You are under no obligation to obey me in private matters. This marriage was arranged for politics, not pleasure...I agreed to it only to satisfy my King's desire to believe me working on an Heir. I will not force a stranger into bed with...with me."
Was he about to say something else? Ilya stared at the tea, its surface rippling gently.
"But the court expects it," she said quietly. "You know they do."
"The court," Elias said, voice cold now, "can burn."
She looked up at him sharply.
He didn't flinch.
"You are free to hate me, Ilya. You are free to question what you've been told. But you are not a prisoner here. You are not a pawn."
She narrowed her eyes. "Then what am I?"
A pause. Then:
"My wife."
He stood, as if that settled everything.
"There's a library on the third floor," he added. "You'll find maps of the estate, journals from the last Archduchess, and a very old phoenix who lives in the rafters and eats dried plums. I suggest avoiding the west wing for now—it's being reinforced."
"Reinforced for what?"
Elias looked at her for a long time.
"Veltharion is not as peaceful as it appears. Nor am I."