The moon was high above Faolinshire, silver and hollow as a widow's ring. Its cold light spilled through the palace's tall windows, casting long, crooked shadows across the marble halls. Most of the castle now slept—soldiers in barracks, servants in their quarters, noble wings locked tight.
But Brooklyn Harperwood remained awake.
His steps were slow as he approached the west wing chamber. The guards posted at the double doors straightened at his presence but said nothing. With a nod, they stepped aside.
He opened the door quietly.
The room was silent, lit only by the golden glow of the fireplace and two flickering wall sconces. The scent of herbs, salves, and fresh linen hung heavy in the air. The velvet curtains had been drawn shut, and the fire crackled softly—gentle warmth clinging to the air like an apology.
She lay on the grand bed, motionless.
Bandages covered her limbs in crisscrossed wrappings. Clean cloth had been laid against her neck and over her back, hiding the worst of the welts. Her ankles had been cushioned in silk to reduce the bruising; her wrists were still raw, wrapped in a healing balm that stained the linen pale red.
Even her face was not spared.
There were shallow cuts across her cheeks. A split on her lip. A deep bruise near her jaw. Her lashes fluttered occasionally—not from waking, but from dreams she hadn't yet escaped.
Brooklyn stood beside the bed, silent.
He could see now what he'd only half-registered during the chaos of the ruins: the sheer scale of her damage. Not just the whips and chains. But the starvation. The dehydration. The way her ribs pressed faintly beneath her skin. She had been dying slowly, not just physically—but in spirit.
And someone had wanted it to happen that way.
His fists clenched.
Why her?
Why keep her alive in that state?
What use was she to them like that?
He didn't know her name. Didn't know where she came from. And yet… the way she had looked at him when she whispered "kill me"… it echoed in him. Still.
Brooklyn exhaled slowly, looking down at her bandaged frame.
"How many nights did she cry out for help in that basement?"
"How many times did they walk away just to hear her scream again later?"
"And what kind of people could look into a girl's eyes and not see a human being anymore?"
He didn't sit. He didn't touch her. He only watched her breathe.
And in that quiet room, beneath the weight of moonlight and medicine, something stirred beneath his cold exterior—not pity, not gentleness, but fury.
Quiet. Unyielding.
And he would find out who had done this. One way or another.
He left the chamber, silent as he came, the doors shutting behind him with a soft click.
–––––––––––––
In his private study, Brooklyn removed his gloves and sat at his desk. The room was dimly lit, filled with old maps, ledgers, and half-filled glasses of forgotten brandy. He dipped the quill into ink, pulled a fresh parchment forward, and began to write—not as a ruler, but as a son.
To Their Majesties, King George and Queen Marliana,
Faolinshire Castle
Mother. Father.
The war is over. Iverlyn has fallen. Its armies have been dismantled, and its nobles either executed or imprisoned. The transition of rule will proceed in accordance with our law. There was minimal loss on our side.
But I am writing to speak not of victory—but of what lay hidden beneath it.
In the dungeons of Iverlyn's royal palace, we discovered something—or rather, someone.
A young woman. Her condition is… unspeakable. She had been held there in chains for what appears to be months, if not years. Beaten. Starved. Used. Forgotten. I do not yet know her name, her origin, or the reason for her imprisonment. But I know this much—no enemy of war deserves what was done to her. And certainly, no innocent should ever suffer as she has.
I have taken her into our custody under my protection. She is currently unconscious and being treated by our physicians. She may not survive. But if she does, she will remain under my authority until her truth is known.
This is not a political asset. This is not a prisoner.
This is something far more disturbing—an echo of what power can do when no one is watching.
When I return to court next month, I will give you full details. Until then, I ask that this remain strictly confidential. I do not want courtiers or foreign eyes asking questions before I have answers.
Please trust that I am handling this matter personally.
Your son,
Brooklyn Harperwood
Duke of Faolinshire
He sealed the letter with the black wax of his house and handed it to the courier himself, giving orders for it to be delivered by dawn.
Then he returned to his chambers, though he doubted sleep would come easily that night.
Not after what he had seen.
Light streamed gently through the tall, arched windows of the west wing chamber. Pale sunlight filtered past gossamer curtains, casting golden shadows across the polished floor and dancing over the silken bedsheets. The scent of lavender and healing balm lingered faintly in the air.
Catherine stirred.
A small, sharp inhale escaped her lips as her eyes fluttered open. The ceiling above her was vast, white and trimmed in gold—nothing like the damp stone she'd grown used to. She blinked several times, confusion drawing over her face like a veil. Her body ached deeply; each breath reminded her of wounds half-healed. Bandages rustled gently as she shifted slightly under the covers.
Then… memory struck.
The chains. The cold floor. That voice.
The war.
The stranger in the dark armor.
The hand that caught her as she fainted.
Her desperate pleas.
Her chest tightened as panic rose. But before it could overtake her—
"Ah! You're awake!"
The voice was soft and melodic—no sharpness, no cruelty. Catherine turned her head weakly. A young woman stood beside the bed, her hands gently adjusting a bowl of herbal water. She was dressed in a fine servant's uniform: dark navy dress, white apron, and silver-trimmed cap.
The maid smiled warmly.
"You gave everyone quite a scare, miss," she said, placing the bowl down on the side table and sitting carefully beside the bed. "I'm Elira. His Grace assigned me to care for you while you recover."
Catherine opened her lips, her voice barely above a breath. "…Where…?"
"You're in Faolinshire," Elira replied softly. "The Duke brought you here after the war. You've been sleeping for two days. Doctors said your body was trying to keep you alive the only way it could."
Catherine's eyes glistened. "He… didn't kill me."
Elira tilted her head, still smiling. "Of course not. He saved you."
There was a long pause. Catherine's lips trembled faintly as she murmured, "My… my name is Catherine."
The name came out unsure, like a confession. Elira gave a gentle nod and touched her hand.
"Then welcome, Lady Catherine."
Lady. The title stung like salt in an open wound. She wasn't a lady anymore. She had been stripped of that—stripped of everything. Dignity, choice, voice.
Catherine tried to sit up, wincing as pain struck her ribs. Elira rose instantly, helping adjust the pillows behind her.
"You shouldn't strain yourself," the maid warned kindly. "You're still healing. Your back was covered in lashes, and your wrists were badly burned from the restraints. We're applying salves daily, but walking may still be difficult for some time."
"But… is there something I should do?" Catherine asked suddenly, her voice brittle. "Some work you need help with? I—I can clean, or cook—anything."
Elira blinked, confused. "Oh—no, miss. Of course not. You're injured. Why would we ask that of you?"
Catherine froze. Her hands curled around the edge of the blanket.
"You… don't want me to work?" she whispered, eyes wide.
Elira saw the fear in her expression then—the way her breathing changed, the way her shoulders tensed like she expected to be struck.
And then… Catherine began to cry.
Tears streamed silently down her face. She turned slightly away, ashamed to let them fall openly. Elira reached out gently, placing a hand on her shoulder and leaning close.
"It's alright," she said softly. "You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you. His Grace has ordered your care personally. He even sent for the best herbalists in the region."
Catherine sobbed harder at the word "safe"—as if it were foreign, as if it hurt more than it helped. Her body shook as years of suppressed emotion poured out. She wasn't ready for kindness. She didn't trust it. And yet it unraveled her faster than any blade could.
Elira didn't ask questions. She didn't pry.
She just sat beside her, holding her gently while she cried—until the sobs softened, and the air grew still again.
"Duke Brooklyn will return by nightfall," Elira murmured after a while, brushing a strand of hair behind Catherine's ear. "You can rest until then. He'll want to see that you're healing."
Catherine's gaze flickered uncertainly. The memory of his amber eyes haunted her—not cruel, not kind, just unreadable. The deal he'd offered her still rang in her ears.
Obey me, and I'll let you live.
She didn't know what that meant yet. Or what he wanted.
But in this moment, with warmth on her skin and a quiet voice beside her, the only thing she knew was…
She wasn't in the basement anymore.
The afternoon sun cast slanted rays across the chamber, warming the floor and bed alike. Outside, the faint sounds of the estate filtered in—hooves clopping on cobbled stone, servants exchanging greetings, the distant caw of crows. But within the walls of her room, the world felt impossibly still.
Catherine sat upright with difficulty, her fragile frame leaning slightly forward, arms wrapped around her knees. A soft shawl had been draped over her shoulders, but she barely noticed the warmth. Her body trembled—not from pain this time, but from anticipation. Dread.
Her lips moved in silent prayer. They'll hurt me again. I don't know how. I don't know when. But they will.
Every breath felt like waiting for a verdict.
What if the Duke only spared her for cruelty in silence? What if she was brought here to entertain some twisted amusement for nobility? What if they smiled to lull her, only to shatter her again later? The unknown was louder than any threat.
She had no idea what time it was—no clocks, no familiar rhythms. The kindness of that maid, Elira… even it unnerved her. Why would anyone be kind now?
And then, a gentle knock echoed from the door.
Her back straightened like a struck chord.
The door creaked open without haste, and in stepped a tall, aging man in a finely pressed black coat, polished shoes, and silver gloves. He held a cane more for appearance than necessity, and a pristine white handkerchief peeked from his chest pocket. His presence felt dignified, yet entirely unthreatening.
"Good afternoon, my lady," he said with a bow, voice gravelly but warm. "I do hope I'm not intruding."
Catherine's voice caught. "Who… who are you?"
"My name is Anderson. I serve His Grace, Duke Brooklyn Harperwood, as his butler and steward. I have for many years."
He smiled gently and took a slow, courteous step forward, letting her see every motion. "I understand this must all be terribly confusing for you. I came simply to see how you were feeling."
Catherine couldn't speak. Her hands gripped the blanket again. But Anderson's manner was nothing like the men she had known in that hellish palace. There was no hunger in his gaze. No cruelty in his words. No coldness in his tone.
She watched him carefully as he walked to the table near the window and placed down a small tray of tea. He poured himself a cup, then looked at her.
"Would you care for some?"
She hesitated, deeply. She didn't trust anything. But… something about him—his aged hands, his gentle nod, the way he didn't push—made her slowly shift her head.
"…Yes," she whispered.
Anderson quietly poured a second cup, bringing it over with both hands and placing it on the side table near her. He didn't offer it directly. He didn't get too close.
"The blend is lavender and mint," he said. "Very good for calming nerves. The maesters recommend it."
She looked at the cup and her fingers twitched slightly. After a long pause, she reached out—gritting her teeth slightly at the pain—and took it into her hands. It was warm. Fragrant.
They sat in silence for a time, broken only by the faint clinking of porcelain and the rustle of curtains.
"…Why are you being kind to me?" she asked at last, not looking at him.
Anderson's smile didn't fade. "Because it is the right thing to do, my lady."
Her eyes welled instantly. The tears were always ready these days.
"You don't even know who I am."
"I don't need to," he replied. "What matters is that you are here now. And you are under the Duke's protection. No harm will come to you in Faolinshire."
She looked up at him now, truly looking. "Why would he protect me? Why would someone like him care?"
Anderson paused for a long time. Then he carefully seated himself in a nearby chair, sighing softly as old bones settled.
"There are many things His Grace does not say aloud," he said, gazing out the window. "But I have served him since he was a boy. I've watched his silences. I've seen the grief behind his fury. You may not see it now, but he has given you more than you realize."
Catherine stared. Her fingers curled tighter around the teacup.
"I… I don't understand him."
"You don't need to—not yet," Anderson replied, his gaze warm. "You only need to rest. That is your one duty, Lady Catherine. Heal. The rest will come with time."
Catherine didn't know what to say. But his words filled a small, quiet place inside her. A place that still dared—despite everything—to hope.
As Anderson rose and gave her a bow, he said one last thing before departing.
"Do not fear the walls of Faolinshire. They were not built to keep you in. They were built to keep you safe."
And with that, he stepped out of the chamber, leaving only warmth, and the faint scent of lavender.
The moon hung over Faolinshire like a sentinel, pale and silver behind thin veils of drifting clouds. The estate was quiet, alive only with the sound of rustling leaves and the faint flicker of torchlight beyond the corridors. The returning hooves of Duke Brooklyn Harperwood's steed echoed through the entranceway as the iron gates closed behind him.
Brooklyn handed the reins to a stablehand without a word and made his way through the stone halls of his ancestral home. He looked tired, his brow still furrowed with unspoken thoughts—yet his steps, as always, were calm and measured.
Anderson was waiting for him near the staircase, hands folded neatly in front of his coat.
"Where is she?" Brooklyn asked without pause, his voice even but low.
The old butler bowed respectfully. "She awoke briefly this afternoon. Elira remained with her for some time. Her state is fragile, but her mind seems intact."
Brooklyn looked up toward the second floor. "And now?"
"She has drifted off to sleep again," Anderson replied. "The healers say her body is responding to the medicines. But… she is still terribly weak."
The Duke gave a small nod, and without further conversation, ascended the stairs.
The chamber was dim, lit only by the moonlight spilling through the grand arched window. A soft fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden shadows over the walls. The room had been scented with dried roses and lilac; warmth lingered in the corners.
Brooklyn stepped inside, his boots silent against the polished floor. His eyes fell on the girl lying curled under the covers of a large, canopied bed. The fresh linens and silk sheets looked foreign wrapped around someone so broken.
Catherine.
Her chest rose and fell slowly, a quiet rhythm, her face turned slightly to the side. Her red-blonde hair fanned over the pillow, still knotted in places. Bandages lined her arms and back, disappearing beneath the fabric of her nightgown. She looked barely alive, and yet—now—at peace.
He stood at her bedside, watching for a moment.
And then, her brows twitched.
Her lashes fluttered.
Slowly, she stirred.
Her gaze opened to the dark, and in the moonlight, she saw his silhouette.
Fear struck her instantly.
She pushed herself up, despite the pain that shot through her shoulder. Her body winced, her breath caught—but still, she bowed her head deeply, trembling.
"I… I'm sorry," she whispered, eyes wide with panic. "I didn't mean to fall asleep—I was just—please don't punish me, I didn't disobey—"
"Stop." His voice was quiet but firm.
She froze.
"You're not in trouble," he said, stepping closer. "Calm down."
She slowly raised her head, her lips parted, eyes unsure.
He knelt slightly so they were closer in height, even as she remained seated in bed.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She swallowed and blinked. "…Catherine."
"Catherine," he repeated, as though tasting the name.
"I…" Her hands twisted into the sheets. "I… I shouldn't call you by your name. You… you own me now. I'll call you 'Master.' It's what I deserve."
He exhaled, closing his eyes briefly.
He didn't want that. The word master felt like a blade he hadn't asked for. He had seen men delight in that title—tyrants, nobles who wore their cruelty like fine robes. He was not them. He would never be them.
But still… this wasn't the moment to push.
"…If that's what you need to feel safe," he murmured, "then fine. For now."
She blinked, confused, unused to such a reply.
He reached forward carefully—not with command, not with coldness—and gently patted her head.
"Rest. You're not here for my entertainment," he said, his voice softer now. "No one's going to hurt you anymore. Understand?"
She stared at him, unmoving.
Then, slowly, her lower lip trembled.
Brooklyn pulled away and stood. "Heal first. That's your only task."
He turned and left the room without waiting for a reply, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
Catherine stared at the doorway for several seconds, breath uneven.
And then, everything inside her broke.
Tears flooded her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably. No sobs, no sound—just silent, uncontrollable weeping. The kind that came from deep inside. The kind only years of pain could birth.
She didn't know what this place was.
She didn't know what kind of man he truly was.
But for the first time in so long… someone had touched her gently.
And not asked for anything in return.
She buried her face into the pillows and cried herself into sleep once more.