The golden sun filtered through the tall, arched windows of Faolinshire's grand library, casting soft lattices of light across the velvet carpets and towering bookshelves. Outside, the world was finally still—no storms, no shouts, no pain.
Inside, amidst the silence of parchment and dust and warm sunlight, Catherine sat curled in an armchair beside a roaring hearth, a woolen blanket draped over her legs. A few gentle bandages were still wrapped around her wrists and ribs, but her color had returned. Her emerald eyes had life in them again—quiet and careful, but alive.
Brooklyn sat opposite her in a carved wooden chair, a leather-bound novel open in his hand. But his amber gaze wasn't on the book. It was on her.
"You're supposed to be resting," he said softly, though not scolding.
"I am resting," she replied, puffing her cheeks. "Just… upright."
"Uh huh."
The crackle of the fire filled the room.
Her gaze flicked up to him, steady, unreadable for a second. Then she frowned suddenly, puffing again and looking away.
Brooklyn raised an eyebrow. "What's that face for?"
She didn't respond at first, twisting her blanket slightly in her fingers.
Brooklyn closed the book gently. "Catherine?"
"You didn't kiss me," she murmured, voice small.
He blinked. "What?"
"When I returned. After everything," she looked down, sulking faintly, "you didn't kiss me."
He stared for a second longer, then tilted his head. "Where do you want it?"
Her eyes widened a little, startled by the bluntness.
She swallowed and hesitated before lifting a finger to point to her left cheek. "There."
"Are you sure?" he asked, his tone unreadable.
She blinked. "Yes. I—wait—Brooklyn—!"
Before she could react, he leaned forward, one hand sliding along her jaw as he brushed his lips against hers.
It was not a teasing peck. It was full and warm and left no space for her thoughts. She froze in shock, wide-eyed, her breath catching.
When he pulled back, his amber eyes were amused.
"There," he said smoothly. "Welcome home."
She sat completely still for a heartbeat, lips slightly parted, cheeks catching fire. Then—
"You—!!" She half-swung the book she'd been holding toward him, but it thudded harmlessly against his chest.
He laughed, catching it before it could fall to the ground. "What? You asked for a kiss."
"On the cheek!" she squeaked.
He leaned in again, brushing his thumb across her flushed cheek. "That wasn't enough for me."
She blinked rapidly, her face practically glowing now. "Y-you arrogant—"
"—Duke?" he finished with a smirk.
She huffed, crossing her arms and turning away. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he said, resting his chin on his knuckles as he admired her, "you're still here."
Catherine muttered something under her breath and pulled her blanket higher over her face.
Outside, the garden birds sang softly. Inside the library, warmth bloomed not just from the fire—but from the quiet safety of each other's company.
The gardens of Faolinshire were bathed in honeyed light. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall hedges and flowering vines, catching the dew on the petals like fragments of fallen stars. The wind was soft, rustling through the leaves in rhythmic sighs.
Catherine stood alone at the center of the garden's stone circle, barefoot on the soft grass. Her pale, flowing dress danced with her as she spun—slowly at first, then quicker, lighter. Her arms rose above her head, her scarlet-blonde hair swirling like a trail of flame as she moved with the wind, with the sun, with a kind of reckless joy.
There was no music.
She didn't need any.
There was a strange beauty in her steps—graceful, yet free of any practiced routine. Her feet brushed the ground like whispers; her skirts fluttered like wings. For the first time in many, many months, she wasn't moving out of fear or survival. It was simply... joy.
And then she paused.
Her breath came gently, cheeks pink, a light sheen of warmth on her brow. The breeze tugged at her hair as she exhaled, closing her eyes for a moment.
Then she heard a branch creak.
Her head turned instinctively to the right.
Behind the tall hedge, near the marbled arch, a figure was half-hidden. Tall. Dark-clad. Leaning lazily against the stone, arms crossed.
Brooklyn.
Their eyes met.
Her eyes widened with surprise, and her cheeks flushed deeper. "H-how long were you standing there?"
He didn't move. Just offered a slow, faintly smug smile. "Long enough."
Catherine felt her heart lurch. She stepped back slightly. "You were spying."
He raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't spying. I was appreciating."
Her brows pinched together, flustered. "That's the same thing!"
"No, it's not," he said, finally stepping forward through the hedges. "Spying implies I had something to gain. I didn't. I was just... mesmerized."
She looked away, brushing her hair behind her ear, trying to hide her expression. "It was nothing. Just moving around."
Brooklyn stopped in front of her. "It wasn't nothing."
He stared down at her quietly for a moment, as if trying to memorize the way she looked in that instant—barefoot, sunlit, still glowing from the dance she'd just finished.
"I've never seen you like that," he said softly. "Free."
She swallowed.
"I didn't know anyone was watching," she murmured, a little embarrassed.
"I'm glad I was."
Silence passed between them like a gentle breeze.
Then he stepped closer and, without another word, took her hand.
"What are you—?" she began, confused.
He placed his other hand lightly on her waist. "Now that you've danced alone, I want to dance with you."
"There's no music," she said, half-protesting, half breathless.
He tilted his head. "You didn't need any, did you?"
She blinked, then laughed—softly, sweetly.
And so they began to move.
No steps. No rhythm. Just quiet swaying, the whisper of leaves above them, the warmth of their hands joined between them. She rested her head against his shoulder as he guided her slowly across the garden floor.
The wind sang their song.
And for that moment, in that garden wrapped in gold and green, there was nothing broken, nothing painful—just two hearts that had survived too much, finally sharing a moment of peace.
The soft wind played with the leaves overhead, casting playful shadows over the garden path where Catherine stood. The hem of her dress fluttered gently with the breeze, and the scent of early summer flowers lingered in the air.
She had danced moments earlier, bare feet against the warm grass, letting herself feel something close to peace. For once, there was no weight on her shoulders. Just the sunlight, the breeze, and the sound of her own heartbeat.
When she turned, startled, Brooklyn stood there—half-hidden behind a tall rose bush. His arms were crossed, and his amber eyes watched her, unmoving, almost unreadable.
She blinked, flushing slightly. "H-how long have you been standing there?"
Brooklyn stepped forward. "Long enough."
She pursed her lips, cheeks warming. "You could've said something."
He shrugged, his lips curling into a rare smile. "I didn't want to interrupt. You looked free. Like the wind itself."
Catherine looked down at her feet and then back up at him, her voice soft. "You're the one who made me feel that way."
Brooklyn walked closer, his tone shifting. "Do you remember," he said slowly, "when I first saw you?"
She stilled.
He continued, his voice steady, but gentler than usual. "It was after we ended the siege. They said they found someone in the dungeon. When I came down… I wasn't ready for what I saw."
Catherine's hands clenched at her sides. Her eyes dropped to the grass. But she nodded faintly.
"You were barely conscious. In chains. You couldn't even lift your head. And still, when you saw me, you begged me not to hurt you."
He paused, then moved closer. "That moment—something in me broke."
She closed her eyes, as if recalling the pain of it. But she didn't look away.
"You looked so fragile, so afraid," he said, reaching out to touch her cheek with surprising tenderness. "And I swore to myself… that no one would ever be allowed to treat you that way again. Not even fate."
A tear escaped her eye.
"But now," he said, voice low and proud, "I see you smiling under the sun. Dancing barefoot. Speaking your mind. Holding your head high."
She looked at him, her eyes shimmering. "I'm only like this… because you gave me space to heal."
He pulled her into his arms then, resting his chin atop her head. "No," he whispered. "You gave yourself that strength. I was just… lucky enough to witness it."
Catherine clung to him, breathing in the familiar warmth of his coat.
There was no more pain in that moment.
Only sunlight. And peace.
And the quiet promise of better days.
The garden was still, as if nature itself held its breath.
Birdsong quieted. The leaves above rustled faintly, casting moving shadows over the earth like ripples on water. Catherine stepped back slightly from his embrace, confused when she noticed Brooklyn slowly moving down onto one knee.
Her eyes widened. "W-What are you doing…?"
He didn't answer right away.
From the inner pocket of his coat, he pulled out a small, deep blue velvet box. With a snap of his gloved fingers, it opened—revealing a simple yet exquisite ring. The gold band curled with intricate Faolinshire engravings, and at the center sat a stone, pale like the morning sun: not flashy, but warm, elegant, and radiant.
Brooklyn looked up at her, the faintest curve of a smile on his lips.
"Catherine Sprisheare," he began, voice quiet but firm, "You've brought light to the darkest corners of my soul. You've smiled even when the world gave you nothing. And you… you chose me, even at my worst."
She covered her mouth with her hands.
"I want to stand with you—for every sunrise, through every storm, until the last page of our story is written," he said. "So, will you marry me?"
She froze. For a long second, her heart didn't seem to beat.
"Are… are you sure?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "You could have anyone. Someone unbroken. Someone not—damaged."
Brooklyn's brows narrowed. "Don't you dare say that again."
He rose slightly, just enough to catch her gaze. "You are not broken. You're brilliant. Brave. Strong. And you are exactly the one I want. Every hour. Every day."
Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes. And then, without another word, she threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes. Every day, yes."
He smiled fully for the first time in ages—truly and completely—and slipped the ring onto her finger.
It fit perfectly.
She looked down at it, then back at him with shining eyes.
And in that garden, under golden sunlight and rustling leaves, no crown nor title could've made them feel more complete.
The moment the ring slipped onto her finger, Brooklyn didn't let her stand another second on her own.
"Alright," he murmured, sweeping Catherine effortlessly into his arms, "Time to tell the whole damn kingdom."
"Brooklyn—!" she gasped, arms wrapping instinctively around his neck. "Put me down, I can walk—!"
"No," he said smugly, already walking through the garden's archways toward the palace, "you just got proposed to. That makes you my royal cargo now."
She groaned, hiding her face against his shoulder. "You're ridiculous."
"And madly in love," he added without shame.
They reached the marble steps of the palace entrance. A few maids watering the flowerbeds nearby blinked in surprise, and one of the footmen standing guard immediately straightened.
Brooklyn raised his voice—loud and proud.
"Everyone," he called, stepping boldly into the main hall with Catherine still in his arms, "drop whatever it is you're doing."
He looked around, lips twitching upward as nobles, attendants, and even startled visitors halted in place to look at him.
"I'm marrying her," he said, gaze fierce and unwavering. "Lady Catherine Sprisheare is to be my wife. Get ready for a royal wedding."
The entire hall went dead silent. Then—
A few gasps. Some cheers. One of the younger maids squealed before muffling herself with her apron. The palace buzzed with electricity, the tension that had hung for weeks finally dissolving into joy.
From the upper balcony, Anderson looked down at them with a rare, genuine smile.
He didn't say anything at first. Just nodded to himself, as if this had been long overdue.
Then he began descending the stairs, his cane tapping lightly against the polished stone, a subtle rhythm of approval. "About damn time," he muttered under his breath.
Brooklyn turned as he neared. "Were you spying?"
"I don't spy," Anderson said dryly. "I anticipate."
Catherine laughed softly. "You've been waiting for this, haven't you?"
The older man met her gaze with fondness. "I've watched him walk through fire for you. And I've watched you rise from ashes most couldn't survive. So yes, I was waiting. But not out of impatience."
He took her hand gently and gave a nod of respect. "Welcome to the family, Duchess-to-be."
Brooklyn's smirk softened into something quieter—something rare. He looked down at Catherine, who looked back at him with eyes of spring green hope.
"Let the bells be forged," Brooklyn murmured, carrying her deeper into the palace. "Because this time, the whole kingdom is going to hear them."