The morning broke gray and heavy, the clouds clinging low over the sea like a blanket refusing to lift. The scent of rain lingered though the storm had passed. Pale silver light slipped through the drapes, brushing Cassandra's face. For a long moment she did not move. She simply breathed.
Her limbs felt leaden, as if the ocean's grip still clung to her. Salt in her throat, the weight of her gown, the cold that had sunk into her bones—and Leoleta: his voice through the waves, his arms holding her fast.
She sat up slowly, the blanket slipping into her lap. Her body ached, her tangled hair clung to her skin. It wasn't only muscles that hurt. Something inside had shifted. A prickle of dread followed the thought: had anyone seen her at the shoreline? Were the servants whispering already—about water and tears and the Duke's child losing her composure?
She turned her head. The low fire still burned, a towel folded neatly on the chair beside it. A steaming bowl of herbal water waited nearby, mint and chamomile curling through the air.
Someone had watched over her. Of course it was Liaerin.
The door creaked open.
"My lady?" a soft voice called.
Her handmaid stepped in, hair bound in a long braid, pointed ears peeking through. "I have your dress prepared and breakfast on the way."
"Thank you, Liaerin."
"How are you feeling?" Liaerin asked, gentle though worry edged her tone.
"Weary," Cassandra murmured, "but breathing."
"What on earth were you thinking?" Liaerin set down a basin and cloth. "You rattled Sir Leoleta. I've never seen him so unsettled—he looked as if the storm followed him inside."
Cassandra flushed, looking away. "I wasn't trying to die. I just—"
"—needed to escape," Liaerin finished softly. "I understand."
As the handmaid worked scented oils into Cassandra's tangled curls, Cassandra's gaze drifted to the window, distant and unfocused.
"Lord Alistar and Lord Alfonse met with Sir Leoleta late last night," Liaerin said at last. "They've taken the matter seriously."
Cassandra frowned. "What matter?"
Liaerin hesitated. "Whispers. Of Lord Merek of House Avedane. He said cruel things—publicly—about your right to be here, about the Delmar name you bear."
Cassandra's breath caught. "Stars above." She dropped her head into her hands. If the insult had reached Liaerin, it had reached the corridors. Likely half the hall had heard him. Liaerin had always been her ears in the keep, carrying news in soft words the way others carried trays. Since childhood she had trusted her without question, almost blindly. That trust had been a comfort—yet this morning it struck her as fragile, childish even. She could no longer afford to let others decide which truths reached her.
"Did my brothers say what they would do?"
"Only that they would not let it pass."
The fire's warmth could not soothe the cold coil in her chest. "Help me dress," she said, voice firming. "I need to see them."
~
Outside, clouds lingered, but the storm had passed.
Cassandra entered the private dining room composed, though her steps were careful. Alistar and Alfonse were already seated, the morning meal spread before them: warm bread, spiced porridge, cured meats, strong tea.
Alistar rose at once. "Sister. I didn't expect you so early."
Alfonse offered a calm smile, gesturing to the seat beside him. "Join us."
"I needed to speak with you both," Cassandra said as she sat, spine straight.
Alfonse poured her tea. "Then speak freely."
"Liaerin told me what happened. About Lord Merek."
"We are aware," Alistar said grimly. "And we've acted."
"We spent half the night questioning the staff about what they saw," Alistar said, voice tight.
"And we rode out at dawn to press the nobles who stood near him," Alfonse added, his tone clipped. "None will mistake our silence for weakness."
Cassandra's stomach knotted. "You rode out? At dawn? That will only spread the insult further."
"Perhaps," Alfonse admitted. "But only Merek will pay for his words. The others—by now they know our displeasure. And it hurts to say, but some of Father's oldest allies stood by and said nothing." His eyes searched hers.
"House Delmar has suspended all trade with House Avedane," Alfonse continued. "Until they offer a formal apology, effective immediately. Any caravans en route will be turned away at the border. Half the hall heard him. The slight was public; the answer must be public."
Cassandra blinked. "That will cause ripples."
"Good," Alistar said flatly. "Let it be known our blood cannot be insulted without consequence. When he mocked you, he mocked the very seal of Delmar. If we let it pass, then every vassal and rival house will believe they can do the same."
He exhaled, temper banked but hot beneath the words. "If Henrik hadn't stayed my hand, I'd have demanded satisfaction last night. Steel for steel. But a blade drawn too soon dulls the wielder, and Henrik was right—we'll strike when it costs them most."
"This is more than retaliation, Cass," Alfonse added gently. "You cannot let petty men undermine your place."
"You will learn from it," Alfonse said softly. "Do not carry the shame—it is not yours."
"And don't let it happen again," Alistar said, conviction sparking.
Cassandra lowered her eyes to her tea, steam curling upward. "What happens now? Father is gone."
Her spoon stilled. "Who will be Duke?"
A silence fell.
Alistar set his cup down gently. "That is not your burden to bear."
The words landed wrong—gentle on the surface, heavy beneath. Why not her burden? Was she not Delmar too? She had bled for this house same as they had. And yet, even now, their concern was spoken in the language of banners and borders, not of her. She was a wound only because it threatened the house's pride.
"I don't understand. Doesn't this concern us all?"
"Cassandra, Alistar and I are handling it," Alfonse said. "We have already had correspondence with the Imperial Court."
She bit back a retort. Handling it. Always they handled it. Was she only meant to sit idle, watching decisions pass like waves against stone, never asked to stand beside them?
"So when will there be news?"
"In due time, I'm sure," Alistar muttered.
"Yes, of course," Alfonse said, his voice strained. "But we do have other pressing matters."
Alfonse's smile was calm, but it did not reach his eyes. Alistar's silence was louder still. They said she need not concern herself, yet already she felt decisions shifting beyond her reach. Cassandra's stomach turned. They were shielding her—protecting her as if she were fragile, or worse, ornamental. She did not sense deceit, but the distance stung.
"You should focus on your future," Alistar said. "You are nearly of age. You can choose your path."
"Would you like a tutor? To study abroad?" Alfonse pressed. "Father had contacts in Eridale and Galvenreach. Politics, trade, the arts—you could pursue any of them. You have many talents."
Alistar tried for levity. "Politics, clearly. I think I still have a dent in my head from when Cass struck me with one of Father's tomes after I teased her and kept away the book of maps and histories of the eastern empires."
Their warmth was real, but it could not soothe the ache growing in her chest.
She forced a brittle smile. "I am honored you both think highly of my abilities."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Alfonse began to protest. "Cass—"
But she rose before he could finish, smoothing her dress as if the gesture might erase the sting. "Thank you. Please, Alfonse, Alistar—allow me some time to think about it. I think I need air."
She left her meal untouched and stepped into the corridor. The fog clung to the windows like ghosts. She walked without destination until the air grew cooler, scented with dew. Through a vine-covered arch she entered the private garden, where stone paths wound among misted hedges. The silence here felt sacred.
Beneath an old willow she sat, remembering: her father had built this garden in a single summer, to remind her mother of home. It had always been her sanctuary.
Yet today she felt only the echo of loneliness, even in a house full of blood kin. Her father's voice used to fill these paths with direction; now, there was only silence, and too many questions left to her with no answers.
And yet—not entirely alone.
Her gaze drifted, and there he was. Sir Leoleta stood a respectful distance away, watching the garden, not her. A silent guardian, as he had always been.
How many years had he served her family? How many times had she passed him in the corridors without a word? How many moments had he stood just like this—ready, waiting, and unnoticed?
But now, with her brothers speaking of trade routes and insults as though her worth were measured only in coin and power, she felt the gap more sharply. To them, she was House Delmar's daughter. To Leoleta, she wondered, could she be simply Cassandra? A woman who had to make choices without the knowledge to wield them, and who might need someone willing to speak plainly, not protect her with silence.
Today, though, she truly looked at him. The way the early light caught in his dark hair. The quiet strength in his posture. The unreadable calm that never seemed to waver. He had acted decisively when she was literally drowning; she hoped that steadiness translated to the tides of politics, where she was only figuratively so.
She rose, her dress whispering across the grass as she crossed to him. "Yesterday was the first time we truly exchanged words," she said softly, a breath of laughter escaping her. "Beyond commands."
She hesitated, then added, "You've been at my side since I was a child, and yet I know nothing of you. Do you need my permission to speak?" Her tone lightened, almost teasing. "My station means nothing here."
Up close, more details revealed themselves. His eyes—deep, storm-blue, ringed with startling brightness, like the sky clearing after rain. His lashes, long and dark, too delicate for a man carved by war. The scar—jagged, lightning-like—climbing from beneath his collar to the edge of his jaw. It cut across the quiet nobility of his bearing, tempered only by the small mole beneath his left eye. A reminder that he was still human, not stone. His looks were fine enough; servants and noble daughters alike would talk for a smile. That, too, might be useful.
Her breath caught. He was striking in a way that didn't demand attention, but quietly held it. The realization startled her.
"My lady—" he cleared his throat, his voice lower than usual, a note of hesitation threading through. "You've never withheld permission before."
The words startled her. Not just the dry humor, but that he had said them at all. For a heartbeat she blinked, caught between laughter and disbelief. Then, to her surprise, a smile curved her lips.
"You jest," she whispered, as though testing the weight of it.
His posture remained rigid, but she thought—just for a moment—that something flickered at the corner of his mouth. It was the faintest shift, but it told her he was listening closely, measuring her words as though they mattered.
She tilted her head, curiosity stirring. "So you can speak," she teased softly. "I wonder what else you're hiding from me. Tell me—how old are you, Sir Leo?"
He hesitated, then straightened slightly. "Twenty-three."
A pause stretched. Then, with a subtle lift of one brow, he added, "So casual now, are we? After a morning stroll and a few exchanged words?"
Cassandra blinked, startled. This was not the guard's voice she knew. This was a man's voice—lighter, unarmored.
"Is this sudden familiarity because I saved your life, my lady?" His tone carried low amusement, like distant thunder under a clear sky—steady enough that the knot in her chest loosened without her permission.
A breath of laughter escaped her. Surprised, but not unwelcome.
"Maybe," she said, trying to meet his energy. "You did carry me from the sea like some knight out of an old tale."
He inclined his head, mock-solemn. "Then I suppose I've secured myself a place in your stories."
She glanced away, smiling faintly. "Don't get cocky, Sir Leo. That would call for more heroics."
"Of course not," he replied. Keeping his head bowed, he added, "I wouldn't dream of it."
Down the corridor she saw Liaerin approach, probably to remind her of the schedule.
Her smile softened, lingering. She drew in a slow breath. "I know you have a duty, Sir Leoleta," she said, her gaze flicking back toward the corridors where her brothers sat plotting their answers. "But their duty is to House Delmar. I need someone whose duty is to me. Someone who can be honest, themselves, when they are with me. Without the veil society forces on us. If I'm to stand at all, I'll need truth, not courtesy. You'll give me that, won't you?"
Her words surprised even her, but saying them aloud steadied something inside. This wasn't just a plea—it was a beginning. She was not naïve; she knew trust could be costly. Yet for the first time since her father's death, she felt the faintest spark of hope that she might not have to stand alone.
Leoleta inclined his head. "As you wish, my lady."
The words were simple, formal—but the weight in his voice carried more than courtesy.
Cassandra dipped her head, not as a lady to a knight, but as a woman acknowledging the first thread of trust. Then she turned, following Liaerin back toward the corridors of duty and expectation.