The door to Cassandra's chamber closed with a muted click. Leoleta exhaled, jaw tight, hand brushing the hilt at his side. The fire's warmth clung to him, but it did nothing to ease the knot in his chest. This was supposed to be easy work—watch the girl, shadow her steps, keep nobles at a polite distance. The other guards had laughed that a warlock's talents were wasted on ballroom duty; some nights, he almost agreed.
He had seen her slip from the ballroom earlier, her figure lingering on the gallery, but he had held his post instead of following. "Damn it," he muttered, the word catching under his breath. He should have gone after her; he should have ignored the others—We've got it, warlock. Go breathe.—and followed the pull in his gut. His hesitation gnawed at him now. He had missed the signs—her silence at the feast, the way her hand lingered on her pendant. The unease pressed low in his gut, coiled like iron wire, his breath shallow. He remembered another night, another oath broken, another face he could not save. The memory snapped sharp as lightning in his mind. Not again. Not her.
It would not happen again.
He descended the spiral stair to his quarters, one floor below hers. His coat was soaked through, boots heavy with sand and salt. If he walked the halls like this, whispers would spread by morning. He stripped quickly, hissing a quiet, "Shit," under his breath. He changed into a fresh uniform, belted his sword, and forced his posture straight.
When he made his way back to the main house, he stepped back into the corridor, he looked as he should: unshaken, untouched. Inside, his breath still ran tight; the memory of losing a charge pressed beneath his ribs. The bruise of it flared hot.
Duty demanded he make his rounds, but his mind was occupied. Boots steady against stone he knew by heart, he paced the estate's long halls. Tonight, the walls felt heavier, the storm lingering in the air. To the guests, Delmar's keep was a palace of wealth. To him, it was a fortress dressed in velvet.
At the western windows, he paused, counting waves until his thoughts steadied. Still, unease coiled in him. To Cassandra, he knew, this was a grand cage. He had seen her retreat to gardens, balconies, even the sea itself. The young lady was cautious, never reckless. What had driven her into the night? The question sat on his chest like weight he could not shift.
He heard footsteps nearby, whispers gave him his answer. Two servants lingered in an alcove, unaware he was near.
"…Lord Merek of House Avedane made such a scene, and that slight?" one said.
"Poor Lady Cassandra, for a woman he says means so little to him, he made such a fuss. Goodness."
Leoleta raked a hand through his hair—"Damn it." How did he miss that? What the hell was he doing? It was not grief alone that had sent her into the tide — she needed to escape. The thought stung sharp and raw, like salt in a wound that had never closed.
He turned away before the servants noticed him. The report weighed heavy on his tongue, but where to deliver it? The halls were restless, servants moving in uneasy currents, doors shut where once they stood open. The twins had vanished from the ballroom long before the guests dispersed. He considered their habits, their temperaments. If they had sense, they would have retreated to their father's old study. It was where generals would gather after a battle, piecing together what ground they had gained and lost. The dukedom itself was their battlefield now, and they were scrambling to hold the line.
He made for the western wing, boots striking stone with quiet resolve. When he reached the familiar oak doors, he paused—hesitation tightening his throat. The Duke would never again be found within. Only his heirs remained.
Leoleta knocked twice.
"Enter," came Alistar's voice, rough with fatigue.
Inside, the room bore the look of a battlefield fought with ink and paper. Ledgers lay in precarious stacks, letters sealed and unsealed in half-sorted piles. Wax cooled in broken droplets across the desk. The twins stood out like statues carved from the same marble but finished by different hands.
Alfonse, seated behind the ledger, leaned forward, sleeves rolled, hair swept back from his brow with practiced precision. His hazel eyes were sharp but weary, calculating the shape of every word before it left his mouth. He was beautiful in the way their late Duchess had been, every feature deliberate, poised—yet exhaustion tugged faint shadows beneath his eyes.
Alistar, by contrast, could not sit. He paced the hearth like a storm bottled into a man, jaw set, dark eyes sparking with unrest. His chin-length hair fell untamed around his face, his resemblance to their late father undeniable in the hard lines of his jaw. He carried the Delmar fire too openly, emotion spilling where reason faltered.
Between them stood Henrik Dastrel, First Secretary of House Delmar. Ink stained his fingertips, and silver streaked his neatly combed hair, but his bearing was that of a man used to standing at a duke's shoulder. He held a ledger open against one palm, spectacles perched low, his voice the steadying line between two brothers.
"My lords," Leoleta said with a bow. "I have a report concerning Lady Cassandra."
Alistar stopped pacing, eyes sharp. "Go on."
"Lord Merek denounced her presence tonight, added insult before others made and made quite a scene in front of our Vassals and guests." He paused - hoping they would not ask the obvious questions.
Alfonse's brow tightened. He sat up straighter, wine forgotten. "That pompous bastard."
Alistar's fists clenched. "And none told us during the ball?" His voice rose hot. "Not one of those cowards spoke?"
Leoleta inclined his head. "Several guests witnessed it, including household staff. They can testify. Lady Cassandra should not be pressed for her account."
A silence hung, broken only by the crackle of the hearth.
Henrik cleared his throat, calm but firm. "The insult was undeniable. Yet what troubles me more is the silence that followed. Not a single noble chose to speak on your behalf—a silence that carries its own weight."
Alistar cursed under his breath, resuming his pacing. "Then we answer. Strip Avedane of their docking rights. Or better—send him back his own words with steel."
Henrik closed the ledger softly. "Retaliation must be measured. Siuol could be heavily affected. Docking rights will rouse the guilds. Steel will rouse the court. You will have no allies left by morning. Better we begin with inquiry. Quiet investigation. Find which houses echoed his words and which only listened. Then you will know where to press."
Alfonse rubbed his brow, voice tight. "You suggest we wait."
"I suggest," Henrik said evenly, "- you act in ways that do not weaken Velastra. A response is required—yes. But not one that costs more than it gains."
Alistar muttered, "Caution is cowardice."
Henrik met his gaze without flinching. "Boldness wins battles, but it is caution that preserves a house. Your father walked with care, making few enemies—and he never drew the emperor's gaze."
That cut sharper than any reprimand. Alistar looked away, chest heaving.
Alfonse's fingers tapped against the ledger. "We investigate first. Quietly. If others whispered while Merek shouted, I will know. When we answer, it will be with precision, not noise."
Henrik inclined his head, the barest smile ghosting his lips. "Wise, my lord."
Then, turning slightly, he addressed the knight who had stood silent through it all. "Your report was thorough, Sir Leoleta. You have our gratitude. You are dismissed."
The words carried the weight of courtesy, yet to Leoleta they rang of distance—a reminder of where he stood, and where he did not. They were older than him, seasoned in years if not in rule. Duke Delmar had died before he could shape them fully, and it showed in how heavily they leaned on Henrik's counsel. They did not see the small fractures forming beneath the surface.
Leoleta did—and irritation flickered through him, sharp and brief. He started to speak—stopped. The retort lingered on his tongue like rum-hot, bitter, tempting to swallow, but better left unsaid. His loyalty was not to them. It was to her.
He had always been sworn under her name, but for years it had meant little. A velvet duty, shared with others. Only when the late Duke began to fade over the past year did it morph into something more. Lord Auren had moved him beneath her tower, had made it plain before the household that she was his sole charge. Cassandra, he suspected, had thought little of it—her father had always been cautious, always protective. But Leoleta had heard the weight in his voice, had felt the command burn into him like a brand: She is all that matters. Protect her. No matter what it costs. And now Auren was gone. The duty remained.
Leoleta inclined his head in turn, the movement crisp, measured. He was not their counselor, not their secretary. His silence was necessary; it was not his place to share his opinions. Yet as he bowed and turned to leave, Cassandra's pale face lingered in his thoughts.
He did not return to his quarters at once. Rest would not come—not after the gallery. Instead he climbed the stairwell that curled the tower's heart, boots silent against stone. He paused outside Cassandra's door, the wood still damp from the storm. His father words surfaced, steady as ever: You cannot change what's lost. Only how you stand the watch that follows. So he stood, sentinel at the threshold where any hand would have to pass through him first. The torches guttered, the sea wind groaned in the rafters, and still he lingered. Hours stretched thin, but he did not move. His post was no longer velvet duty. Not anymore.
At last, when dawn pressed pale at the windows, he descended again. In his quarters beneath her chamber, he set his sword within reach and sank into the chair by his window. The twin moons flickered through restless clouds, casting silver over the sea. The estate was quiet now, but not at ease.
Above him, the beams creaked as though someone paced the halls. For an instant he almost expected to hear Lord Delmar's voice again—quiet, immovable, watchful. Instead, the sound stretched and groaned, settling into a silence that felt heavier than words. The keep itself seemed to breathe, pressing down like the judgment of its absent lord.
Leoleta turned back to the sea, but the weight clung to him, as inescapable as memory.
He told himself duty kept him awake. He almost believed it.