Five years passed.
The Empire endured— as it always had— through blood, borders, and the silence of graves. Wars flared and died. Treaties were signed and broken. Names rose and fell from favor.
And then—
The Empire gasped.
The news spread first in whispers, then in thunder. Lady Seraphine Arden had returned.
Not quietly. Not in secrecy. Not escorted by lesser hands. She was brought back by Cassian Vale himself.
The War General. The Empire's blade. The man who had never publicly claimed a woman.... returning with the one declared mad.
The shock rippled through the capital like an earthquake. Nobles dropped teacups. Courtiers forgot their manners. Senators argued openly in halls where decorum once ruled.
Cassian Vale had gone to the asylum. Cassian Vale had taken her out. Cassian Vale had brought her home. To his house. The implications were impossible to ignore.
And the timing...
Two years had passed since the death of Marienne Vale, formerly Lady Lysford.
Assassinated.
The details had been sealed quickly. Officially, it was the work of political enemies—retaliation for her family's influence, collateral damage in the endless undercurrents of power. No culprit was ever named. No justice publicly served.
She died as she lived her married life. Alone. Childless. Unmourned by her husband.
During the three years she had borne the title of Lady Vale, no heir had come. Marienne had offered excuses with a practiced smile: Cassian was at the front, Cassian was needed elsewhere, Cassian's duty came first.
Time would come, she had said. But time never did.
Because the truth, unspoken but widely understood, was colder.
Cassian Vale never loved her. And worse, he never touched her.
Rumors circulated long before her death. Quiet at first, then increasingly bold. That the War General's marriage had never been consummated. That the bridegroom never entered the marriage bed. That Marienne wore silk and jewels for a man who never saw her as a wife.
And the rumors were true.
When Marienne died, there was no child to inherit her name. No mourning husband draped in black. No public grief from Cassian Vale.
Some called him cruel.
They whispered it behind gloved hands and lowered voices.
"How could he treat her so coldly?"
"She was his wife."
"He abandoned her to loneliness."
But the whispers never grew loud enough to become accusations. Because no one could truly blame him.
Cassian had never pretended affection. Never promised love. Never lied about who he was.
He had accepted a command, not a woman.
And those who had truly known Marienne Lysford were far less inclined to mourn her.
Behind closed doors, stories emerged— of servants dismissed in tears, of punishments delivered with a smile, of cruelty sharp enough to wound without leaving marks.
Marienne had been selfish. Self-centered. An abuser who mistook control for affection. More ruthless in her own way than the War General ever was.
And so, when she died, sympathy was thin. Even colder comparisons were made. Some said it quietly. Some thought it without daring to speak.
That the insane Lady Seraphine had always been the better woman.
At least Seraphine had loved. At least Seraphine had broken because she cared too deeply. Madness born of devotion was easier to forgive than cruelty born of entitlement.
And now, Seraphine was back.
The Empire, so used to bending beneath his will, could only watch. Because the War General had returned not with spoils of war... but with the woman he once broke.
The madwoman. The former lover. The bride he never had.
And as the gates closed behind them, one truth echoed through every marble hall and whispered court chamber: The past had not stayed buried.
It had come back. Walking beside Cassian Vale.
---
The gates of the Vale estate opened slowly.
Servants lined the stone path in practiced formation, backs straight, hands folded, eyes lowered in respect. They had been ordered to welcome Lady Seraphine Arden. Not as a guest, not as a curiosity, but as someone under the personal protection of the War General himself.
That alone had unsettled them.
When Cassian Vale stepped through the gates, they bowed deeply. And then they saw her.
A ripple passed through the line, subtle and involuntary.
Lady Seraphine was beautiful. She always had been. Her features remained refined, her posture elegant despite her fragility. She wore an exquisite gown of muted ivory and black embroidery—expensive, perfectly tailored, unmistakably chosen with care. Her hair was arranged neatly, softly framing her face. Her complexion was pale, carefully powdered to hide how thin she had grown.
If one did not look too closely, she appeared untouched by ruin.
But the servants looked. And they saw her eyes.
Once, those eyes had warmed when she smiled—soft, expressive, alive with quiet devotion. They had lingered on people, acknowledged them, welcomed them.
Now—
They were dull.
Not unfocused. Not wild. Just… empty. As though light itself had grown tired of trying to live there.
If not for the finery she wore, the subtle artistry of makeup, the careful hand behind her appearance. The servants would have sworn she was a walking corpse.
And they all knew whose hands had shaped her presentation.
Cassian's.
He stood beside her, one hand hovering close to her back, not touching but ready. His presence was steady, unyielding, protective in a way that required no announcement.
"My lady," the head housekeeper said carefully, stepping forward. "Welcome to the Vale estate."
Seraphine did not respond. She did not incline her head. Did not offer thanks. Did not smile brightly like she used to do.
Her gaze drifted across the servants without truly seeing them, eyes vacant, distant. Like someone observing the world from behind thick glass.
An uncomfortable silence followed.
Cassian spoke then, his voice low and calm.
"She is tired," he said simply. "She will be shown to her chambers."
At the sound of his voice, Seraphine reacted. Her eyes shifted.
They found him.
She did not smile. But her attention anchored.
Cassian turned slightly toward her, lowering his tone in gentleness.
"We'll go inside now," he said. "You remember the way."
She nodded once. A small motion. Mechanical.
He guided her forward, not by the arm nor by force, but by walking just ahead of her, adjusting his pace to hers, glancing back every few steps to ensure she followed.
And she did. Like a shadow.
The servants straightened as they passed, murmuring greetings and well-wishes.
"Welcome back, my lady."
"It is good to see you again."
"We hope you will be comfortable here."
Seraphine did not answer any of them.
Her face remained composed, expressionless. Her steps were quiet. Controlled. She did not look at the familiar halls as though recognizing them, only as though she were passing through somewhere temporary.
Someone whispered after they passed.
"She used to smile…"
"Yes," another replied softly. "At everyone."
Cassian heard none of it, or pretended not to.
He paused at the foot of the staircase, turning slightly toward her.
"This way," he said, offering his hand.
She stared at it for a moment. Then slowly placed her fingers into his palm.
They were cold.
Cassian closed his hand gently around hers, as though afraid too much pressure would break her, and guided her upward.
Not once did she speak. Not once did she look back.