Sapphire dipped beneath the surface, letting the warm water soak her hair before rising again, dragging her fingers through the tangle of curls. She lathered the soap, working it through her scalp, her eyes half-closed in relief. For once, she didn't feel like a fugitive or a burden, just a woman enjoying a moment of peace.
She let out a breath, soft and content, rubbing the salt mixture along her arms and shoulders. The lingering sweat, grime, and yesterday's exhaustion seemed to melt away with every pass of her hand.
Lord Typhon, still in the shadows, tilted his head slightly, his gloved fingers curling into his cloak. There was something disarming in how unguarded she looked—no sharp words, no stiff posture. Just her.
He told himself he was only watching out of duty, perhaps to chastise her for sneaking away. But he didn't move. Didn't speak.
The tension warred in him. Restraint against curiosity, duty against desire.
Then, as she rinsed the last of the soap from her skin, Sapphire paused. Her brows furrowed. She could feel it—that strange prickle on her skin, like being watched.
She turned slowly… scanning the trees.
Her gaze swept across the grove, water dripping silently from her fingers. The soft rustle of leaves in the breeze did little to soothe her unease.
"Who's there?" she called out, voice firm though her heart beat faster.
From behind the thick shadow of the beech tree, Typhon exhaled silently. There was no point hiding now.
He stepped forward, boots crunching softly against damp earth. The faint light of her beeswax torch caught the edge of his cloak, casting long shadows behind him.
Sapphire gasped, clutching the edge of the rock for cover. Her eyes widened the moment she recognized him.
"Milord?" she breathed, disbelief heavy in her tone.
Typhon's face remained unreadable.
"You have a curious habit of disobeying warnings," he said coolly, his voice even, though a flicker of something else danced in his eyes.
Sapphire swallowed her embarrassment and lifted her chin. "Forgive me, Milord. I needed to bathe."
"In poisoned water?" he raised a brow, folding his gloved hands behind his back. "You'll be more than just dirty if you're not careful."
"I tested it," she muttered, flustered. "It's warm, still… clean."
Typhon's gaze lingered a second longer than necessary before he turned away, offering her the smallest hint of privacy. "Five more minutes," he said. "Then return."
She blinked. "You're… not going to scold me?"
He paused. "Next time, bring a blade with you. Or better yet—don't wander alone."
Typhon's voice was quiet, but firm. "Did you at least bring a stallion?"
Sapphire froze mid-scrub, her eyes darting toward where his back remained respectfully turned.
"No, Milord," she answered hesitantly, rushing to rinse herself as the embarrassment crept in fast.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a sign of disapproval. "Of course you didn't."
She quickly stepped out, grabbing her cloth and dressing in haste, fingers fumbling as she tried to regain composure.
"You will ride with me," he said, still not facing her.
"But Milord," she tried, clutching her damp tunic, "the manor isn't far—"
"Get your things," he cut in, his tone final.
He strode ahead without waiting, heading toward a thicket of trees. Sapphire barely caught sight of him untying the reins of a dark stallion she hadn't even noticed was there.
How had she missed it?
She cursed under her breath, cheeks flushed with shame—though from cold or humiliation, she couldn't tell. Wrapping her cloak tighter, she followed, silently berating herself.
Of all the people to find her, it had to be him.
The ride back to the manor was cloaked in silence. Sapphire sat stiffly in front of Typhon, her hands gripping the saddle, heart thudding louder than the stallion's hooves. She dared not speak, not after what had just happened.
Typhon said nothing either. His presence behind her was steady, unreadable. The wind tugged at their cloaks, the cool morning air brushing against their faces, but neither made a sound.
As soon as the stallion came to a halt by the stables, Sapphire slid down without waiting for help.
"Thank you," she muttered, eyes fixed on the ground.
Before he could respond, she turned and rushed off, her damp hair clinging to her neck as she disappeared into the manor. Typhon watched her go, his expression unreadable, before handing the reins to a waiting stable hand.
***
The early morning air in Viremont Estate was unusually tense. A single letter — anonymous, sealed in red wax, and delivered by a hooded rider, had shattered the fragile calm of the prestigious household.
Inside the grand bedchamber, Lady Rosella lay curled beneath silken sheets, still dreaming, unaware of the storm about to befall her.
Then the door slammed open with thunderous force.
"Rosella!"
Her father's voice boomed, heavy with fury.
She jolted upright, confused, blinking against the light as Duke Viremont stormed in, fists clenched. Behind him, the Duchess, wide-eyed and flustered, reached for his arm.
"Darling, she's not decent—"
"She should've thought of that before shaming my name!" the Duke barked, eyes blazing.
Rosella barely had time to reach for her robe before her father yanked her off the bed. She gasped, wincing in pain.
"Father! What—"
"Silence!" he roared, throwing a crumpled letter at her chest. "Didn't I warn you about that venomous man? That schemer?"
Rosella's hands trembled as she unfolded the parchment.
Her heart dropped. Her blood drained.
It was unmistakably Albert's handwriting, flourished and arrogant as always:
"Last night was… exquisite, my dear Rosella. I find myself craving more of your company. Let's make it a habit.
Yours, A."
The ink blurred as tears stung her eyes.
"Rosella, darling… tell me it's not true…" her mother's voice was softer now, but no less broken, her hand on her mouth in disbelief.
But the damage was done.
The Duke turned away, breathing hard, nostrils flared.
"He is married. Still bound to Lady Sapphire by law and blood. And you, my daughter, have given our enemies a weapon."
Rosella gripped the letter, knuckles white, eyes swimming with tears as she fell to her knees before her father.
"Father… he loves me," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper beneath the weight of the shame now crushing her.
The Duke turned slowly, his face hardening with disbelief.
"He. Is. Married." Each word struck like a lash.
Rosella sobbed harder, clinging to the hem of his robe.
"He said it was over between them… That she was nothing to him. He swore it, Father."
The Duchess reached for her, but the Duke raised a hand, stopping her.
"And you believed that?" his voice was cold now.
"You, who were meant to be wed into royalty? Who I raised to protect this family's legacy?"
He snatched the letter from her, glaring at it as if it were poison.
" This scandal is no longer a whisper, it's spreading. The court will tear us apart. The King may demand an inquiry. Do you even understand what you've done?"
Rosella, shaking, looked up through her tears.
"Then let me marry him."
The Duchess gasped.
The Duke froze, then leaned in slowly.
"You'd rather chain yourself to a power-hungry baron who only wants access to Jethro's land… than preserve your honour?"
Rosella stared back, lips trembling.
"I love him."
The Duke's face darkened.
"No. You love the idea of him. But now that the world knows, he'll toss you aside like the rest."
He turned to the guards at the door.
"Send a raven to the King. And lock my daughter in her chambers until further notice."
Rosella's scream echoed as the guards approached.
"Father, please! Please don't do this!"
But the doors were already closing. And the cost of her choices had just begun.