The sun had risen with a lazy warmth that morning, spreading gold across the marble floors of Faolinshire Castle. The breeze carried the scent of distant roses, and the garden beyond shimmered with dew-kissed calm.
Brooklyn walked beside her at a gentle pace, their footsteps light against the stone pathway.
She clutched his sleeve lightly with her left hand, her right still slightly trembling from fatigue. Every few steps, he would glance down at her—his amber eyes soft, unreadable.
Catherine, trying her best to walk gracefully in her gown, felt the intensity of his gaze almost like heat on her cheek. After a while, she turned her head and blinked up at him, her expression shy and flustered.
"…Is something wrong?" she asked nervously, stopping under the arching vines of a flowering trellis.
Brooklyn tilted his head, pausing as well. "Hm?"
"You're staring," she whispered. "Is something on my face…?"
He smiled a little—not the cold, calculating curve that made men cower, but something faintly amused.
"You just look very cute right now."
Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened.
She immediately looked away, face glowing a light pink as she turned her head sharply toward the garden. "D-Don't say that so casually…"
"I meant it," he said with a faint shrug.
She frowned—pouting now, clearly trying not to smile as she tugged gently at his sleeve. "You shouldn't tease me like that. I'll start thinking you're kind or something…"
Brooklyn raised an eyebrow at her dramatic little protest. Then without warning, he reached over and gently patted her head.
"You should think I'm kind," he said simply.
Catherine flinched slightly—not in fear, but in surprise. She wasn't used to soft touches. Not from men. Not from anyone in years.
He was careful with her. Always. His fingers rested just briefly on her hair, ruffling it a little, before dropping away.
Her hands trembled slightly, but she smiled again. This time, without holding it back.
"…That's not fair," she whispered. "You're going to make me believe I'm safe here."
"You are," he said immediately. "Believe it."
She paused, her throat tightening. Her chest swelled with something she didn't recognize at first—comfort, maybe.
They reached the garden steps, and she tried to step down on her own.
But Brooklyn noticed her sway.
Without a word, he reached out and placed a hand beneath her elbow, steadying her.
"I'm fine," she whispered stubbornly.
"I know," he said calmly. "Let me help anyway."
So they walked beneath the garden arches, her hand resting lightly on his arm, their shadows moving together across the stone.
She didn't ask where they were going. She didn't care.
She was walking beside him.
And for now, that was enough.
The gentle breeze rustled through the tall hedges of Faolinshire's western garden, sending tiny petals fluttering down onto the stone benches below. The morning sun hung lazily over the horizon, casting a pale golden hue across the dewy grass. Birds chirped quietly overhead, careful not to disturb the solemn silence shared by the two souls seated under a blooming magnolia tree.
Brooklyn sat beside Catherine, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, amber eyes fixed on the ground. She sat quietly too, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress, occasionally glancing at him, then away again. The silence between them wasn't heavy — it was warm, like a blanket of unspoken understanding.
Finally, her voice broke the quiet, soft and curious.
"Why are you always so quiet…?"
She didn't look at him as she asked, her gaze fixed on a cluster of daisies blooming near the stone path. "Is something wrong?"
Brooklyn didn't answer immediately. He stared forward for a long moment, then slowly exhaled.
"I just am," he replied at last, voice low and even. "Empty, maybe."
Catherine turned toward him, blinking softly. He didn't meet her eyes.
"All my life, I've been chasing victories. Strength. Honor. Discipline. Kingdom. But the more I got, the more I lost…" he paused, struggling. "I spend every waking moment thinking of how to become better, how to win, how to keep everything I've built safe. And in that… I forgot how to feel anything else."
The wind blew gently, brushing strands of his flush brown hair across his forehead. Catherine watched him, frozen, listening.
"I don't talk to anyone about it," he went on. "Because everyone has their own problems. Greater ones, maybe. And even if they didn't… why should they care?" He turned toward her then, something cracked in his amber gaze. "Why would anyone care that the cold Duke of Faolinshire feels like he's… rotting inside?"
Catherine's breath hitched. She wanted to reach out — she wanted to hold his hand, touch his shoulder, anything — but she couldn't move.
Brooklyn gave a hollow laugh under his breath. "I'm frustrated, Catherine. And sometimes… I hate myself. Every day I wake up, I think, 'Why am I still here?'" His eyes flicked toward the horizon. "If there was an option to vanish, painlessly, quietly, I'd probably take it."
Silence returned like a wave crashing over them, but it wasn't the same as before. It stung now.
Then Catherine turned toward him. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"If you want," she said, trembling just slightly, "you can share your problems with me… I'll listen. Every time."
He looked at her.
"I'll never say your pain doesn't matter. And… even if I can't fix it, I'll sit with you in the dark, if that's what it takes." Her jet-green eyes sparkled in the morning light, still full of fear, but something braver glowed beneath the surface.
Brooklyn stared at her for a long while. No words formed in his throat. No expression crossed his face. He only stared.
But somehow, for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel quite so empty anymore.
The magnolia petals drifted lazily in the air, their ivory blush casting gentle shadows over the cobblestone garden path. A calm silence held the air between them, interrupted only by the quiet rustle of leaves and the occasional birdcall. Catherine sat beside Brooklyn on the stone bench, still gazing at him with eyes wide and fragile. Her earlier words still hung between them — a vow, a trust, a wound laid bare.
Brooklyn's gaze softened. He turned toward her, and before she could look away, he gently raised his hand and placed it on her head. His gloved fingers nestled lightly into her scarlet-blonde hair, his palm warm.
"You look cute when you're shy," he said softly, his voice almost teasing.
The words struck her like a thunderclap. Catherine's breath hitched, and her entire face went crimson. She froze, her eyes darting downward, hands clenching the edges of her dress as though trying to hide her expression. The tips of her ears were red, trembling slightly. She had never been complimented that way before — never with sincerity, never with kindness. Never without cruelty behind it.
"I–I…" she tried to speak but couldn't find any words, overwhelmed.
Brooklyn gave a faint chuckle, only the smallest curve of his lips betraying the gesture. He leaned back a little, watching her face. The morning light glimmered across her cheeks, soft and alive.
"Are you happy here?" he asked after a moment. "With me?"
Catherine looked up. Her lips trembled slightly as she searched his face, unsure if it was a trick question, unsure if this dream was real. But his amber eyes were steady, not demanding, just… waiting.
She nodded. "Yes," she whispered. "I am."
Then her voice cracked, and she leaned in just slightly, her hand clutching her chest. "And I don't want to lose you… You're the only one who kept me safe. The only one who didn't look at me like I was… broken."
Brooklyn blinked.
And then, slowly, almost instinctively, he reached over and pulled her closer. One arm wrapped gently around her small shoulders, drawing her against his side. Her head rested lightly against his chest. She stiffened at first, stunned, unsure, but the warmth of him… it melted every wall she had built.
"I will always keep you safe," he murmured, his voice quiet, sure. "No matter what."
Catherine closed her eyes. His heartbeat was calm — strong — and it echoed against her ear like a lullaby.
She didn't cry this time. She didn't tremble. For once, there was no pain in her chest, no fear of the next hour. Only peace.
And the quiet promise of safety in his arms.
Far from the serene gardens of Faolinshire, in the marbled halls of the royal inner courts of Harthmoor, a lady paced the length of her grand chamber. Her heels echoed sharply with each step, boots clicking against the imported mosaic flooring. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn aside, letting sunlight flood across her polished desk where an open letter lay — ink still glistening.
Christiana Alorsbuth stood tall, proud, and beautiful. With deep red hair cascading like silk fire and eyes that shimmered a ruthless violet, she was a striking figure — captivating and commanding. Her presence often quieted rooms not by grace, but by calculation.
She read the letter again, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "The Duke… has brought home a woman," she muttered to herself. "And not just any woman. A broken noble, once presumed dead. Catherine Sprisheare."
She dragged her perfectly manicured fingers over the paper, nails clicking lightly. "How curious. How romantic. How... foolish."
The Duke of Faolinshire — Brooklyn Harperwood — was not an easy man. That was what made her want him. In him, she saw not just power and title, but a storm of control, silence, and danger. And danger made her breathless. In the circles of nobility, she had long whispered in his direction — appearances at his events, sending him gifts, subtle gestures. All deflected with cold disinterest.
She had been patient. But now, someone else had his attention.
Christiana turned from the window and called out. "Emilia."
A young maid rushed in, eyes wide. "Yes, my lady?"
"Prepare the carriage. We ride for Faolinshire at dawn. Bring the orchid-blue dress. The one with the lace neck. And a gift basket. Something elegant. Nothing too soft."
The maid nodded quickly and vanished. Christiana walked toward her full-length mirror and studied herself — every strand of hair, every line of her jaw, every glint of ambition in her violet eyes. She did not see herself as a mere contender.
She saw herself as the rightful Duchess.
"She'll be fragile," she murmured. "Scared. Timid. Probably clinging to his kindness like a drowning bird."
She leaned closer to the mirror.
"Let's see how long you last, little dove."
And with a final smile, she turned and strode from the room, the scent of jasmine perfume trailing behind her — sweet, intoxicating, and quietly venomous.
The hunt had begun.
While shadows of violet ambition crept toward Faolinshire, another storm brewed in the southern reaches of the kingdom — one far more personal, more tangled in blood and pride.
In the grand training courtyard of Irondrake, the clash of steel echoed beneath the setting sun. Squires scurried about, hauling weapons and calling orders, but at the center of it all stood a man untouched by the chaos — tall, lean, with a blade in hand and fury in his eyes.
Damien Harperwood.
The younger brother of Duke Brooklyn.
His dark ash-blond hair clung to his forehead, slick with sweat, and his striking amber eyes — nearly identical to Brooklyn's — burned hotter than the embers at the forge behind him. His strikes were precise, powerful. But they were not the strikes of practice.
They were the strikes of resentment.
He stopped, wiping his brow with the back of his gauntlet, and looked to the knight before him. "Again," he muttered.
The older knight hesitated. "My lord, you've already—"
"I said again."
The clash resumed, more brutal than before.
It wasn't just about swordplay. It never had been.
Damien had lived for years under his brother's long shadow. Brooklyn, the chosen heir, the disciplined warborn tactician, the cold perfect son. Damien — wild, clever, sharp-tongued — was always one step behind, always the lesser.
He had tried to earn respect through duels, politics, charm. But none of it mattered. The world always whispered the same thing: Brooklyn this. Brooklyn that.
And now, the news.
A girl. Broken and bloodstained. Rescued from the Empire.
And she was living in his brother's estate.
She must be beautiful, Damien thought bitterly, sheathing his blade.
He left the courtyard, tearing the leather gloves from his hands. His squire, a lanky boy with wild curls, ran to him.
"My lord! Message from Faolinshire."
Damien paused, snatching the sealed letter. He recognized the wax immediately — Anderson's personal crest. So Brooklyn's old hound thinks I should be kept informed… interesting.
He tore it open with one motion and read the contents, his eyes narrowing with each line. By the end, his jaw was tight.
"She's not just any girl," Damien muttered. "She's Catherine Sprisheare. The last flame of a fallen house."
The way Anderson wrote of her — her recovery, her trauma, her innocence — made Damien bristle. Of course Brooklyn would save a shattered bird and have the world adore him for it. Of course he'd get to play hero again.
Damien tossed the letter into the fireplace and watched it curl into ash.
"No," he whispered. "Not this time."
He turned toward his chambers. "Prepare my horse. And my finest coat."
The squire hesitated. "You're… going to Faolinshire?"
Damien smiled. Not kindly.
"I'm going to meet my dear brother," he said, "and the woman who's stolen his attention."
As he left the room, the flames behind him flickered wildly — like the fire now lit in his chest.
And Damien Harperwood was not the kind to burn alone.
Far from the blooming peace of Faolinshire, in a marble estate embroidered in purple and sapphire, two noblewomen sat across from one another beneath an arched window where the light of morning poured in gently.
One — Christiana Alorsbuth — crimson-haired, violet-eyed, sharp as ice and twice as cold.
The other — Luciane Alorsbuth — her elder sister by three years.
Luciane was nothing like Christiana. Her hair, a muted shade of wine-brown, was drawn into a neat braid cascading over her shoulder. Her eyes were gray — calm and pensive. Her posture soft, yet unshakably firm. She had always been known in court circles as "the wise one" of the Alorsbuth sisters. And unlike Christiana, Luciane did not hunger for power.
She hungered for peace.
"I know what you're planning," Luciane said, her voice low, barely louder than the turning of the page in her lap.
Christiana's mouth curved into a mocking smile. "Is that so? Then you must already know I intend to make that little broken doll regret ever crawling into his arms."
Luciane said nothing at first. She simply folded the letter she'd been reading — one discreetly delivered from Anderson of Faolinshire himself.
"She's not what you think she is," Luciane said finally. "She's not a rival. She's a girl who was nearly broken beyond repair."
"Oh please," Christiana scoffed. "I've heard it all. 'Tragic past', 'noble blood', 'saved by the Duke'—it's a perfect little fairytale, isn't it? But he's mine. Brooklyn always admired strength. Not sniveling orphans."
Luciane stood.
Her movements were graceful, but there was no gentleness now. Her eyes hardened as she stepped closer, the loose folds of her twilight gown whispering against the marble tiles.
"You think love is about conquest," she said. "That Brooklyn is some prize to be taken. But the truth is, he's a man who has buried himself so deeply into silence that even happiness feels foreign to him."
Christiana blinked.
"Catherine… may not be powerful," Luciane continued, "but she makes him smile. She makes him soft. Do you even know the last time Brooklyn let someone close to him?"
"…And you care why?" Christiana narrowed her eyes.
Luciane turned toward the window, her hand resting on the stone.
"Because I was once in love with him," she said quietly.
A stillness fell in the room.
"I never told anyone. I knew he'd never return it. But I understood him. And now, I've seen how he looks at her. There's something… warm. Protective. Real."
Christiana's lips thinned into a line.
Luciane faced her again.
"That's why I will help her. Not because she's noble. Not because she's frail. But because she is the one who has begun to mend the one man who never let anyone near his pain."
She walked to her desk and took a sealed parchment from the drawer — her own letter, addressed to Anderson.
"I've arranged for her to have one of our old healing maids, discreetly. One who can help with her nerves. And if Christiana… if you try anything—"
Christiana turned away, arms folded. "Don't flatter yourself. I don't need to 'try' anything. Let's see how long the little sparrow lasts in the lion's den."
Luciane didn't respond.
She didn't need to.
She knew war was coming. Not one of swords, but of whispers, of stares, of cruel dances across ballroom floors and words that cut deeper than daggers.
But Catherine would not face it alone.
Not while Luciane breathed.