Catherine's heels clicked softly against the polished white marble floors as she stepped cautiously deeper into the grand entrance hall. Her fingers clutched lightly at the edge of Brooklyn's coat as she tried to absorb the dizzying beauty of the royal palace.
The chandeliers above weren't just crystals—they were enchanted glass, floating without chains, glowing with soft amber light that warmed the golden pillars lining the corridor. Intricate frescoes ran along the ceiling, painted with swirling clouds, angels, and kings of old—each corner, each surface, touched by time and talent.
"Oh…"
She stopped mid-step, her mouth slightly agape. Her eyes roamed the towering arched windows, the velvet red carpets that rolled endlessly forward, and the walls carved with floral gold-leaf patterns.
She didn't even notice Brooklyn had paused until his finger gently tapped her chin, lifting her mouth closed.
"Careful, little dove," he said, his voice teasing. "You'll catch flies if you stare with your mouth open."
She blinked up at him, cheeks slowly flushing. "I-I just… it's…" She couldn't find the words.
"It's just a palace," he said casually, though a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Just a palace?" she scoffed softly, her voice hushed. "This place looks like the gods decided to retire here."
He chuckled, resting a hand on the small of her back. "Well, if the gods built it, I guess I'll have to remind them who owns it now."
She lightly elbowed him in the ribs as they resumed walking forward.
Behind them, just a few steps away, King George and Queen Marliana had slowed their pace, watching the couple ahead.
"She's magnificent," Marliana murmured to her husband, her tone warm and almost wistful. "Do you see how he looks at her?"
George's lips lifted. "Like he's finally found home."
Marliana nodded. "And after all the darkness he's endured… I was always afraid he'd remain alone. But look—just look at him."
Brooklyn, just ahead, was helping Catherine up a short set of steps with a hand on her waist, the other lightly guiding her fingers. His expression—usually guarded and sharp—had softened around the edges. There was something unspoken in the way he glanced at her every few seconds.
"She fits," George whispered.
"Like she was made to," Marliana agreed, eyes shining.
"She's stronger than she looks," George added.
"She has to be," the Queen replied, "to tame a hurricane like our son."
They both smiled to themselves before continuing behind.
As the party ascended the final staircase, Catherine's gaze caught a massive oil painting on the landing—a full-sized portrait of a younger Brooklyn, perhaps twenty, standing tall in full royal attire. The colors were fierce: deep crimson and gold, his eyes burning with cold detachment.
She stared at it, frozen in place.
Brooklyn noticed and stepped up beside her. "My favorite," he said sarcastically, crossing his arms.
"Why are you so angry in this?" she asked, eyes flicking between the portrait and the man beside her. "You look like you're planning ten different murders."
"I was," he replied dryly. "That was the week I threatened to drown my cousin in the lake over estate disputes."
She slowly turned to him.
"You didn't," she whispered.
He leaned in. "Would you believe me if I said I nearly did?"
"…Yes," she said without hesitation.
Brooklyn smirked proudly. "That's my girl."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile was genuine.
A moment later, Queen Marliana caught up with them. "You'll find the royal wing a bit less overwhelming, Catherine," she said gently, laying a hand on the girl's shoulder. "I had them air it out and make sure your room was beside Brooklyn's."
"Oh… thank you, Your Maj—Marliana," Catherine quickly corrected herself.
"You're our guest," Marliana said. "But more than that, you're important to him. That makes you important to us."
Catherine looked down shyly, her voice small. "I still can't believe I'm here…"
"Believe it," Brooklyn murmured at her ear. "You're exactly where you should be."
As they entered the royal wing, the ornate halls grew quieter, the world retreating into gold-dusted calm. Brooklyn opened a door to reveal her room—spacious yet intimate, walls the color of champagne silk, bed carved from ivory-ashwood, and soft light streaming through translucent curtains.
Catherine walked in, stunned silent again.
"So," he leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. "Still think I'm the black sheep?"
She turned slowly, smiling wide. "Yes."
His eyebrow twitched. "You're impossible."
"And you love it," she said boldly.
He took a slow step forward, one brow raised, and cupped her cheek with lazy fondness. "Unfortunately… I do."
She blushed and lowered her gaze.
And behind them, unseen, Queen Marliana and King George shared a quiet nod—two hearts finally at peace.
The moonlight spilled softly through the tall arched windows of the east wing, bathing the ivory hall in a pale silver hue. The long corridor was quiet save for the gentle crackling of the hearth, and the occasional soft clink of porcelain as tea was poured.
Brooklyn sat on a velvet-backed chair by the fire, his robe loose over a dark silk shirt. His fingers rested on the armrest, and his gaze lingered on the firelight rather than the tea set before him. The room was otherwise still, until the sound of approaching steps broke the silence.
King George entered first, a thoughtful calm in his stride. Queen Marliana followed closely, a robe of royal blue wrapped around her and her silvered hair tied in a loose braid down her back.
"She's gone to bed?" Marliana asked gently as she lowered herself beside him.
Brooklyn nodded. "Yes. Fell asleep while reading. She mumbled something about her dream involving a dancing goat and then passed out."
George chuckled. "I always knew she was an odd one. But endearing."
"She's exhausted," Brooklyn said quietly. "Too much change, too quickly."
The king and queen exchanged a look. Marliana leaned forward, her voice laced with concern. "Has she… healed, Brooklyn? Truly healed?"
Brooklyn's jaw clenched for a moment. His eyes drifted to the fire again before answering. "Healing doesn't mean forgetting. She'll always carry it. But she's no longer drowning."
George crossed one leg over the other, steepling his fingers. "What she endured was… monstrous. Even as a king, I cannot comprehend the cruelty of what was done to her."
"She's stronger than all of us," Brooklyn said. "She never begged. Never complained. She just… endured. And when I met her, she was still standing—barely, but she was standing."
Marliana placed a hand gently on her son's arm. "Why her, Brooklyn? Of all the women in the realm—noble, royal, famed and flawless—you chose her. A broken girl from a fallen family. Why?"
He was silent for a long while.
And then, in a voice softer than his usual tone, he answered, "Because… she doesn't see me the way the world does."
They both looked at him quietly as he continued.
"To others, I'm a Duke. Cold. Ruthless. A weapon to be wielded. But to her?" He smiled faintly. "I'm just… a man. A tired, flawed man who sometimes forgets to sleep and drinks far too much wine when he's anxious. She sees past the titles and the shadows. She doesn't flinch when I raise my voice. She holds my hand when I don't ask."
He paused, his voice laced with quiet emotion.
"She makes the nightmares quieter. And when I look at her… I remember I'm not doomed to be my father's son."
George raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't that bad."
Brooklyn gave him a dry look. "You once hurled a throne at the ambassador of Gaelin."
"He insulted your mother," George retorted.
Marliana smacked her husband's shoulder. "And nearly caused a war!"
They all chuckled for a moment, the tension in the room loosening.
"She's perfect," Marliana said warmly. "Not because she's gentle or beautiful or obedient—but because she challenges you. Softly. Quietly. She's the anchor you've always needed."
Brooklyn nodded. "She doesn't even know how important she's become to me."
George poured a fresh cup of tea and handed it to his son. "You'll tell her one day. Perhaps with fewer metaphors and less sarcasm."
Brooklyn smirked, sipping the tea. "Maybe."
A moment later, George leaned back, the firelight casting shadows across his face.
"And you were right," the king added, his tone shifting slightly. "About Damien and Christiana."
Brooklyn's eyes sharpened slightly.
"It was a wise decision," George continued. "Removing them. I might've hesitated, but you didn't. And look how quickly peace has returned to Faolinshire."
"They were parasites," Brooklyn said without flinching. "Leeching off the title, poisoning Catherine's mind behind the curtains. I tolerated them until I couldn't."
Marliana sighed, folding her hands in her lap. "Their exile sent a message. That cruelty masked as nobility won't be tolerated anymore."
Brooklyn's gaze darkened slightly. "And that if anyone dares try to humiliate her again… I'll burn every estate from Faolinshire to Varence."
His parents didn't disagree.
Marliana reached out and touched his cheek gently. "You've grown… so much."
He tilted his head just slightly, leaning into the touch for a brief, rare second. "She taught me."
There was a pause, warm and heavy.
Then George chuckled. "Well… sleep. Both of you have had a long journey. And if I know your mother, she'll make Catherine try on at least twenty dresses for the royal banquet tomorrow."
Brooklyn stood, exhaling slowly. "She's going to complain."
"But she'll do it," Marliana smiled, rising beside him. "Because she wants to be part of this world… your world."
As Brooklyn walked back toward his room, down the quiet silver-lit corridor, his thoughts drifted to the girl lying asleep in the large bed, lost in dreamworld and unaware of the words spoken in her absence.
He pushed open the door silently. The room smelled faintly of lavender and parchment.
She was curled on her side, clutching a pillow, her hair a river of scarlet-blonde on the sheets.
He slipped into bed beside her.
Her brow twitched.
"…Brooklyn?" she murmured sleepily.
He whispered back, brushing a lock of hair from her face.
"Always."
The grand dining hall of the Faolinshire estate was no less than a banquet hall for kings. Columns carved with griffons and roses lined the walls, while tall windows spilled golden morning light across the breakfast table, where the air was sweet with the scent of honeyed bread, warm butter, and cinnamon fruit tarts.
Catherine sat beside Brooklyn, dressed in a soft cream gown with tiny gold buttons trailing down the front. Her scarlet-blonde hair was half-pinned, the rest falling lazily around her shoulders. She tried her best to sit composed and elegant, but her nerves tugged at her with every small clink of silverware. This wasn't just any breakfast—it was breakfast with royalty.
Across the table, Queen Marliana sipped delicately from her cup, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief. King George was already halfway through his second croissant, his beard flecked with sugar.
"You eat like you haven't been fed in a year," Marliana quipped, narrowing her eyes with a smirk.
"I'm a man of appetite and glory," George replied dramatically. "And glory demands fuel."
Catherine bit back a giggle. Brooklyn merely sipped his coffee with a sigh.
Marliana turned her attention to Catherine, the morning light catching the silver streaks in her hair. "You know, dear, I think it's time we told you how we met."
Brooklyn gave an exasperated grunt. "Oh, please, not again."
"I want to know," Catherine said quickly, eyes lighting up. "Really."
George grinned. "Ah, my moment of triumph. Let me set the stage…"
"No, no," Marliana interjected, raising her hand. "If he tells it, you'll believe I fell head over heels the moment I saw his stupid face."
"Because you did."
"I did not! I was tricked!"
"You weren't tricked," George said with a chuckle. "You were wooed."
"You bribed my horse handler to swap my stallion for a lazy mule," she said flatly. "And then heroically appeared on your steed to rescue me when the mule refused to move."
Catherine gasped. "You didn't."
Brooklyn groaned. "He did."
George puffed his chest with pride. "I had read she was fond of bold gestures and poetic rescues. I was simply playing my role."
"You were insufferable," Marliana muttered fondly. "And you quoted an entire love poem before helping me down."
Brooklyn raised an eyebrow. "He what?"
Catherine leaned forward eagerly. "What poem?"
"'To the lady who commands my nights and haunts my thoughts at dawn,'" George began dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. "'May your heart gallop to mine as swiftly as your steed—'"
"That's enough," Marliana cut in, laughing. "It was raining, and he slipped while lifting me. Landed right on his rear."
Catherine burst into laughter, her shyness forgotten. "No!"
George grinned shamelessly. "It was a tactical fall to lower her defenses."
"She laughed so hard," Marliana said, eyes warm with memory, "and for some reason… that laughter made me say yes to tea."
Brooklyn looked mildly horrified. "So you married him because he bribed a mule and made you laugh while slipping in the mud?"
"That, and he never stopped trying," Marliana smiled. "For all his absurdity, he loved fiercely. He still does."
The room grew a little quieter at that.
Brooklyn glanced at Catherine beside him. She was smiling quietly, hands folded on her lap, and her cheeks warm with color. Her heart felt full, in a way she hadn't known for years.
"Your turn," George said, breaking the silence. "Tell us how you two met."
Brooklyn smirked. "I was looking to kill someone."
Catherine choked on her tea.
Marliana blinked. "Excuse me?"
"She slapped me," he added casually, picking up his toast.
"I didn't know he was him," Catherine huffed. "I thought he was some arrogant noble harassing maids."
"And you still slapped me."
"I'd do it again."
"Please do. It was a turning point."
George burst out laughing. "You're made for each other."
Marliana sighed dramatically. "What a courtship."
They continued talking, the table filled with stories—George's ridiculous attempts at cooking (which resulted in a kitchen fire), Marliana's disguise as a handmaid once to catch a cheating noble, and the time young Brooklyn ran off at age seven to "conquer a nearby mountain" with a loaf of bread and a wooden sword.
"He came back three hours later because he got scared of a frog," George added gleefully.
Brooklyn narrowed his eyes. "You're about to lose breakfast rights."
"I raised a fearsome warrior," George declared. "Vanquisher of frogs."
Even Catherine couldn't help it—she was laughing so hard her sides ached.
And when Brooklyn looked at her then, with her head tilted back and eyes shining, her laughter soft and full in this warm golden hall, he thought:
Yes. This was worth it.
No war or exile or blood had ever led to something this whole.
The moon hung low over Faolinshire Palace, its silver light cascading through the arched windows like a whisper of calm. In the Empress Garden, tucked between whispering white roses and tall hedges veiled in dew, Queen Marliana sat on a carved stone bench with Catherine beside her. The air was cool but gentle, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine.
Catherine sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, her long scarlet-blonde hair flowing over her shoulders like a silken curtain. She wore a soft night robe of ivory lace, but she still seemed stiff—as though her soul, even in this peaceful place, could not completely rest.
Marliana poured a bit of warm spiced tea from a small porcelain kettle nestled between them. Her voice was soft, almost coaxing. "You've grown quieter since dinner, dear one. I hope we haven't overwhelmed you."
Catherine shook her head. "No, not at all. It's just… I never imagined a family like this. I didn't think I'd see one again."
Marliana turned her gaze on her with that rare queenly grace—one that could cut or comfort, and tonight it was the latter.
"You remind me of myself," the Queen said. "More than you might believe."
Catherine blinked. "Me? But you… you seem so fearless."
Marliana chuckled, brushing a silver curl behind her ear. "Fearless? I was terrified when I came to this palace. I had lost my parents young, and my marriage was arranged to a man I had only met once. I was seventeen, trembling behind every smile. But George—" she smiled wistfully, "he was stubborn and kind and entirely ridiculous."
She placed her hand gently over Catherine's.
"I've heard about what you endured," she said finally, her voice lower, gentler. "The abduction. The imprisonment. Four years. And the rescue… by my son."
Catherine didn't speak at first. She stared down at their joined hands, throat tight. When she did speak, her voice cracked.
"It wasn't just the pain, Your Majesty. It was the silence. The days when I forgot the sound of my own voice. When the only thing I could think of was surviving the next hour. They called me useless. They mocked me. And I began to believe them. Until Brooklyn found me."
Her jaw trembled. "He didn't just rescue me from them. He pulled me out of myself."
Marliana said nothing for a moment. Then she reached out and gently cupped Catherine's cheek, brushing her thumb beneath her eye. "You don't have to tell me more. I know enough. You're strong, Catherine. Much stronger than you believe."
A single tear slipped down Catherine's cheek. "Sometimes I still wake up and expect to find myself back there. In that cell. And I look around for him—to make sure I'm free."
"That's not weakness, child. That's memory. It lingers like a bruise… but bruises fade."
Catherine let out a shivering breath, then gave a faint smile. "Brooklyn once told me something like that. But you… you say it softer."
Marliana leaned in and kissed her forehead. "That's a mother's duty. To say it softly."
Catherine froze, just for a heartbeat. Her shoulders tensed… then slowly loosened.
A mother's duty.
She hadn't heard a voice like this in years. Not since her own mother's lullabies had been swallowed by war. Not since her last memory of home had crumbled to screams.
"Thank you," Catherine whispered. "For speaking to me like this. For… seeing me."
Marliana smiled, her violet eyes warm and steady. "You're not just my son's beloved. You are a woman reborn. And I would be proud to call you daughter."
A long silence followed. Not the kind that suffocates—but the kind that heals.
"I want to be someone Brooklyn is proud of," Catherine said after a while.
"He already is. He just pretends not to be because he's insufferable," Marliana teased, earning the smallest giggle.
The queen rose and extended her hand. Catherine took it, and they began walking back toward the palace beneath the pale light of the stars.
"Sleep, dear one," Marliana said softly. "Let the past fade, just a little more tonight."
And Catherine did.
For the first time in days, her dreams were soft.
The sun poured like gold over the polished stones of the royal courtyard as Brooklyn and Catherine prepared to leave. Their carriage, black with silver trim and pulled by Faolinshire's finest midnight steeds, awaited near the ivy-wrapped pillars. Anderson was already up front, checking the reins. Servants bustled quietly around them, loading the last of the travel cases.
King George gave Brooklyn a brief hug—firm, fatherly, and quick to hide the emotion in his eyes. "Take care of her, son."
"I always do," Brooklyn replied softly, casting a glance at Catherine.
Queen Marliana stepped forward next, brushing a lock of Catherine's hair behind her ear as she gave her one last look. "You are always welcome here, Catherine. You are one of us now."
"I… thank you, Your Majesty. I'll try to—"
"No," Marliana said, her tone leaving no room for doubt. "You don't need to try. You already are."
Brooklyn extended a hand to her. Catherine took it. And without another word, they entered the carriage, doors closing behind them with a quiet thump as the wheels began to roll out of the palace grounds.
—
The rhythm of the road beneath them was soft and lulling, the trees passing like a blur of green silk outside the windows. For a while, neither of them spoke.
Catherine sat with her hands folded on her lap, eyes following the movement of clouds in the sky.
Then Brooklyn broke the silence.
"So?" he asked, tilting his head toward her. "How were they?"
She blinked and turned toward him. "Your parents?"
He nodded, watching her closely.
Catherine's lips curled into a faint, hesitant smile. "They were… warm. Queen Marliana is graceful but strong. And your father has a kindness in his eyes he tries to hide behind jokes."
Brooklyn smirked. "Sounds like someone else I know."
She gave him a look. "You don't hide it behind jokes. You hide it behind sarcasm, glowering, and a hundred layers of brooding."
"Ah, my charm," he said, placing a hand on his chest mockingly.
Then, as the carriage gently rocked forward, he reached out, arms wrapping around her waist, lifting her lightly and setting her gently on his lap.
She gave a small gasp, half-laughing, half-surprised. "Brooklyn—"
He didn't say anything for a few seconds. He only stared at her. At her lips, her eyes, her gentle confusion, the way she still looked surprised every time he held her like this.
Then finally, he spoke, voice quiet.
"Why are you still scared?"
Her breath caught.
"I'm not—" she began, but the look in his amber eyes stopped her. He wasn't accusing. He wasn't challenging. He was… asking. Carefully. Like someone stepping into a room with broken glass on the floor.
"I don't mean right now," he added, brushing a knuckle against her cheek. "I mean in your eyes. Every time someone says something kind. Every time someone touches you gently. You tense, like it's all temporary. Like it'll vanish."
She looked away. "Because… sometimes I think it will. Because it always did before."
He said nothing. He let her continue.
"Every time I had something warm—it was taken away. When I was little. When I grew up. When I was imprisoned. They made me think kindness was a trap. That hope was foolish."
Her voice cracked. "You're the first person who stayed. Who never looked at me like I was broken."
He tightened his hold around her waist, drawing her closer. Her head rested against his chest now, the steady beat of his heart grounding her.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered.
"I know," she said, closing her eyes. "But it's like my soul doesn't."
"You're allowed to be scared," he murmured into her hair. "You're allowed to be slow. To doubt. Just don't shut me out."
She looked up at him. Her voice came out small. "Will I always carry it with me? That fear?"
Brooklyn ran his hand down her back, his voice quieter than ever. "Yes. But I'll carry it too. So you won't have to do it alone."
She felt the truth of it in his voice—not a promise made in moonlight or roses, but one etched in steel and sorrow.
Then he tilted her chin up, brushing a kiss onto her forehead.
Her voice trembled, but this time with something softer.
"I want to heal. I want to be worthy."
"You already are," he said. "You've survived what would have crushed empires."
She smiled into his chest, cheeks wet with a few silent tears. He didn't point them out. Just held her, silently watching the road ahead.
The future was unknown.
But it was no longer empty.
Rain fell in chaotic sheets over the cobbled streets of Faolinshire, the sky torn open by streaks of lightning that lit up the world like a curse from the heavens. Thunder cracked overhead as the townspeople rushed for shelter, stalls overturned, fabrics soaked, and livestock panicking under the screaming winds.
Somewhere in the chaos, Catherine vanished.
She had been sent out on a simple errand—visiting the tailor for fitting schedules and picking up a few gifts Marliana had sent her through the royal courier. She left with two maids and a guard, her hood drawn up against the grey sky. She was smiling when she left.
But when the storm broke, and the clouds descended like a beast from the mountains, no one could see more than a foot ahead.
Hours passed.
The skies began to clear in the late evening, but there was no sign of Catherine.
Brooklyn's boots echoed hard through the marble floors of the estate as he returned from an urgent meeting with the captain of the guards. His amber eyes, sharp and storm-dark, scanned every servant's face. Hushed whispers circled him like vultures:
"She's still not back—"
"Captain said her maid fainted near the square—"
"They found the carriage overturned—"
And then—
"Your Grace…"
Anderson, the steward, approached slowly, face paler than usual, holding a single envelope in gloved hands.
Brooklyn took one look at the seal and knew.
It was not the royal sigil. It was a raven, wings folded around two swords. A symbol that had not been seen since the day he exiled Damien and Christiana.
His jaw clenched as he snatched the letter from Anderson's hand, breaking the seal with a violent rip.
The paper was clean. The handwriting—too elegant.
"To His Grace, Brooklyn Harperwood, Duke of Faolinshire,
Or should we say—Failure of Faolinshire?"
"You took everything from us. Power. Title. Dignity. You banished us as if we were nothing but insects beneath your boot. You thought the game was over."
"It wasn't."
"Today, we took what you value most. Catherine Sprisheare is now in our possession. She is alive. But for how long—that depends on how you play."
"We shall send a place. And a time. You will come alone."
"Let us see, Duke, if your precious little flower can survive in the shadows we've endured."
~ Damien & Christiana
Brooklyn stood still.
Completely still.
His heart, usually tempered by steel resolve, felt like it stopped beating for a second.
The paper in his hand trembled ever so slightly—just before it crumpled violently in his fist.
He didn't scream. He didn't panic.
But his aura darkened.
"ANDERSON!" he barked, voice like a thunderclap through the halls.
"Yes, Your Grace!" the steward rushed forward.
"Assemble my black guard. Immediately. No one leaves this estate. No rumors spread. Not until I say so."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And I want the surveillance teams on every border checkpoint between here and the Midlands. Now."
"But… Your Grace, the letter—said to come alone—"
Brooklyn turned his head slowly, his amber eyes glowing like embers in the dim torchlight.
"I will go alone," he said, voice low, cold. "But they are not making it out alive."
Anderson swallowed hard. "Understood, sire."
Brooklyn turned, heading toward his chamber—not to rest. To prepare. To draw up the knives he hadn't touched in years. The ones he once swore never to use again.
His thoughts raced, dark and seething:
If they hurt her…
If they even touched a single strand of her hair…
Then Faolinshire shall once again witness what its Duke once was.
A storm had taken her.
But a greater storm was coming for them.