The sun dipped low, casting golden streaks through the high windows of Sunspear Estate. The warm light painted the bedchamber in hues of amber and honey. Roland Lievan Castell sat at the center of the room, sprawled on a couch beside a polished table stacked with books.
He tried to lose himself in their pages, though his thoughts drifted constantly. Hours had passed, and still, she had not returned. His patience was practiced, yet each tick of the clock seemed to echo in the quiet room.
A sudden cold touch pressed against the back of his neck—steel. He froze. Slowly, eyes widening, he turned to find a long sword resting against his skin.
A familiar voice—hard, sharp, unmistakable—cut through the quiet of the room.
"Well aren't you comfortable," Roland's stomach knotted. A chill danced down his spine.
"If you were just any man entering my private chamber…"
The words came low, dangerous, but the tone carried something he recognized—Catalina.
"…your head would be cut off before you could even blink."
Catalina. There she was, the warrior, standing behind him, her long sword balanced against his nape.
Roland allowed a wry smile to twitch at his lips.
"Well, I suppose I would say the same to you, my love… if there were any woman bold enough to greet her husband with a sword to his throat."
He chuckled softly, though the tension in the room made the sound fragile.
Catalina exhaled, a subtle, controlled sigh, and withdrew the sword, letting it clatter lightly to the floor. She moved toward the window, the descending sun catching strands of her golden hair.
Roland exhaled, chest rising and falling heavily.
"You know that sword," he said, looking towards the ceremonial steel.
"The king gave it to you years ago. It's meant to honor your skill and achievements."
She did not turn, gaze fixed on the horizon. Her voice was calm, distant. "That sword is nothing but a reminder of pain… and the lives I have taken."
The room thickened with silence, the weight of her words pressing down. Roland opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
"Why are you here, Roland?" Her words were sharp yet measured. "I never allow visitors at my estate… whoever they may be."
Roland rose from the couch, frustration flickering across his features.
"Catalina! I am your husband. I have every right to come to you. I… I worry for you."
She still did not look at him.
"…Did you ever visit me or worry for me before, when I was at my lowest?" Her voice cut through him, a knife wrapped in silk.
The question left him mute, silence thick in the room. Slowly, he stepped toward her, chest tightening with remorse and longing.
"It was a mistake," he murmured, voice low, deliberate.
"But gods… I have regretted it every single day, Catalina." His hands reached out instinctively, pleading.
"Please… give me another chance. I will do better."
Roland's eyes softened, almost vulnerable, as if he were a loyal dog hoping for mercy.
Catalina slowly turned to face him, her expression unreadable, green eyes stripped of their usual warmth. Golden strands fell over her shoulders. The sun sank beneath the horizon, and the room was swallowed by shadows.
She moved toward him with a measured grace, every step deliberate, a warrior approaching the field of battle. Her height nearly matched his, and when they met, their eyes were level, sparking a quiet intensity between them.
The room darkened, shadows pooling across the polished floors, leaving only the faint shimmer of night in Roland's hair and the cool gleam of her eyes.
He cupped her cheeks gently, tilting his head toward hers. "I love you, Catalina… I've missed you. It's been far too long… I cannot stand being apart any longer."
Her face remained a mask, unreadable, almost blank. Yet her hands moved, resting lightly over his, adjusting against his warmth as though acknowledging—without words—the care he offered.
Roland's chest lifted with cautious hope. He leaned closer, closing his eyes, softening his lips toward hers. Catalina's eyes followed him, her eyes remaining open, unwavering.
When their lips met, it was gentle, careful, yet the warmth he sought—the spark of her love—remained just out of reach.
Though their lips had touched each other, her love remained untouched by the warmth he so desperately sought. Only the empty promises lingered… cold, unyielding.
For the briefest moment, Catalina closed her eyes, her cheek pressing faintly against his hand. To Roland, it was everything—an opening, a sign that her heart might yet soften. He deepened the kiss, savoring the fragile illusion of closeness.
Yet suddenly she drew back, her face was as unreadable as stone. Her green eyes, unblinking in the dim glow of the chamber, held none of the tenderness he craved.
"Do not mistake my silence for forgiveness," she said quietly, her voice calm but sharp enough to cut through his hope.
Roland's smile faltered, clinging to the ghost of warmth he thought he'd felt.
Catalina turned away, the soft swish of her golden hair brushing against her shoulders. Her back faced him now, posture tall and unyielding. With her head tilted just enough, one sharp green eye glanced at him over her shoulder.
"Did you get what you wanted, Roland?" she asked.
"If so… leave."
She faced the window again, as if the night sky mattered more than his presence.
Roland's chest tightened, flustered heat rising in his face. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the sting of humiliation sinking deep.
"So that's it?" he snapped, his voice low but edged with anger.
"You draw me in, only to cast me aside as if I were nothing more than—"
"I won't tell you again." Catalina's tone cut through his words like steel drawn from its sheath.
Still, she didn't turn to look at him.
"Leave this place. Or I'll drag you out by force myself."
The silence that followed was crushing. Roland stood frozen, his pride and longing twisted into one unbearable knot. Words crowded his throat, yet none dared escape. For once, he was powerless—silenced not by her sword, but by her will.
Catalina did not move. She did not waste another glance, nor another breath.
At last, Roland turned sharply on his heel, retreating with a storm in his chest. The heavy slam of the chamber door echoed through the estate as he left, leaving only silence in his wake.
Catalina let out a slow breath, her shoulders easing as the weight of his presence vanished. She closed her eyes, standing alone before the window. The peace that followed felt fragile, fleeting… yet it was peace all the same.
Still, beneath that calm, her heart ached—an old wound, stinging as though time itself refused to let it fade.
Her fingers curled against the sill, nails biting into the wood.
If only he had been there when I needed him most… If only he had seen me then…. Before everything was lost.
The thought lingered like a shadow, heavy and unshakable. No matter how she tried, the memory of loss clung to her, reminding her of what could never return.
The estate gates shut behind him with a hollow clang, the sound chasing Roland into the night. His carriage waited, lamps flickering like tired sentries. He climbed inside, his jaw tight, his movements sharp with unspent anger.
As the wheels groaned into motion, he slumped back against the velvet seat, a hand pressed hard against his brow. The silence inside was deafening, broken only by the steady rhythm of hooves striking stone.
Her words echoed, merciless. Leave this place. Or I'll drag you out by force myself.
He clenched his fist. His pride burned, raw and wounded.
"Damn it…" he muttered, voice low, bitter.
"She'd drag me out with her own hands if she wished—and gods damn it, she could."
His gaze turned to the darkened window. The forests rushed by in blurs of black and silver moonlight. For a moment, his reflection stared back at him—eyes tired, lips curved with frustration, but something else lingered there too… Hunger. Not for power, not for wealth… but for her.
He remembered the weight of her hand against his, the brief press of her cheek leaning into his palm. That fleeting surrender had ignited hope, a spark he refused to let her smother.
"No," he whispered fiercely to the empty cabin.
"I won't let this distance keep us apart, Catalina… I will not let you go."
The carriage jolted over uneven stone, the lantern light swaying, shadows shifting across his face. He leaned forward, eyes burning like embers in the dim glow.
"Even if you hate me… even if you strike me down with those cold words a thousand times… I will find a way back to you."
Outside, the night stretched endlessly, the road winding back toward the Castell estate. Inside, Roland's vow clung to him, heavy and unrelenting. His heart pounded—not with defeat, but with determination sharpened by rejection.
As the carriage vanished into the dark horizon, one truth remained.. He would not surrender. Not now. Not ever.