Duke Killian Lionhart was a man whose name carried weight in every corner of the empire. In garrisons and military camps, soldiers saluted his very mention. In market stalls, merchants claimed their loyalty to him as though it lent their goods a higher worth. And in villages far from the capital, mothers told their children stories of his victories, shaping him into a figure of myth. His reputation was not simply honor; it had become part of the empire's foundation.
Killian had earned it. He was the empire's war hero, unmatched in leadership and skill. Campaign after campaign bore his mark—rebellions silenced, borders secured, battles won before they could consume the land. The Emperor himself had draped him with medals and awarded him titles that few in history had held. Yet Killian accepted them with that same stern composure he carried everywhere, as though they were merely another duty.
His appearance matched his legend. He was tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of man whose presence could command silence without a word. His hair, golden as late summer fields, caught the light when he moved. His blue eyes, cold as the ocean and just as endless, seemed to cut through the masks of those around him. His pale skin bore no scars from his years of war—only one mark beneath his left eye, a small dark mole, so distinct that even strangers spoke of it.
But behind this grandeur, there lay a truth whispered in noble circles: Killian was already taken by someone. A Lady who was just as grandeur to match his status. It was Lady Janette Cassio, daughter of Grand Duke Alexandro Cassio, the man who stood as one of the empire's most powerful figures.
Grand Duke Alexandro Cassio was a statesman feared and respected in equal measure. His counsel shaped imperial policy, his armies had marched beside the Emperor's own, and his loyalty was rewarded with influence that rivaled the crown's closest advisors. For decades, his family's name had stood as a pillar of the empire's stability. To challenge a Cassio was to court disaster.
Janette was his only daughter—aside from his step children— and from her earliest years, Alexandro had raised her with both love and expectation. She was not a daughter sheltered behind silken veils; she was educated as one might educate a son destined to inherit. She read military treatises before most noble girls learned embroidery, debated strategy with commanders, and absorbed the art of politics at her father's side. In time, she earned her own quiet reputation. Men twice her age listened when she spoke, for her insight was sharp, her reasoning sound. Some victories credited to the empire's generals bore the hidden hand of Janette Cassio.
Yet for all her brilliance, her heart belonged to Killian Lionhart. She loved him not as a calculation, nor as her father's chosen match, but as a woman who had lost her soul to another's presence. From the moment she first saw him—his bearing, his voice, his unshakable command—something within her shifted. She carried the memory of him like a fire in her chest. She studied the curve of his lips when he spoke, the way his eyes narrowed in thought, the subtle tilt of his head when listening. These details, meaningless to others, became treasures to her.
When her father raised the question of marriage, Janette did not hesitate. She told him plainly that she would wed no one else, but Duke Killian Lionhart only.
For Grand Duke Cassio, it was a match of perfect sense: his daughter, his prodigy, bound to the empire's greatest war hero. For Janette, it was more—it was the chance to stand at Killian's side, to be the woman who shared his victories and soothed his burdens.
Their wedding was an event of grandeur, celebrated across the empire as the joining of intellect and valor. On the surface, it was flawless. Beneath, it was fragile. Although Janette's love for him was infinite, but it was certainly not reciprocated the same way by him.
The early years of their marriage were marked by civility, not closeness. Killian was never cruel, but he kept a distance that Janette could not bridge. He was polite in company, formal in private, and silent in the chambers they shared. Janette poured herself into the marriage, giving her loyalty, her tenderness, her patience, but her devotion found no answer. Their marriage remained cold, unconsummated, and within the noble circles, whispers grew louder.
Five years had passed with their marriage, yet there was no change in their dynamics. Janette was still patiently waiting for Killian to open the door of his heart for her, while Killian kept an invisible distance between them.
"Five years, and no heir," the duchesses murmured.
"He does not love her," said others.
"A Grand Duke's daughter, and yet so pitiable."
The words were rarely spoken to her face, yet she felt them in every glance, every half-smile. And still, she clung to hope. She told herself that Killian's distance was not rejection but discipline. That one day, his heart would change, and he would see her not as duty but as his wife in truth.
That fragile hope shattered when Lady Wisteria Bernadette arrived.
Wisteria, a young widow of noble birth, had lost her husband suddenly. Killian, bound by duty, declared it his responsibility to protect her. He brought her into The Lionhart Manor, announcing it as a matter of honor. The empire spoke of his compassion. But to Janette, it was betrayal sharp enough to draw blood.
The manor itself seemed to change. Servants who had once answered Janette with certainty now hesitated, unsure where their allegiance lay. Banquets that were hers by right turned into stages for Wisteria's elegance.
And Killian—always distant with Janette—began to change in her presence. His voice softened when he spoke to Wisteria. He smiled, a rare, unguarded smile, and he gave to another woman what Janette had long prayed to see even once. He let Wisteria walk beside him in the gardens, free of the rigid formality he had always kept with Janette.
It was a thousand small cuts, each one invisible, yet each one fatal.
The empire noticed too.
"She holds his title, but not his heart."
"Without a child, she has no claim."
"Lady Wisteria was always better suited for him."
"Surely there must be something wrong in her for not being able to secure the Duke's heart."
Janette endured, as she always had. But the wound grew deeper with every day. Her love, once a fire that gave her strength, became ashes that burned her from within.
Although she had always kept her calm and never lose hope, the arrival of Lady Wisteria had made her question her status as well. Every change in the manor had struck her like thorns and her trust was broken each passing day as she saw Lady Wisteria and Duke Killian spend time together. It felt like a mockery of her devotion, her loyalty which she kept for Killian for the past 5 years of their marriage— no, rather it was years before their marriage since the moment she laid her eyes on him.
The decision came one storm-filled night. The wind howled against the tall windows, and the manor seemed to tremble. Janette paced her chambers, her mind replaying every smile Killian had given Wisteria, every silence he had given her. She had whispered her decision before in the dark, rehearsed it in her thoughts, but tonight she could no longer delay.
"This is the only way," she murmured to herself, steadying her trembling hands.
Her footsteps echoed through the hall, each one heavier than the last. The portraits of past Lionharts stared down with disapproval, their painted eyes seeming to judge her boldness. The brass handle of Killian's study door was cold, but she grasped it firmly and pushed it open.
Killian looked up from his desk, papers scattered before him. His quill hovered mid-stroke, and his eyes fixed on her with quiet intensity.
"Janette," he said, voice steady, though his surprise was plain. "It is late. Why are you here?"
She drew in a breath, nails digging into her palms. "Killian," she began softly, her voice trembling but resolute. "I must speak plainly tonight."
"Plainly? About what?" he asked dismissively.
Her throat tightened, but she forced the words forward. "I… I can no longer live this way... I wish for us to part."
"I want a divorce!!"
The quill snapped in his hand, ink spattering across the desk like shattered glass. For a moment, silence swallowed the room. His gaze lifted, sharp as a blade.
"Divorce?" His voice was low, deliberate, dangerous.
"You dare speak that word to me?"
"Yes," she said, her chest heaving.
"For years I have given you my love, my devotion. I have endured silence, coldness, humiliation. And now, with Lady Wisteria here, I am stripped of even the little that remained. You never loved me, Killian. You saved your smiles for her. You saved your kindness for her. What is left for me but this? I cannot remain your wife in name only. I refuse—"
"Enough!" His roar cracked the silence, the candles shuddering in their holders. His hands slammed against the desk, papers scattering.
Janette flinched, but she did not move. Her chin lifted, though tears shone in her eyes.
"No, Killian. Not enough."
"I have been silent long enough. For five years, I have endured your distance. I have told myself you would change. But I see now… you never will. And I cannot go on like this. If I cannot have your heart, then at least I will have my freedom."
His jaw tightened, his voice sharp and furious. "You speak of freedom as though this marriage were chains. Do you understand the insult you bring to me? To my house? To your father's house?"
Her lips trembled, but she did not look away. "I understand more than you believe. My father gave me to you with pride, believing his daughter would be honored. I gave myself to you with love, believing I would be cherished. Instead, I have been nothing but a figurehead. Do not speak to me of insult, Killian. I have lived with it every day."
The room seemed to shrink, the air heavy with the storm between them. Killian rose, towering over her, fury radiating like heat.
But Janette, though trembling, stood firm.
For years, she had been silent. For years, she had lived in the shadow of hope.
Tonight, she broke the silence. Tonight, she chose freedom.
And the empire would feel the echo of her choice.