The night was still, broken only by the whisper of pages turning and the faint crackle of candlelight. Inside the Lionhart estate library, Duchess Janette sat alone beneath the tall windows, her eyes moving carefully over a folded piece of parchment that wasn't supposed to be there.
It wasn't one of the estate's records. The handwriting was far too personal, the strokes too familiar.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded the letter again, reading the same line for the fifth time.
"I often wonder if you still think of that spring by the river, or if time has erased me from your heart. It's as if I was never part of your life, you have just moved on without me. I do not ask for your reply, only that you remember I once made you smile, the smile which you no longer exhibit and only smile as a gesture of formalities..."
Her throat tightened. The wax seal—broken long ago—bore the faint crest of House Vellmont, a name she hadn't spoken since her marriage. The words weren't scandalous, but they carried something worse: memory.
Something she had let go, so many years ago. Yet the past never truly let's go of you.
Janette pressed her lips together, staring at the candle flame as if it could burn the letter clean from existence. She should have destroyed it. Yet something—loneliness, perhaps—had kept her from doing so.
A soft knock came from the door. Her head snapped up.
"Your Grace?" a young maid's voice called gently. "Would you like me to bring more candles? It's near midnight."
"Yes... Yes, bring them in," Janette answered quickly, sliding the letter beneath one of the heavy ledgers on her desk. She adjusted the open pages in front of her, pretending to read.
The door creaked open, and the maid entered, balancing a tray with fresh candles and a small pot of tea.
The faint aroma of chamomile filled the air.
"Shall I pour you a cup, my lady?" the maid asked timidly.
Janette smiled faintly, though her voice carried fatigue. "Please do. And tell the staff not to wait up for me. I'll finish here soon."
The maid nodded, pouring the steaming tea carefully. "Yes, Your Grace. I'll leave the pot here, then."
Janette nodded, waiting until the girl bowed and left the room before she let out a quiet sigh of relief. Her heart was still racing. She reached for the letter again—but before her fingers could touch it, the sound of firm footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Her pulse quickened. The steps were too measured, too sure.
Killian.
She quickly snatched the letter, slid it under a nearby stack of ledgers, and arranged her writing quill neatly as though she'd been working all along.
When the door opened, she was already poised, pen in hand, head bowed over a page filled with ink.
Killian's voice broke the silence, low and dry. "Are the estate's records planning a rebellion?"
Janette's hand twitched. She looked up, startled, forcing a composed smile. "Killian? I didn't hear you come in."
"That is because you were drowning yourself in ink." He walked in without waiting for an invitation. The faint scent of cold air and steel clung to him.
Janette straightened in her seat, trying not to appear flustered. "I'm just ensuring all the accounts are balanced," she said, lowering her gaze to the papers again. "If I don't, who will?"
Killian leaned closer to the desk, scanning the rows of numbers she'd hastily scribbled earlier to disguise her distraction.
"You read this for leisure?"
She let out a small laugh, a practiced sound meant to fill silence. "Leisure is hardly the word. Someone must manage the estate, and you are hardly here during the day. You'd be surprised how easily things change and any moment of negligence could result in chaos."
One of the servants—an older man named Gerrit—appeared quietly at the doorway, bowing. "Your Graces, shall I bring more candles? Or perhaps the fire stoked?"
Killian glanced toward him. "No, that will be all. The Duchess and I won't stay long."
"Yes, my lord." Gerrit bowed and left, closing the door gently behind him.
When they were alone again, Killian's gaze lingered on Janette. He noticed the faint ink stains on her fingers, the tired slump in her shoulders she tried so hard to hide.
"You take too much upon yourself," he said finally, voice quiet but firm.
Her smile didn't waver, though it lacked warmth. "Someone must."
He tilted his head slightly, studying her. "And what am I to do, then? Train and fight while you bury yourself alive in parchment?"
Janette swallowed, her heart fluttering in a way she couldn't name. "You are The Duke. The empire calls for you. I cannot wield a sword, but I can wield a quill. If we are not balanced, the household cannot run."
Killian said nothing at first. The candlelight flickered across his face, softening his usual sharpness. "If you wear yourself to the bone," he murmured, "there will be no duchess left to rule with her quill."
Janette blinked, startled. The tone wasn't teasing—it was something gentler, almost protective. She looked away quickly, hiding the warmth rising in her cheeks.
"You exaggerate. I'm hardly wasting away. Actually, I'm doing pretty good."
"You think I do not see?" he asked, leaning slightly on the desk. "You rise before dawn, sleep long after everyone else, and yet you sit here again tonight. Tell me, Janette—was this the life you wished for?"
The question struck her more deeply than she expected. She bit the inside of her lip, her gaze flicking to the stack of ledgers that now hid her secret letter. For a moment, she feared he might sense her guilt—not for overwork, but for the hidden words lying beneath his hand.
"To be honest," she said softly, forcing composure, "it's easier not to think when I'm occupied."
Killian's eyes softened briefly, though his tone remained even.
"Then I'll give you something better to occupy you. Come with me tomorrow."
She blinked. "Tomorrow?"
He nodded. "To the training grounds. Watch me practice."
Janette hesitated. "Watch you… with the sword?"
"Of course." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Surely my duchess deserves to see what keeps me from these ledgers you love so much."
For a fleeting second, the tension in her chest eased. His tone—teasing, but not cruel—felt like sunlight after weeks of cloud. She found herself smiling despite her confusion. "If it would not trouble you…"
"It would trouble me more if you refused," he replied lightly.
Janette lowered her gaze, her pulse steadying. "Then I will come."
Killian's expression softened. "Good. And for tonight," he said, gently taking the quill from her hand, "enough work."
Before she could protest, he closed the ledger, his fingers brushing hers. Her breath caught, but he didn't notice—or perhaps he did and chose not to mention it. He simply turned, walking toward the door.
"Get some rest," he said over his shoulder.
When he was gone, Janette sat motionless for a long while. The faint sound of his retreating footsteps echoed down the corridor. Only when the silence returned did she lift the top ledger, pulling the hidden letter free.
Her eyes lingered on the familiar handwriting one last time before she folded it neatly and threw it at the fireplace. The flames flickered, casting a soft shadow across her face.
"Some things," she whispered to herself, "are better left unread."
Outside, the wind sighed against the windows, carrying the faint echo of soldiers training in the distance. Tomorrow, she would step into that world—his world. But tonight, she sat alone with her thoughts, the letter, and the quiet ache of what once was.