Morning light spilled through the east courtyard, brushing the marble pillars with pale gold. The Evandelle estate had been in motion since dawn — servants rushing with trunks, stable hands tightening reins, guards assembling in formation. The scent of travel clung to the air: leather oil, parchment, and the faint metallic tang of anticipation.
I stood by the carriage steps, gloved hands clasped loosely behind me. The house around us was a hum of restrained chaos, but my attention was elsewhere — on the figure standing a few paces away, quietly adjusting the cuff of his borrowed coat.
Ray.
He blended into the morning bustle almost too easily now. The scars along his jaw caught the light when he turned, the only sign of a life spent outside privilege. He had the kind of stillness that drew no attention but commanded awareness all the same.
When Father first learned I wanted him to come with us, his silence had been deafening.
"You want him to accompany you?" Alaric's tone carried that measured edge — not quite anger, but closer to disbelief.
I didn't flinch. "He can serve as a temporary guard. Until we reach Dravenhart lands."
"You know nothing about him, Zelene."
"I know enough," I said evenly. "And he owes me his life."
That earned a flicker of something across his face — not approval, but recognition. "You're asking me to risk our entire house on the word of a man who won't even tell you his past."
"I'm asking you," I countered quietly, "to trust my judgment."
A pause. Then his gaze softened — faintly, but there it was. "You sound too much like your mother when you argue."
From the corner, Seraphine's lips curved. "That's why she wins."
He sighed, running a hand across his jaw, the faintest trace of defeat in the motion. "Very well. He rides with us — but he stays under watch. And Zelene..."
"Yes, Father?"
"The Aether is restless in you lately. Don't draw on it unless you must. It protects you, yes — but it's also what would mark you most."
"I understand."
He studied me a moment longer, then finally nodded. "Then see it done."
That was an hour ago.
Now, as I watched Ray fasten the saddle of one of the lesser horses, I wondered what he was thinking. He hadn't spoken since dawn — hadn't even asked where we were headed.
Caelan passed behind me, his armor half-fastened, a lazy smirk in place. "So that's the mysterious stranger?"
"Don't start."
"I wasn't going to." He paused, lowering his voice. "Just... keep him close. The northern roads aren't kind to strangers."
"I'll manage."
He grinned faintly. "I know you will. That's what worries me."
Elara, already seated inside the carriage, leaned out the window. "Can we please leave before the sun sets? You two look like you're about to duel."
Caelan rolled his eyes, then vaulted up onto his horse.
I turned back toward Ray, stepping closer. "You'll ride with the rear guard. Keep your head down. If anyone asks, you're in service to House Evandelle — no further explanation."
He looked at me, calm as ever. "And if they ask who I serve, specifically?"
I hesitated, meeting his gaze. "Say you serve me."
For the first time, something almost like surprise flickered behind his expression — gone as quickly as it came. He nodded once. "As you wish."
When I climbed into the carriage, Father was already seated across from Mother, his posture composed but his eyes far away — calculating, always.
"Is everything ready?" he asked.
"Yes," I said softly. "We can leave."
Outside, the banners of House Evandelle fluttered in the wind — silver thread against pale blue, the sigil of the crescent and flame. As the carriage wheels began to turn, I glanced through the window one last time.
Ray rode near the back of the convoy, silent and alert, a ghost trailing in our wake.
The Aether within me pulsed once — faintly, curiously — as if acknowledging something I couldn't yet name.
Dravenhart awaited us beyond the northern hills.
And deep down, I already knew — whatever awaited there would not just be a mourning court or formal condolences.
It would be the beginning of something that the Aether had been whispering toward for months.
Something it hadn't yet dared to show me.
---
The journey to Dravenhart's territory took three days.
By the time we reached the borders of Dravenhart, the skies had turned a washed-out gray, the kind that seemed to stretch endlessly, swallowing color and sound alike. The further we went, the quieter the world became — as though even the wind dared not disturb this part of the realm.
Dravenhart's lands were nothing like Evandelle. Gone were the soft valleys and gilded trees of home; here the terrain was austere, carved from stone and shadow. Pines rose like sentinels, their spires sharp against the horizon. The air was colder, metallic, as if the land itself exhaled iron and memory.
When the fortress finally came into view, I understood why the name Dravenhart carried weight.
It wasn't a palace. It was a bastion — high walls of dark granite veined with silver, built more for defense than beauty. Towers reached into the clouds like jagged teeth, and the banners that fluttered along the parapets bore the sigil of a raven crowned in flame.
Power and grief intertwined here.
It was a place that did not forgive weakness.
Our convoy slowed as the massive iron gates opened with a resonant groan. Guards in black and silver armor lined the causeway, their faces hidden behind helms shaped like beaked masks. Every step of the horses' hooves echoed — too loud in the hush.
Inside the courtyard, servants bowed as we descended from the carriage.
Father was first, his expression schooled into diplomatic calm. Mother followed, graceful even in mourning black. Caelan dismounted easily, scanning the surroundings like the soldier he'd once been.
I stepped down last. The cold air bit through my gloves, carrying the faint scent of smoke and rain.
And then — Kael Dravenhart appeared.
The man who, in a matter of weeks, would become my fiancé.
He was standing near the steps of the main hall, half-silhouetted against the gray light. Dressed in ceremonial black trimmed with silver, the new head of Dravenhart was a figure carved of restraint and command.
His gaze swept over us — polite, distant — and when his eyes met mine, the air seemed to shift.
Not recognition. Not quite hostility either. Something in between.
"Duke Alaric," he greeted, his voice low, controlled, and devoid of warmth. "Lady Seraphine. Lord Caelan. Lady Elara and... Lady Zelene."
Each name was measured, as though he were weighing its worth before speaking it aloud.
"Lord Dravenhart," Father returned, his tone equally formal. "Our house extends its condolences for your loss. The late Lord was a man of formidable legacy."
Kael inclined his head. "He was."
A pause. "You honor us with your presence. The halls have been... quieter since his passing."
His eyes flicked to me briefly at that — unreadable, but lingering. The faintest spark of something I couldn't place — recognition, maybe, or curiosity.
"The guest chambers have been prepared," Kael continued. "The rites begin tomorrow. Until then, you have our hospitality."
He turned toward the great doors, and the soldiers followed without a word. Even the sound of their boots was orderly — too exact, too rehearsed.
Inside, the fortress was colder still. The halls stretched endlessly, lined with tall windows that filtered pale light across polished stone. Portraits of Dravenharts past watched from the walls — generations of faces carrying the same sharp lines, the same eyes that never softened.
Our rooms were spacious but bare. Everything here was practical, efficient. No gilded trim, no wasted space.
Father stayed behind after the servants left, standing by the tall window overlooking the courtyard. "He's not what I expected," he murmured, almost to himself.
"Cold?" I asked.
"Careful," he corrected. "Men who speak little tend to listen too well."
Caelan leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Dravenhart's heir has always been rumored to be... difficult. But after today, I'm not sure if that's arrogance or survival."
I glanced back out the window. Kael was below, speaking with his soldiers near the stables. The sky had gone heavy and gray, snow threatening to fall. There was no mistaking the authority in his movements — every gesture, every word, weighed and deliberate.
"I don't think he's cold," I said finally. "Just... tired."
Mother gave me a look — thoughtful, but tinged with concern. "Be careful with empathy, Zelene. Men like Kael Dravenhart don't wear their grief; they wield it."
I didn't answer.
Because as I watched him from the window, surrounded by stone and silence, I couldn't help but wonder — if this was what power looked like when stripped of everything else.
Not grandeur. Not joy. Just the burden of staying unbroken.