They made it home just as the last light of evening thinned into dusk.
Ashenveil Manor stood quiet and familiar, its windows glowing warmly against the cooling air. Before the carriage had fully stopped, a small figure was already waiting at the door, standing far too straight for someone pretending not to be anxious.
Lowen.
He had been counting the minutes. He always did.
The moment Denova stepped down, the child's restraint shattered. He ran forward, arms lifting as if he'd rehearsed the motion all afternoon.
"You're back," he said, trying, and failing to sound calm. "I waited."
Denova didn't even hesitate. She crouched and caught him in a tight embrace, his small frame pressing against her chest. "I can tell," she said softly, brushing a hand through his hair. "You waited very bravely."
Lowen sniffed, then muttered, "I didn't move at all. Not even once."
Elarion raised a brow. "Not even when the wind nearly knocked you over?"
Lowen glanced up at him, offended. "I'm not that small."
Denova laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and something eased in her chest. The child clung to her for a moment longer before finally pulling back, cheeks pink from both cold and pride.
She felt it then, that quiet warmth blooming inside her. Proof that the boy was healing, little by little. And that somehow, she was too.
Elarion watched the scene in silence, a faint smile curving his lips. He said nothing, but the way his gaze lingered, soft, almost reverent betrayed him.
After a moment, he cleared his throat. "All right," he said gently. "Let's go inside before the wind decides to steal all of us."
Lowen nodded solemnly. "I don't like the wind."
"I had a feeling," Elarion replied.
They stepped into the manor together, warmth replacing the chill. As servants quietly resumed their duties, Kael appeared at Elarion's side, leaning in just enough to whisper.
"We found something," Kael murmured. "A reference. Old. About the devil."
Elarion's expression barely changed, but Denova noticed the subtle shift, the tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders squared.
"I'll handle it," Elarion said quietly.
Kael nodded and vanished as efficiently as he had appeared.
Elarion turned back to Denova, his voice lighter than his eyes. "I'll need to go to my office for a bit. Something important came up. But I'll come down later, and we'll have breakfast together."
Lowen look at him. "You promised?"
Denova smiled at the child's seriousness then look at the Duke who's smiling. "You should keep your word."
Meanwhile, the servants had begun to notice that something was… off about Head Patricia.
It started small. She would pause in the middle of the corridor, tray in hand, frowning at the air as if she'd forgotten where she was going. At other times, she would give the same instruction twice sometimes three times to the same maid, blinking in confusion when gently reminded she had already done so.
"Didn't she just ask us to polish the silver?" one servant whispered to another.
"Yes," the other replied, glancing worriedly down the hall, "and ten minutes ago, too."
Patricia had always been precise. Reliable. The kind of woman who ran the Duke's manor like a well-oiled clock. So when she forgot a schedule or mixed up names, concern rippled quietly through the staff.
What none of them knew was that Patricia's mind was far away trapped in a single night she could not stop replaying.
She had loved Yoter for years.
Ever since her first week at the manor, when she had been young, nervous, and carrying a stack of linens far too heavy for her arms, and Yoter nine years her senior, calm and impossibly composed had wordlessly taken half the load from her. He hadn't smiled. He rarely did. But he had slowed his pace to match hers, and somehow, that had been enough.
From then on, she noticed everything.
The way he adjusted his gloves before work. The way his voice softened when speaking to frightened staff. The way he stood perfectly straight, like a pillar meant to hold the whole house upright.
Every morning, Patricia woke early with the same thought. If I do well today, maybe he'll notice.
She worked harder than anyone. Memorized routines. Anticipated needs before they were spoken. Not for praise, but for the quiet hope that one day, Yoter might look at her and see more than a fellow servant.
But no matter how close they worked, how often their paths crossed, the distance between them never changed. Trusted colleagues. Nothing more.
Still, she endured.
And then Denova arrived.
Patricia had watched in disbelief as the Duke once distant, cold, carved of ice began to soften, smile, and laugh. Watching that transformation planted a dangerous thought in Patricia's heart.
If even the Duke can change… maybe so can Yoter.
That fragile hope gave her courage.
The night she confessed, her hands shook so badly she had to lace her fingers together to steady them. She told him everything, how long she had admired him, how hard she had worked, how she didn't expect anything grand, just… honesty.
Yoter listened in silence.
Then he spoke gently. Kindly.
And said no.
He hadn't even finished explaining when Patricia forced a smile, bowed quickly, and said, "Please forget I said anything," before turning and running down the hall like a frightened girl.
She locked herself in her room that night and cried until her chest hurt.
Not because he rejected her but because she knew, with devastating clarity, that her feelings would never be returned.
Love is beautiful only if the feelings are mutual, one-sided love is a slow, quiet kind of pain.
Now, as Patricia stood in the corridor, staring blankly at a list she'd already memorized years ago, she made her decision.
She would resign.
Not immediately, she still had duties, pride, responsibility, but in two months. Enough time to put everything in order. Enough time to leave without causing disruption.
What was the point of clinging to something that would never be hers?
That night, alone in her room, Patricia closed her eyes swollen from tears and whispered to the dark, "I tried."
And for the first time in years, she allowed herself to rest not as the perfect head maid, not as a woman in love, but simply as someone nursing a broken heart.
The Duke barely had time to remove his coat before Kael followed him into the office, closing the heavy door behind them with unusual care.
"Your Grace," Kael said, lowering his voice, though the walls were thick and loyal. "We found something."
Elarion paused, one hand still resting on the back of his chair. "Something," he repeated, calm but sharp. "Or something dangerous?"
Kael exhaled. "A book that's older than most of the restricted archives. It mentions contracts, true contracts with devils. Names, conditions, prices."
That was enough.
Elarion straightened fully now. "Every page," he said without hesitation. "Every symbol, every margin note. I want nothing missed. Quietly."
Kael nodded, already halfway to turning back. "I'll send the knights. The careful ones."
"Send the paranoid ones," Elarion added dryly. "This isn't the sort of thing we can afford optimism with."
That earned a brief, tense smile from Kael before he left.
Left alone, Elarion sat at his desk and stared at the mountain of reports waiting for him. Trade routes. Border disputes. Noble complaints that felt painfully small compared to the shadow pressing at the edge of his thoughts. He forced himself to read anyway. Forced himself to be a Duke before he was anything else.
Still, his gaze kept drifting toward the clock.
By the time he finally descended for breakfast, Lowen saw him first.
"The Duke!" the boy announced, nearly standing on his chair. "You're late."
Elarion raised a brow. "I apologize. Important work."
Lowen crossed his arms in a way that was clearly borrowed from Denova. "You promised breakfast together."
Denova laughed, unable to help herself. "He's been holding you accountable."
"As he should," Elarion said, pulling out his chair. "I accept my judgment."
Breakfast unfolded warmly after that. Lowen narrated his entire morning in great detail, how many steps he counted on the stairs, how Yoter had let him pour the water himself (and how only a little spilled), and how he planned to draw a bird later because birds could go anywhere they wanted.
"That's a very ambitious bird," Denova said solemnly.
"It's brave," Lowen corrected.
Something in her chest softened.
When the meal ended, Denova leaned closer to the boy. "I'm going to work in the garden today. My little workshop."
Lowen's eyes lit up. "Can I come?"
"Only if you promise not to touch sharp things like scissors."
He grinned. "Promise."
Later, in the quiet of the back garden, Denova sketched while Lowen sat beside her, drawing shapes that only barely resembled anything living. She explained fabrics, movement, how dresses had to breathe when people moved. Lowen listened to her as though the rest of the world had quietly stepped aside.
He sat on the edge of the small table, chin resting in his hands, eyes following every movement of Denova's pencil as it dance across the parchment. Each line she drew seemed deliberate, confident like she knew exactly where beauty should exist before it ever appeared. When she spoke about fabrics and colors, about how certain cuts could make someone feel brave or gentle or strong, Lowen absorbed every word with solemn attention.
"So if you use silk here," she explained, tapping the sketch lightly, "it will move when they walk. Like it's alive."
Lowen's eyes widened. "Like it's breathing?"
She smiled at him. "Exactly like that."
He nodded slowly, as if this were the most important lesson he had ever learned. To him, she wasn't just drawing dresses, she was creating small miracles. And as he watched her, he thought, in the quiet, unguarded way children do, that she was the kindest person he had ever known. The kind of person who listened, who stayed, who made the world feel less sharp.
Denova glanced up and caught him staring. "What is it?" she asked gently.
Lowen shook his head, embarrassed. "Nothing," he said quickly, then added, "You just… look happy when you draw."
She paused, surprised by the honesty. Then, softly, "I think I am."
The moment lingered warm, fragile, almost sacred until a knock broke the air.
Patricia stood at the door, hands folded neatly, though there was a flicker of unease in her eyes. "My lady," she said carefully, "His Highness the Crown Prince has arrived. He is requesting an audience with you."
Denova blinked. "The prince?"
"Yes," Patricia confirmed. "He says he wishes to personally thank you for agreeing to design a gown for Her Majesty, the Empress."
Somewhere at the audience room, Prince Altheron stood straightening his gloves for the third time, his heart beating far faster than court etiquette would ever allow. With the Duke away on business, this was his chance, his only chance to speak to Denova without standing in another man's shadow.
Lowen looked between Denova and the door, sensing the shift. "Is he important?" he asked quietly.
Denova smiled, brushing a hand through his hair. "Important enough to not keep waiting." she said, rising to her feet.
And as she moved toward the door, the calm of the room slipped away replaced by the subtle tension of something new stepping into her carefully balanced world.