The air changed before the land did.
Aveline felt it the moment the carriage crossed into the North—an invisible weight pressing against her skin, sharper than the cold wind that slipped through the seams of the carriage. The South had been warm, vibrant, loud in its abundance.
The North was silent. The winds really do cut like a blade, Alden, she thought as she ventured into her new home.
Gray skies stretched endlessly above barren plains dusted with frost despite the season. Villages appeared sparse and weather-worn, buildings huddled together as if bracing for the cold winds together.
Aveline watched from behind the carriage window.
Commoners lined the roads-not in welcome, but in watchfulness. Their clothes were thick and mended repeatedly, their faces hardened by years of struggle. Some stared openly. Others turned away.
A few did not bother hiding the hatred in their eyes.
Whispers followed the carriage.
"Cursed…"
"South-born…"
"Sent by the King…"
Aveline's expression did not change. Lina, by her side, was silently seething. Who were they to talk about her savior like that?
But Aveline had grown accustomed to the look. She had seen that look before-in the Faylinn estate, in the capital's shadows, in the eyes of those who had decided who she was without ever knowing her name.
So this is the North, she thought. Proud. Wounded. Unforgiving.
She did not blame them.
If a cursed daughter of the South had been sent to her lands by royal command, she might have felt the same.
**********************
Eryndale Manor rose from the landscape like a fortress carved from stone and resolve. Dark walls stood firm against the wind, banners snapping sharply overhead. It was not grand in the Southern sense—there was no excess, no ornamentation. On the inside though, once passed the gate, Aveline realized the manor actually hid quite a nice garden. The greenery went well with the dark manor beside it.
Everything here served a purpose.
The carriage slowed.
Aveline straightened, her face composed, her posture flawless as the door opened.
Cold rushed in.
Those who awaited her bowed—not deeply, not warmly. Their movements were correct. Their expressions were not.
"Lady Aveline Faylinn," a steward announced. "Welcome to Eryndale."
She stepped down onto frozen stone.
The servants' gazes were careful, restrained—curiosity tempered with distrust. Knights stood rigid, hands resting near their weapons. No one smiled.
No one offered words of comfort. Aveline responded in kind.
Aveline inclined her head. "Thank you."
Her face emotionless. While she was definitely taught etiquette and behavior from Anna, it wasn't all that grand. Anna herself was never a noble, and thus and no idea of the intricacies of how a noble lady should behave.
Instead, most of Aveline's demeanor and personality from her previous life was broken down over the years as Aveline. The broken pieces left were remade through the life she developed for herself. Through Anna, who was kind and diligent in her efforts to look after a child that wasn't her own. Through Everett, who refused to believe in folktale and strove to judge things for himself. Through Alden, who embodied the principles of the North and cared deeply about his people.
And most of all, through Evora, her alter ego. A businesswoman, a tycoon, a person who stood steadfast against people who questioned her, who went through great deal of efforts to make a name for herself from the ground up, a person who led tens of employees and created a future for them.
As Aveline left the carriage, her first impression was different from what the Northerners expected. They thought they'd see a disfigured woman, clearly cursed. Instead, they saw elegance and a beautiful appearance to match. Her neck held high, back straight, and steps calm. This was Aveline Faylinn's first impression towards the people of the North.
She was led inside, footsteps echoing through vast halls of stone and steel. Fires burned low, warmth conserved rather than displayed. The manor smelled of iron, pine, and something faintly medicinal.
As they reached the main hall, she noticed the absence immediately.
"His Grace?" she asked calmly.
The steward hesitated before replying. "The Duke is currently occupied with northern affairs, my lady. You will meet later."
Later.
Aveline nodded once, accepting the answer without protest. "Very well."
So even my arrival does not warrant his presence, she thought. Fair enough.
A room had been prepared—spartan but immaculately clean. Aveline was almost expecting a small room in the corner, like she had read so many times previously in novels. But that wasn't the case. The room was surprisingly spacious, and well lit. Never say the North did not have enough minerals.
The lumens' stones shone brightly. Heavy blankets draped over the bed, windows reinforced against the cold. No flowers. No unnecessary decoration.
It felt less like a bridal chamber and more like a place assigned to reside a guest.
Before the steward left, she instructed him to prepare a room for her servants as well. The servant nodded, telling them he would lead them to their rooms.
Aveline walked towards the three, "You are my people." She said calmly. "We've already talked about what the North thinks of us, of me. Just because we understand their hostility, does not mean we have to bear more than a certain limit of it. If anyone says or does anything, tell me."
The last thing she wanted was for the three to suffer just because they wanted to help her. And even worse would be if they stayed quiet about it. Aveline couldn't explain how many times she had seen tv shows or read novels about people staying quiet because they didn't want to burden someone and how annoying it was. Just bloody talk about it.
Left alone, Aveline removed her gloves slowly.
The silence pressed in.
She walked to the window and looked out at the land that now bound her by marriage and politics.
The North did not welcome her.
Neither the people on the roads nor the servants in the manor had tried to hide it.
Aveline exhaled softly.
"Then we are the same," she murmured.
She had not come seeking warmth.
She had come with purpose.
And whether the North accepted her or not, she would remain.
Cold had never frightened her. But it felt bitter. Alden had told her so many stories, and the North never appeared cold in them. She always pictured it as a homely place, where people laughed and joked.
Is this the North you saw too, Alden?
***************************
Aveline's training began the following morning.
It was not announced as such, nor was there a ceremony to mark it. A maid arrived at dawn, informing her that the butler would be conducting her "orientation" as the future Duchess of Eryndale.
The phrasing alone told her everything she needed to know.
The butler was an older man, posture impeccable, expression unreadable. He introduced himself simply and led her through the manor without preamble.
"These are the main halls of Eryndale," he said as they walked. "Built during the Third Northern Expansion, reinforced after the first Monster Wave."
Aveline listened.
She always did.
He spoke of stone and steel, of fires built low to conserve fuel, of corridors designed to hold heat rather than beauty. He recited dates and battles as if reading from a ledger—dry, factual, distant.
"The Eryndale family has ruled the North for seven generations," he continued. "Their duty has always been protection. Borders first. People second."
Not once did he say you.
She was not asked what she knew. Not invited to comment. Only expected to remember.
Well I already know that much already so.. Joke's on you, my wrinkly old friend.
They moved on to family history.
Portraits lined the walls—stern faces, armored figures, men and women hardened by war and winter. Alden was there. Aveline recognized him instantly.
Her gaze lingered.
The butler paused only briefly. "The late Lord Alden Eryndale. Eldest son. Fallen during an expedition."
Bullshit, she thought. It wasn't a simple expedition and she knew it. Alden was on to something. But this wasn't the right time for that.
No mention was made of alliances. Of trade. Of finances.
No explanation of how Eryndale sustained itself through harsh winters or constant threats.
Aveline noticed the omission.
They will not let me touch the spine of the house, she realized. Only its surface.
**************************
The corridor grew colder the deeper they walked into the manor.
Not from wind or draft, Aveline realized—but from stone that had stood through centuries of northern winters. Their footsteps echoed softly as the butler led her past tapestries and portraits, each depicting figures clad in Eryndale colors: steel, ash, and deep blue.
They stopped before a large painting set apart from the rest.
Aveline slowed.
The figures within it commanded attention.
A man and a woman stood side by side upon a snow-dusted battlement, their postures straight and unyielding. The man's expression was severe, his gaze fixed forward, a longsword resting against his shoulder. Its blade shimmered faintly, as though reflecting light that did not exist within the room.
The woman beside him was no less imposing. Her stance was composed, her chin lifted, her hand resting on the hilt of a slimmer blade—elegant, deadly, and unmistakably powerful.
Aveline felt something stir in her chest. The duke, she expected. But the duchess herself was wielding a sword.
"…Who are they?" she asked.
The butler inclined his head. "The first Duke and Duchess of Eryndale."
His eyes lingered on the swords. The butler noticed.
"Those blades," he continued, "anyone not from the North would assume they picked those up as props for the painting. But they are not merely symbols of the house. They are relics."
Aveline studied the painting more closely. The longer she looked, the more the swords seemed to draw her attention—not the faces, not the armor.
The weapons.
"They have names," the butler said. "Though most only remember them as the Twin Relics of Eryndale." The butler's voice had a hint of pride within it.
He gestured to the duke's sword first.
"Frostbound Oath," he said. "The blade of the Duke. Said to embody duty, endurance, and the will to protect the North, no matter the cost."
Then to the duchess's.
"Winter's Grace," he said. "The blade of the Duchess. A sword of judgment and resolve—one that balances the Duke's authority, not beneath it."
Aveline's fingers curled slightly at her side.
"They're… beautiful," she murmured.
"They are alive," the butler corrected gently.
Aveline turned to him.
"These swords do not pass by inheritance alone," he said. "They choose."
Her gaze snapped back to the painting.
"They choose?" It was all Aveline could do not to smirk. What is with people in the North talking in such round about ways as if to put some sort of meaning in every word they spoke. Alden was pretty much the same.
"Each blade appears only when it has accepted an owner," he continued. "And when that owner dies, the sword vanishes from this world once more."
"…Vanishes?" she repeated. It seems the butler wasn't just putting meaning behind words, but was talking about something much more literal.
"Yes, my lady. No one knows where they go, or even how it happens. There is ancient magic involved that know one understand. We only know that they wait."
Aveline swallowed.
"The Duke's sword," the butler said, "chose His Grace Caelum the moment his father passed. It manifested before the household, undeniable."
"And the duchess's?" Aveline asked quietly.
The butler hesitated.
"That sword," he said at last, "has no bearer."
Aveline looked again at the painted duchess, her blade resting calmly in her grasp.
"Has it never appeared?" she asked.
"It has," the butler said. "In ages past. But not for generations."
"Where is it now?"
"No one knows," he replied. "Some believe it is lost. Others believe it simply… waiting. I had hoped to see it in my life, but alas"
The butler words seemed to say that he had no hope for the sword to appear in his life time. Not while Aveline is the duchess.
The corridor felt colder still.
Aveline lowered her gaze, her expression unreadable.
"A curious tradition," she said softly.
"Yes," the butler agreed. "One the house respects deeply."
As they moved on, Aveline cast one last glance over her shoulder at the painting.
For just a moment—so brief she almost thought it imagined—the blade held by the painted duchess seemed to glimmer, as if catching her attention in return.
Then it was still once more.