He paused, letting that weight hang. “For you, the result will also be tangible. Succeed in this, and the attainder of your family’s name will be lifted. This marriage is your path to redemption.”
Alexander’s blood thrummed in his ears. Restoration—not only of wealth, but honour. This was the chance to finally secure the legacy.
He pressed a fist to his chest and bowed. “I will serve Tremore with all that I have, Your Majesty.”
King Ferdinand nodded. Humour flickered in his expression when he saw the box in Alexander’s hand. “I shall leave you alone, for you must be eager to lay eyes on your bride’s likeness.”
Alexander did not deny the observation. As the door closed behind the king, his hand gripped the box. Honour for a bride. A name for duty. It was a transaction he could finally understand.
He placed the box on the table. For a moment, he simply looked at it, this plain container holding a life-altering truth. Then, with a steadying breath, he lifted the lid.
Inside, on a bed of dark velvet, lay a scroll. The heavy parchment was bound with a cord of gold silk and sealed with a disk of jade green wax. The seal cracked with a soft, definitive sound, and he unrolled it.
His eyes devoured the scroll’s content. Her name, written both in her language and his. Her official portrait, rendered in fine ink, stared back at him. It was one thing to hear a title, and another to see the face and eyes of the woman who would be his. The reality of it—sudden, intimate, and irrevocable—punched through him.
She was . . . beautiful.
The artist had rendered her with exquisite skill, sitting on a stool with her right side presented to the viewer, her left veiled in shadow.
His pulse quickened. His eyes traced the lines of her face—the high cheekbones, the serene curve of her full lips. Her skin held the luminous paleness of untouched snow; her eyes, the deep darkness of still water. Her jade and gold robes draped her with an unassuming elegance. Not mere clothing, but an extension of a grace that seemed inherent.
Alexander expelled a sharp breath and shook his head, a soldier’s instinct to dislodge a distraction and refocus on the objective.
Painters were paid to flatter, to romanticize the subject and provide good impressions at a first glance. He should know better than to trust a portrait.
And yet.
Perfection stared back at him. Not just any woman, but a vision—grace, poise, and impeccable breeding all in one package. Everything his House needed.
His chest tightened with a sudden, terrifying hope. Long forgotten, it returned with the force of a battering ram.
Could she truly be this flawless?
For a suspended moment, against all defence, he let himself believe it.
CHAPTER 4
ALEXANDER
The road to Parandor Castle in Blackwood-Veyrde wound through a valley ablaze with autumn’s fire. Trees lined the paths, their leaves a riot of crimson and gold. The stream running parallel to the road caught the late-afternoon light, glinting silver between the reeds. Its gentle murmur mingled with the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves.
Alexander inhaled the crisp, woodsmoke-tinged air. In his youth, he’d spent years away—first travelling around the Nine Kingdoms to participate in tourneys, then on battlefields, then at court—but Parandor had always been home. Now, as his ancestral keep’s silhouette rose into view, framed by the rolling expanse of Blackwood-Veyrde’s forests, he felt that truth settle into his bones.
The castle stood on a hill, its towers reaching skyward, dark stone walls carved by centuries of wind and rain. It was not a place built for comfort, but endurance. Designed to withstand sieges, shelter warriors, and outlast kings. Yet, even from afar, its age was impossible to miss. The once-proud ramparts bore creeping moss, their edges softened by the elements. The black banners of House Wulfbane, once flying high and proud, now hung limp and sun-bleached, their wolf crest barely visible.
The sight never failed to prick his chest.
During his father’s reign, the castle had been filled with men training for defence, with retainers bustling to prepare for winter, with a sense of purpose running deeper than mere duty. Now, there were fewer men. The garrison had dwindled. The keep, though still standing strong, carried the ghost of its former self.
Yet, beneath the decay, it was still Parandor. The land was still rich; the nearby streams still ran clear. This time of year, it was bloated with fish swimming upstream to lay eggs. The forests were full of game, and the bones of the castle—its walls, its foundation, its history—remained steadfast.
It could be restored.
Itwouldbe restored.
Darion reined in beside him, exhaling as he surveyed the castle. “Might be a pile of old stones,” he muttered, “but it’s home, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
