After what felt like an endless stretch of bitter cold, the sun finally broke through the sky above Everfrost. Snow and ice began to thaw, revealing tender green shoots daring to rise from the hardened earth.
"Because winter lasts so long, these four months are crucial to the people of the North, Your Grace," Maera once told her as they passed the nearly empty granaries.
Spring, in Everfrost, had only just begun.
The North had only four months for cultivation. Once those passed, the snow would fall so heavily that the ground turned to stone, and all traces of crops vanished beneath a blanket of white. The people here had grown used to such a rhythm.
They waited for no miracle, hoped for no aid from afar. Every year, as the ice melted and the earth first revealed its rich, damp brown, the land seemed to awaken. Faces tightened with a quiet urgency, etched with determination, as though a single misstep would let winter devour everything once more.
During this time, half of the army would be recalled. Soldiers returned to villages and towns, working alongside the people—ploughing, sowing, tending livestock—refilling stores for the coming winter. Swords were traded for spades, tactics for tilling—soldier and farmer stood side by side. Only through self-reliance could they survive the cold that always came again.
That spirit was what had kept the North standing strong—against both nature and enemy. A spirit those born in the warmth of the South could never truly comprehend.
Her father, the late King Baldric, once said, "The Northerners may well be the most steadfast in the Empire—worthy of respect."
And it was out of that very respect that the young crown prince had once volunteered to enter the most brutal phase of the war against the invaders—fighting alongside Cealan of House Valemont, Dorian's father, and the people of the North, to claim final victory.
Even so, the threat from the tribes and foreign forces never truly vanished.
Dorian still made it a habit to personally patrol the borders. That was why, even though they had been married for less than a month, the time they spent together had been so brief. Rosalind understood—this was necessary.
And she had no intention of becoming a duchess in name only. With or without him beside her, she would give her all to learn, to grow, to become part of this land.
So the letters began, passing steadily between the border camps and Everfrost.
Sometimes they were hurried scribbles from Dorian, written past midnight in a drafty tent. Sometimes they were detailed reports about border conditions, weather—and little things, like the horses starting to shed or the new recruits refusing to eat the stew.
From her study, gazing over a garden still covered in melting snow, she would write back—sharing everything: Maera's lessons, a boy from the nearby village learning his letters, or the day she spotted the first maple sprouting in the rear courtyard.
Trivial things, perhaps. But in each letter, a thread was quietly woven between them. Even apart, their hearts found the same rhythm.
Perhaps, without realizing, she had already let him—and this land—into her heart.
Rosalind smiled faintly as she reread the final lines of his latest letter.
Today, he was coming home.
"Your Grace." Elise knocked gently and stepped in. "The Duke and his escort are nearing the castle."
"Thank you. I'll be right there."
She carefully tucked the letter into the drawer—where all the others were kept—and left the study with Elise.
This was the first time she would go out to greet him herself.
In the grand foyer, the household stood lined and ready.
"Your grace" they bowed as she passed. Maera, standing at the front, gave her a respectful nod.
"Good day, Maera," she smiled.
"Everything has been prepared just as you requested, my lady. There's no need for concern."
"Thank you. I just hope this small gesture makes the soldiers feel welcome."
"That is precisely what the lady of House Valemont should do. You've done well, Your Grace."
Rosalind had asked for a modest celebration to welcome Dorian and his returning soldiers. Not a grand ceremony or formality—just a warm greeting, a way to let them know they were awaited, and that their efforts mattered.
As Rosalind stood at the gates, watching for any sign of Dorian's return, Maera was close by, offering quiet counsel as always.
"You look eager, Your Grace," Maera observed with a knowing smile, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders.
Rosalind's gaze lingered on the horizon, a faint smile playing on her lips.
"It's just..." she murmured, almost to herself. "This is the first time I've welcomed him home."
She trailed off, unsure how to put her feelings into words.
Maera, ever perceptive, gave a small nod. "He is your husband now. And this is your home as much as his. There's no need to hold back, Your Grace."
Rosalind smiled at Maera's words, though her heart beat a little faster as the sound of returning hooves grew steadily louder.
At that moment, the castle gates creaked open.
Rosalind's heart raced in her chest, yet a strange stillness lingered inside her. Her hands remained calm at her sides, but her thoughts swirled with turbulence. This was no longer merely a duty; it was about welcoming him—her husband, the man she had chosen to stand beside.
Her mind briefly wandered to the many times she had felt isolated within these castle walls: the days spent managing the duchy, the long nights reading letters that spoke of distant borders, of Dorian's battles, and of faraway lands.
But now, he was coming home.
There was a sense of fulfillment and happiness, yes—yet, beneath it, a quiet anxiety lingered.
Rosalind silently hoped that she could become the "home" he longed for, a place where he could feel warmth and peace after the cold and hardships of his journeys.
A sharp gust swept in, carrying dust and a chilling wind from the distant borderlands. Though the snow had melted, muddy traces still clung beneath the hooves.
From the highest step of the castle's entrance, Rosalind clasped her hands lightly at her waist as she watched the procession ride in.
Among the long line of riders—gray cloaks, gray armor, gray horses—there was only one figure she recognized at once.
Not because he rode the tallest steed. Not because he led the formation.
But because of that presence—quiet, cold-edged—demanding notice even without lifting his head.
He wore a thick, dark velvet cloak trimmed in gold. His face was concealed, save for a pair of deep blue eyes—cold as a wolf in the snow, dangerous, alone.
The hooves thundered into the courtyard.
Dorian's gaze flickered when he saw her. Rosalind—she was here, waiting him.
He had always left and returned in silence. Only a few—usually Maera—had ever been there to see him home.
But her presence now… it was different.
Her gentle smile made something shift in his chest.
"So, this is what it feels like… to have someone waiting, someone to welcome you home." He found himself smiling at the thought.
Dorian dismounted. His cloak dusted with dried mud. Removing his hood and lowering the scarf, he climbed the steps steadily—closing the distance between them.
"Welcome home, Dorian," she said softly, her eyes never leaving his.
"I'm home, Rosi." His voice was low, calm—peaceful in a way it rarely was.