The luxurious carriage creaked like old bones beneath it, swaying roughly as it rolled down the fog- and snow-covered road toward Winterwoods. The curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the world beyond. All that could be heard was the steady clatter of hooves against stone and snow, and the occasional whistle of icy wind slicing through the trees.
Duchess Lynnea Rosenberg could only sit in silence, her gloved hands folded in her lap like carved marble. The half-face veil of lace meant to cover the side of her striking face was not yet worn. Some said the Duchess preferred modest yet elegant attire; others whispered she hid a flaw in her skin. Her obsidian gown shimmered faintly with silver thread, catching the sparse light that filtered through the lace-trimmed window. She did not look at the Lady-in-Waiting seated across from her, though the sweet young woman kept stealing glances her way.
"This arrived this morning, Your Grace," Baroness Maela said gently, her voice light with hesitation. "From the Imperial Palace."
Lynnea's lips remained still, and she made no effort to reply.
Baroness Maela Kistern had been one of her ladies-in-waiting for two years now. Though that meant little to Lynnea, she regarded her as a noble companion of relative closeness, along with Viscountess Idel Fin. But only Maela accompanied her to the capital today for a birthday banquet of one of the princesses of the empire—Viscountess Idel was tending to her ailing husband.
Maela clutched a sealed letter in her lap, her fingers tense. "The Emperor has issued a decree. Duke Rosenberg is to… formally betroth you to Lord Clarence of House Relith. The ceremony will be announced at next month's council."
Although the duchy's title and territorial duties had already passed to Lynnea, Maela still addressed her father as Duke—maintaining her noble decorum.
The words stabbed like a blunt knife—not with pain, but with a familiar cold, like an old wound bleeding again.
Lynnea closed her eyes. "He always did enjoy binding his daughter to a blade."
Maela paled. "Your Grace, I didn't mean—"
Lynnea cut her off softly, her voice like winter glass. "No. I suppose I am no daughter anymore."
Silence followed, filled only by the whispering wind and the groan of wheels.
Outside, the world remained cloaked in gray fog and soft snow. No sunlight pierced this land. Yes, the northern territories were always wrapped in twilight. Many blamed the mountains. Some spoke of curses. Few knew the truth.
To ordinary men, Winterwoods was cold, strange, and full of mystery.
But to Lynnea, it was home.
And now that home had changed.
The Emperor's letter was not merely a political affair. It was a chain, tightened by her father's trembling hands—hands now bowed to a ruler he no longer dared defy. The Rosenberg family had remained silent too long, stayed too far from the throne. And now, to fully bind their lands to the Empire, they sought to marry her to Clarence—a nobleman, yes, but shrouded in suspicion.
"I will not marry him," Lynnea said, her voice soft yet resolute.
Maela hesitated. "But if your father commands it—"
"My father does not command me."
The silence that followed was cold and heavy. Maela lowered her gaze, remembering her place and refraining from pressing further.
"You needn't worry, Maela. I'll speak to the Duke. I will be fine." Lynnea gave the girl a rare, sincere smile.
Then Lynnea turned to the window, drawing the velvet curtain slightly aside. Fog licked the glass like reaching fingers. Beyond it, Winterwoods rose from the cliffs with spire-like towers clawing at the sky—its silhouette black beneath the eternal dusk.
And standing at the gates, his armor reflecting the glow of lanterns, was Sir Vierant Thorne.
To her, his face was so beautiful it made time itself slow.
His skin was pale and clean, like the moon just breaking through the fog, a perfect contrast to the intensity in his eyes—sharp, unreadable, as if veiling old wounds or longing.
But the most striking thing about him was his hair.
Silver hair, straight and fine like strands of moonlight.
It fell softly past his ears and brushed his neck, shimmering faintly under the light. A few strands curled messily over his forehead. His features were sharp yet composed—strong jaw, high nose, and thin lips that smiled only for her.
The title he bore came from his unwavering loyalty to the duchy.
Her knight. Her shadow. Her sword.
And the one man she could never have.
As the carriage drew closer, her gaze stayed on him—on the casual way his hand rested on his sword hilt, the slight turn of his head as if sensing her gaze. He always knew.
Lynnea had to be colder now. More distant.
Because when Clarence arrived—when the eyes of the court turned toward her…
They must not know how her heart trembled at the sight of him.
They must not know what she dreamed of in her lightless sleep.
~
When the carriage finally slowed to a stop and opened, a servant was already waiting with a black umbrella, as always, for the Duchess.
Sir Vierant Thorne.
Her knight.
Still as stone in his polished armor, he bowed his head, removed his black gloves, and stepped forward.
The moment the carriage door opened, the cold rushed in.
Northern winds. Only the scent of pine and snow.
But that wasn't what stole her breath.
The outstretched hand.
Waiting.
As it always did.
She took it.
And in the warmth of that brief touch, her heart betrayed her.
Only for a second.
~
Back then, Vier used to train near the lower barracks, when he was still all scraped knees and stubborn pride.
She would sneak out through the eastern garden, bringing a basket full of food she had hidden from the dining table, wearing a black-hooded cloak—not because she had to… but because she wanted to see him smile. Watching him work hard made her feel he needed extra food.
"Vier," she'd whisper behind him, trying to startle him.
"Your Grace!" He'd jump in surprise, exactly as she hoped, thinking he was in trouble.
"I brought too much bread," she'd lie.
And Vier would blush so deeply he'd forget how to hold a sword.
They'd sit on the steps after dark, sharing whatever she smuggled. She remembered how Vierant listened—not to her title, but to her voice.
They spoke of stars. Of knights in stories. Of what they would do… if one day they could choose their own paths.
She hadn't laughed like that in years.
And now, as the man who replaced that boy looked at her in silence—she could still see it.
That flicker. That warmth.
That thing she never dared to name.
~
The wind returned. The moment passed.
Lynnea raised her chin, her voice flat.
"Take me inside."
"Yes, Your Grace," he replied.
But Vierant's hand lingered half a second longer than it should.
And so did hers.