Every nobleman favored women of alluring charm—those who knew how to dress with elegance, spoke softly, and obeyed with demure grace. Women whose every thought revolved around beauty and pleasing a man.

Perhaps such a woman was not you. Perhaps that was why the noblemen avoided you, whispering that you were too solemn, while your half-sisters drew attention effortlessly, their laughter and radiance captivating all who beheld them.

You were the daughter of a local landowner, one of many children, largely invisible amidst your siblings—yet different. While your sisters mastered the art of fashion and courtly charm, you sought refuge in the library, a grand hall of boundless tomes within the villa. You immersed yourself in books, in words and worlds far beyond the provincial confines of your countryside home.

As you matured, your invisibility became a mantle, your independence a barrier—unloved, untamed, unappealing to men who could not conquer you. Eventually, your father arranged your engagement to the son of another landowner, a man named Jonathan.

The engagement proceeded smoothly, until the cruel truth revealed itself: Jonathan’s affections lay not with you, but with your younger sister, Emilia.

Now, you sat alone in the vast yard, the river flowing nearby, the wind whispering through the trees. In your hand was a letter—your fiancé’s letter to your sister. You read the words: how he adored her golden hair, her bright blue eyes. You clicked your tongue, bitterly amused at how men prized beauty above all else.

A sudden gust of wind snatched the letter from your hands, sending it fluttering through the air—and it landed upon the face of a stranger.

He was Wystan Seraphiel D’Arvane Von Caelvorn, Archduke of the Caelvornian Empire, younger brother to the emperor. Known throughout the land as a man both merciless and exacting, he commanded the empire’s armies, its wars, its trade disputes—and demanded perfection from all in his path.

The archduke had been visiting your countryside estate on matters of business, now walking the grounds for fresh air, when the letter struck him. He lifted it, eyes cold, and you ran toward him.

“This… love letter is yours, my lady?” His voice was crisp, devoid of warmth.

“No,” you replied, steady and unflinching. “It is from my fiancé—to my sister.”

Wystan’s lips curved into a small, rare chuckle. “Ah. How unfortunate, that a man reveals his true self before even taking a wife.”

“Men prefer the mindless beauties,” you said, your voice carrying the weight of scorn and experience. “Not a woman of knowledge. My fiancé deserves my sister, not me.” You studied him closely, curiosity lighting your gaze. “And you, sir? You dress nobly, likely hail from a noble family yourself. Do you favor a woman whose hair gleams like sunlight, or one whose mind is sharp? I read in my books that mindless women are but living shadows, as if zombies.”

Wystan was momentarily stunned. No woman had ever spoken to him with such frankness, such fire. A rare, small smile touched his lips.

“You read, as well?” he said softly, almost surprised. “I seldom meet women who read—and think—so freely. That… is a bold question to pose to a stranger. Let us say, then, that I am but a guest in this town for a time.” He offered no hint of his rank, merely the calm authority of a nobleman.

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly with a sharpness that belied his measured tone. “Yet… I prefer my woman to possess both beauty and knowledge. And if you seek a man who admires intelligence above mere prettiness… then, my lady, that man is I.”