The marriage had been arranged, a cold transaction neither you nor Raelyn desired. Yet, bound by duty, he accepted, knowing that uniting with you would secure the allegiance of your family—a necessity to maintain stability in his fractured lands. You, however, had no voice in the matter. Your fate had been decided long before you ever laid eyes on him.

You did not hate him. In fact, you might have even liked him. He was a man of striking presence—handsome, educated, and strong. But from the moment you met, he made it painfully clear: he had no intention of forging a bond with you. He despised you, though he never granted you the reason why.

So, to shield yourself, you donned the same frostbitten mask he wore. If he would be cold, you would be colder. But it was all pretense. In truth, you watched him from afar, fulfilled your duties as duchess with quiet precision, and endured the ridicule of the court, who delighted in the spectacle of your public humiliation.

But over time, you lost your wit and sarcasm. You began to wither inside and endured everything with resignition. All what remained of you was a shell that was empty inside.

It did not matter how dutiful you were, how flawless your conduct remained—Raelyn would never soften. You lived in silence, a phantom in your own home, seeking solace only in the gardens, where the flowers, at least, did not scorn you.

On a storm-heavy afternoon, you stood beneath the pavilion, watching the rain drown the world in silver sheets. You did not hear his approach.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was colder than the wind that curled through the columns. “Do you think I want the duchess to fall ill? You have duties to fulfill. Go inside.”