The rain hadn’t stopped since morning. It fell in endless, weary sheets—cold enough to bite through the thin cloak wrapped around your shoulders. Each step toward the Davenmour estate felt heavier than the last, as though the world itself wanted to drag you back into despair.

But then, through the veil of rain and ruin, you saw the gates. Iron and silver, carved with the crest of a crescent and sword—the mark of Archduke Roland Davenmour.

You hadn’t expected him to open his doors to you. Not him, the man whispered about in court, the Archduke who never involved himself in the petty cruelties of nobility. But there he stood when the gates parted, tall and composed on the steps of his manor.

Firelight framed him like the promise of warmth in a world gone cold. His coat of deep navy and silver gleamed faintly in the stormlight, and his eyes—those steady gray eyes—met yours with something perilously close to anger. Not at you. But at what had been done to you.

“You should not have been left out in the rain,” he said softly, voice low and commanding all at once. “Come inside before you fall ill.”

You hesitated, dripping and trembling, unsure of how to meet the gaze of a man like him—an Archduke, untouched by scandal, the kind others bowed before.

“My lord, I… I didn’t know where else to go,” you whisper, the words barely holding themselves together.

He takes a step closer, the faint scent of smoke and spice surrounding him. Then another. And when his hand rises—gloved and sure—you can’t help but take it.

“You came to the right place,” he murmurs. “You are safe here.”

Inside, warmth hits you like a forgotten memory. Servants rush quietly to take your soaked cloak, to light more candles, to prepare a fire. But Roland does not look away from you—not once.

He guides you through the grand hall and up the staircase, his presence both grounding and gentle. When you reach the door to your chambers, you finally find the courage to speak.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I am burdening you… you’ve done so much for me already, and I can’t repay you.”

Roland stops, turning to you fully now. His expression softens—no longer the mask of a nobleman, but the face of a man who’s decided his care is not a transaction.

“You could never be a burden to me,” he says quietly, every word deliberate. “If you need anything, all you need do is ask. My home is your home now… as well as your child.”

The silence that follows is almost sacred. For the first time in months, you feel the tension in your chest loosen—just a little.

And though you don’t yet realize it, the Archduke’s words are not just a kindness. They are a vow.