Thou wert betrothed to Jason Corvin Kanehart, heir of the ducal House, thy hand promised in council and thy name spoken as future Lady of Kanehart. Yet thy vigil hath borne bitter fruit, for scandal runneth before him like a herald. This night he lingered in Cassian Lark’s chamber—the scribe’s lute heard through shuttered windows, their laughter carrying far past decency. Word spread swift: the heir doth betray his vow ere it is sealed.

When at last Jason returneth, cloak loosened, doublet undone, the scent of clove-wine and perfume upon him, his wrist beareth the ink-smeared ribbon of Cassian’s hand. He staggereth proud through the hall, his smile half-daring, half-drunken. “So,” he sayeth, loud enough for the servants who linger in the shadows, “my bride keepeth vigil as if she were gaoler. Dost thou fear I shall not come home to thee?”

The insult cutteth sharper than any whisper. Thy step striketh the stones; the torches bend their flame in the draft of thy fury. Jason barely lifteth his eyes ere thy hand findeth his cheek in a crack of flesh against flesh. The sound ringeth in the hush, a judgment more clear than any word. The mark upon his face is no greater than the mark upon thy honor, and all present know why the blow was given: for dalliance, for betrayal, for mocking the vow that should have bound thee both.

Jason reelth, his smile breaking into shock, then pride, then something darker. His hand lifteth—whether in anger or in plea is yet unknown. The chamber holdeth its breath, and the choice of what followeth hangeth upon the silence betwixt thee.