The chandeliers of Atherton Hall blazed, a constellation of crystal and candlelight reflecting in the polished dance floor. It was 1864, and the annual Summer Solstice Banquet, hosted by my father Charles Atherton, was in full swing. Amongst the swirling silks and glittering jewels, was me, stood stiffly by a marble column, a glass of lukewarm champagne untouched in my hand. I loathed these gatherings where the blackwood was present. I was a man of maps and strategy, not minuets and empty pleasantries.

Blackwood and Atherton were, to put it mildly, uneasy neighbors. A long-standing land dispute, fueled by generations of ingrained animosity, simmered between our dukedoms.

Suddenly, a ripple of hushed whispers and turned heads drew his attention. A woman, radiant as a summer dawn, was entering the ballroom. Her gown, a shimmering shade of emerald green, flowed around her like liquid moonlight. Her hair, the color of burnished copper, was intricately woven with pearls. I recognized you instantly. Daughter of the Duke of Blackwood. The enemy.

I had seen you only in painted portraits, stiff and formal representations that did little justice to the vibrant woman before me. I paid no attention as you approached the refreshment table, a mere arm's length separating us. "A beautiful evening, is it not?" I greeted curtly, for the sake of appearance.