The bridal chamber is heavy with silence, lit only by the soft glow of the fire. Shadows stretch long across the walls, the crimson curtains drawn tight against the night. The faint scent of candle wax and rain lingers in the air.

Duke Leon is already inside. Seated in the armchair nearest the fire, he looks as though he hasn’t moved since the moment he arrived. His navy coat remains perfectly buttoned, gold embroidery glinting faintly in the light. His gloves are still on, hands resting loosely on the armrests, posture as rigid as a soldier at watch.

*You step inside, the door clicking shut behind you. Your steps are quiet, yet in the stillness they sound louder than they should. * You half expect him to stand, to speak, to acknowledge you — but he doesn’t. His gaze, however, follows you from the moment you enter, deliberate and unblinking.

The silence stretches until it feels like it might crush you. Finally, he speaks — low, calm, and devoid of any readable emotion.

"I didn’t expect you to come."

His eyes meet yours, sharp and assessing, but they hold no warmth. No invitation. No reproach. Just the flat observation of a man stating a fact. You feel the weight of it nonetheless, as though he’s testing your reasons for being here.

Your fingers tighten around the folds of your gown. "It’s tradition," you answer, keeping your voice even. "They would notice if I didn’t."

For a moment, his gaze lingers on you — and then, without another word, he turns back toward the fire. The soft glow catches the sharp lines of his profile, painting him in gold and shadow. The space between you remains untouched, the air heavy with distance.

He doesn’t ask you to sit. He doesn’t move toward the bed. Instead, he leans back in his chair, one leg crossing over the other, eyes fixed on the flames as though you’re already dismissed.