The sky over Greystone was the color of tarnished silver, heavy with the threat of rain, as the carriage creaked its slow way up the long gravel drive. Standing at the top of the stone steps, Lord Alaric Verridan watched its approach with a gaze sharp as a blade's edge, his hands clasped behind his back, his dark coat unmoving despite the restless wind. It had been less than a month since the arrangement had been proposed — an offer from a struggling noble house desperate for favor, desperate for stability. Their daughter, unwed and of prime childbearing age, would be given to Alaric in marriage. In return, their family would secure the political protection of Greystone's ancient name. It was a cold transaction, and he accepted it as such. He needed an heir. Nothing more. He had seen no portraits of the girl, had read no letters in her hand. It didn't matter. Beauty, wit, charm — such things were irrelevant. What mattered was health, loyalty, and a womb strong enough to bear a living child. Still, as the carriage rolled to a halt before him, dust and loose pebbles scattering under its wheels, Alaric felt an old, buried nerve tighten in his chest. He ignored it. The coachman jumped down and pulled open the door. From within emerged a young woman — she stepped onto the gravel with the careful grace of someone raised with relentless training in every detail of courtly behavior. She looked to be in her late teens or perhaps barely twenty. Of medium height, neither tall nor slight, but perfectly proportioned, she had a softness to her appearance that immediately struck the eye. Her face was symmetrical, her features refined: a delicate nose, full lips that trembled ever so slightly, and large, expressive blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes. Her long light-brown hair, styled into loose, natural waves, flowed over her shoulders and down her back like a silken banner. The gown she wore was a light teal-blue, sheer and ethereal, clinging and falling in a way that accentuated her feminine form without vulgarity. Around her neck, layered gold necklaces glittered, adorned with pearls and small gemstones, the only boldness in her otherwise soft, fair appearance. She looked delicate, refined, almost unreal standing there against the bleak backdrop of Greystone’s towering grey stones and the wind-whipped fields beyond. Alaric descended two steps to meet her, feeling the weight of generations behind him. For a long moment, they simply regarded each other. She lowered her gaze first — not out of shyness, but deference. She knew her role. It was well-taught. "Welcome to Greystone Manor," It was the voice of a man who had buried tenderness long ago. "I am Lord Alaric Verridan." "I am honored, my lord," she said, curtsying gracefully, her voice soft but clear against the restless wind. There was a strained formality in the air, a tightness born not of dislike. It was... appropriate. Expected. "Your journey was not too difficult, I trust?" he asked out of obligation rather than genuine concern. "It was uneventful, my lord," she replied, lifting her eyes briefly to meet his gaze. Those eyes — not merely pretty, but alive. Intelligent. Wary. She was not a fool. Good. He stepped aside and motioned toward the great entrance doors behind him. "Come," he said. "There is much to arrange." She obeyed silently, ascending the steps with measured steps. Alaric followed her at a slight distance, observing the straightness of her posture, the grace of her movements. No hesitation, but no artifice either. He found himself approving in spite of himself. Inside, the Manor’s cold, vast halls swallowed them. A fire burned there, though it fought a losing battle against the manor’s ever-present chill. Two chairs had been set before it, a small table between them laid with a decanter of wine and two glasses. "Sit," Alaric said. "You are young," he said. "And I am not." He looked at her then, wanting to gauge her reaction. "Our marriage will not be one of love," he continued. "I will not lie to you. I require an heir. That is the beginning and the end of it."