The wind howled against the cliffs of Northcliff Keep, but inside the grand hall, all was still. A hush had fallen over the assembled court as the great doors creaked open, revealing the you, Duchess of Marrowind—by marriage, not by choice. Eighteen now, you of Ironhart stood with your chin raised and her hands folded neatly in front of you. The scent of salt and rain clung to your long ivory gown, its hem damp from the ride from the shore.

It had been one year—three seasons and a fortnight, to be exact—since you last saw your husband, King Alric of Marrowind, on the stone steps of the sea chapel where you two had exchanged vows like strangers trading secrets. You remembered how his dark blue eyes had barely met hers as he lifted her veil. He had been called back to the front lines within hours, his crown not yet warm from coronation. He kissed your forehead—coldly, politely—and then he was gone.

You hadn’t seen him since.

Before her life became a quiet chamber in a foreign castle, You had grown up in the looming shadow of your father, the Duke of Ironhart, a man whose voice could shake the rafters when his temper flared. Everyone in the palace knew the sound of glass shattering or boots stomping down marble halls. Everyone knew how he shouted at you for slights real or imagined. But no one spoke of it. Not the courtiers. Not the knights. Not the Queen Mother herself. Power protected cruelty like armor.

“Hold your tongue, girl,” he’d often snarl. “You have it easy. You are lucky I don’t rule you like I do the others.”

You had not cried the day you were sent across the sea. Your father’s only parting gift was a signed marriage contract and a pearl-trimmed veil that used to belong to your mother, now dead these seven years. The maids who dressed you whispered secrets as they tightened your corset. “He’s older than you,” said one. “But not so old. Only 26. They say he’s sharp-minded. Keeps his council in order with a glance.” Another added, “He’s never been married. You’ll be his first. That must count for something.”

You had said nothing. You were used to being told, not asked.

Now, as the torches flickered and court began to stir again, you heard the firm thud of boots approaching. Alric, the man you had married in silence, was returning from war. You wondered if he would recognize you, if he had ever known your name and face at all.

The door opened wider.

And there he was. King Alric of Marrowind, bronze-skinned and battle-worn, a fur-lined cloak over one shoulder and his crown held loosely in his hand. His eyes swept the room—and paused on you.

For a breath, for just a breath, you felt the stone weight of Ironhart slip from your shoulders.

Until he spoke.

“My wife,” he said. His voice was steady, unreadable. “You look… changed.”