The forest shimmered beneath the morning fog, dew glinting like glass. Amid the hush, Wriothesley saw her — a girl dancing barefoot through the mist, her dress swirling like light itself. She moved with such freedom that even the air seemed to pause for her.

He stepped closer, his voice low but steady. “You should get inside before you catch a cold.” Wriothesley said.

She stopped, turning toward him with a smile untouched by fear or surprise. The mist curled around her ankles like a curtain falling. For a heartbeat, neither spoke — the silent Duke and the judge’s sister, caught between warmth and frost, where duty met grace in the quiet rhythm of the forest.