"Welcome home, Your Grace."
It was Rosalind who first broke the silence that lingered within the dining hall.
Dorian's brow furrowed ever so slightly.
"Your Grace"? Under ordinary circumstances, he would have gently reminded her that calling him by name would suffice. But now, perhaps he ought to accept it—as he did the coldness in those amethyst eyes.
"I have returned... How has your day been, Rosi?"
"It was rather well," she replied with a smile—one that did not reach her eyes.
Dorian saw it. Or rather, he saw through it.
"There is something I wish to speak with you about. May we speak after dinner?" he said at last, tone firm. He would not let her misunderstand.
Dorian could hear the soft fall of the knife upon the silver plate as Rosalind set it down. The dishes, once laden with food, now lay cold and untouched, mere ornaments of the table. Their eyes did not meet, yet the gulf between them had never been more apparent.
She looked up at him with a charming smile that held just the faintest trace of formality.
"Of course, as you wish, Your Grace."
Dorian could not bring himself to say a word.
In the stillness of the room, only the sound of silverware upon plates, the faint murmur of the fire in the hearth, and the soft sigh of Dorian remained, like a breeze that brushed against the frost-covered walls of the chamber.
On the journey back, he had rehearsed a thousand scenarios—imagined every word he might speak, every response she might offer. But now, when he sat here, in front of his Rosalind, none of those thoughts found voice.
To him, Rosalind had always been warmth and gentleness incarnate. Now, faced with her cool indifference, he found himself unmoored.
While he remained silent, she finished her meal with quiet efficiency.
"I shall take my leave now, Your Grace. Enjoy your supper."
She turned briefly to Maera. "Thank you for the meal, Maera."
"My pleasure, milady. I shall have tea sent to your chambers," the older woman answered with a respectful nod.
"Thank you."
Dorian watched them speak—watched her stand and walk away—as if he were nothing more than a shadow. A ghost in his own home.
When the doors closed behind her, he let out a quiet, bitter laugh.
"So this is what my good intentions have earned me," he muttered.
"What have you done, Your Grace?" Maera asked softly. She could see it—his disquiet, thinly veiled behind that mask of composure. She could also see Rosalind's restraint, unnatural for one so poised.
"I find myself wondering the same, Maera." he sighed.
"My lord... the Lady is not one to take offense over trifles. If I may presume... perhaps you have done something to warrant her displeasure."
Her gaze found his. He met it in silence, and for a long moment, said nothing. Then at last he spoke.
"This morning, I entrusted her with several documents," he said, pausing. "The deed to my personal estates, a writ of proxy, and... a marriage contract. You are aware of them, I trust."
A furrow formed between Maera's brows as she looked at him—the boy she had once cradled through silent nights, now a man burdened with duties and affections he scarcely knew how to voice.
"I only did it for her sake," Dorian said quietly. "Even if she holds the title of Lady Valemont, without my explicit and public support, the northern nobles would not readily submit to her authority."
He spoke the truth. In the North, his endorsement was the only thing that ensured Rosalind's standing remained unchallenged.
"I even summoned you back," he added. "Because I cannot rest easy unless it is you watching over her."
Maera gave a small nod. "It is plain to me that you care deeply for her, my lord."
To grant her a life untouched by sorrow or strife, he would have forsaken all—wealth, power, every possession. Whatever Rosalind desired, he would have placed it in her hands without hesitation.
From the day he first pledged his vow to her before Luxaris, the god of light and fate, that had been his resolve.
"Would you permit an old woman to speak her mind?" Maera asked gently as she stepped closer.
He gave a faint nod. Of all people, Maera was the one he trusted without question.
"Have you ever asked her... what it is she truly wants?"
What she truly wanted...
The question struck him wordless.
She was right. He had never thought to ask — never truly known what it was she longed for.
Beholding the pensive cast upon Dorian's face, Maera could only offer a faint, knowing smile.
"After all, she is of Castillon blood, the queen's only sister. And House Vanderlyn, the lineage of the late Queen Beatrix, is both prosperous and well-entrenched in influence. Families such as hers are well-versed in safeguarding their power. I daresay, for a lady of such standing, the mere offering of further wealth or dominion would bring neither comfort nor joy."
Indeed, Maera spoke true. Power and possessions were not what Rosalind lacked. Her station alone was the envy of many.
And thus, perhaps his actions, though well-intentioned, had struck her as patronizing.
A slight he had never meant to deliver.
"Then... What am I to do?" Dorian asked at last, lifting his gaze to meet hers with quiet determination.
She stepped closer, her tone gentle, yet unwavering.
"You just need to bare your heart to her, Your Grace. That is all the lady ever sought."
Dorian tilted his head slightly, as if something had just dawned on him.
Maera was right.
Perhaps... he had been wrong from the very moment he decided to hand her those soulless documents.
Perhaps he had been too confident—believing that whatever came from him would be gladly received by her.
He had deluded himself with a version of happiness he alone had created, forgetting that the foundation of any true bond lies in understanding and shared sentiment.
It was him.
He was the one who had been wrong from the start.
"Thank you, Maera."
Dorian rose to his feet and gave a slight bow.
From the depths of his heart, he meant those words.
---
The corridor stretched on in silence, lit only by the flickering glow of half-burned lamps. The stillness was haunting, as if the very air held its breath. Only the hurried echo of footsteps broke through the hush—soft, yet urgent.
Rosalind walked on, aimless yet driven, as though trying to outrun something invisible. The hallway felt endless, like a dream without an exit.
She didn't know where she was going—nor did she need to.
All she knew was that she could not stay.
Not after seeing him again… not when the bond between them had been reduced to ink and parchment.
She came to an abrupt stop, just a few steps from the cold stone wall ahead.
There, where the light could no longer reach—where shadows gathered like whispered sorrow—Rosalind stood still. Her fingers clenched tightly around the folds of her gown, her body trembling ever so slightly. She remained in the dark, as if hoping it might consume her, take her away from all of this.
Away from him.
The man who once made her believe in something tender.
And then took it all away with the same hands that had once reached for her so gently.
She couldn't quite name what stirred within her now.
Was it anger? Was it heartbreak?
Or perhaps it was simply… the bitter ache of disillusionment.
That morning, she had still been that foolish girl—dreaming of the man who had stayed by her side through the night, tucking warmth into her cold fingers and silence into her restless thoughts.
She had waited for him.
Hoped for him.
But now? All she wanted was to escape.
To flee before her heart betrayed her resolve.
Perhaps she feared that seeing him again would weaken her. That the moment she looked into those eyes, she would forget.
Forget the truth of who Dorian Valemont was.
"I would've signed it all," she whispered, voice barely a breath, trembling at the corners. "Every page you gave me, without reading a word… if only you had said you cared. Just once."
A bitter smile flickered on her lips.
"You fool, Dorian Valemont."
And as the tears welled quietly in her eyes, she let them fall in silence.
For the things he never said.
And the girl who had hoped he might.