Golden afternoon sunlight filtered through the closed window, wrapping the study in a hushed, amber warmth.
Rosalind sat in her study. A single candle burned on the desk, crackling softly as the melted wax dripped down. She tilted the candle just enough to pour a small pool of wax onto an envelope, then swiftly pressed the Valemont seal into it.
A gentle knock came at the door before it opened, revealing Maera in a simple ash-gray dress.
"My lady," the older woman bowed.
"We've finished clearing the western wing. Beds, blankets, and firewood have all been brought in. Everything is ready to receive the townspeople."
Rosalind nodded, her lashes lowering slightly. "That's good… You've worked hard, Maera."
"I am always happy to serve, my lady."
Her hands had curled into fists on her lap, nails digging into her palms—she hadn't even noticed. "Ah—could I trouble you to send this letter for me?"
Rosalind handed over the freshly sealed envelope.
"You've decided to write to the Queen?" Maera asked, leaning forward as she accepted it.
"I think it's the right thing to do," Rosalind replied with a soft smile.
Some might say she was using her royal connection to call in favors from her sister. But what did it matter? If it meant no more northern families would be left to freeze when winter returned, then so be it.
After a moment's pause, she looked up and asked, "May I ask you something?"
"Of course, my lady. What do you wish to know?"
Maera held the letter carefully in her hand, her clear eyes fixed on Rosalind with the calm readiness of someone who had nothing to hide.
"Maera… these Redmark raids—do they happen often? Especially to small villages like that?"
A long silence settled between them before Maera stepped forward. Her gaze grew distant, aged by memories.
"More than forty years ago," she began, her voice raspy, "my family lived in a small village near the forest. We thought no one would ever pay attention to such a place—until the sound of hoofbeats and the scent of smoke filled the air."
Rosalind clasped her hands together atop the desk, listening intently.
"They came like shadows torn from nightmares—swift, silent, and merciless. They set every rooftop ablaze. Even the food stores—harvested with such effort that year—were reduced to ash." Maera paused, a chill creeping down her spine.
She could still hear it all—the hoofbeats, the clash of blades, the bloodthirsty howls of the Redmark mingled with the screams and sobs of twenty terrified villagers.
To her, it hadn't been forty years. It was yesterday.
"My parents tried to flee with me, but we didn't make it far. In the end, they hid me inside the hollow of a massive tree—large enough for only a child to crawl inside."
"They told me to wait for them…" Her voice faltered.
A heart beat...
"But they never came back."
Her wrinkled hand trembled slightly as it rested on her skirt. A faint smile curved her lips—not of joy, but memory. Perhaps, even back then, when her parents let go of her hand, she had already understood. She would never see them again.
After a long silence, Maera resumed.
"I thought I would die there. But then, soldiers from House Valemont found me. The one leading them was Duke Loran—Lord Caelan's father. He brought me back to Everfrost."
Old memories passed behind her eyes like fleeting ghosts.
"At the time, Lord Caelan was just a boy… barely two years old, still cradled in his mother's arms. I remember his eyes—wide and quiet, as though he could see through everything, yet said nothing."
She chuckled softly, more from reminiscence than amusement.
"From then on, I stayed. No one expected anything of me at first—I was just a child. But later, Lady Lissandra gave me the task of caring for the young heir. I suppose… that was when I truly became part of this household."
Rosalind's hands tightened slightly. Her throat ached.
"I'm sorry… for making you relive something so painful." Her eyes, tinged with regret, met Maera's.
Everyone, she thought, carries a story within them. Whether joyful or sorrowful, that's how they live.
Maera smiled gently at the young woman who looked at her like someone who had done wrong.
"You need not apologize, my lady. It all happened a long time ago... And this old woman no longer wakes up in the middle of the night haunted by that nightmare."
The old maid fell silent for a moment, then spoke slowly.
"But… Redmark wasn't like this before," she said, eyes still lost in the past. "They fought and killed because it was in their blood—like wild beasts who tore apart anything that wouldn't kneel. They did not steal, nor defile. Not even food was taken. They simply burned everything… as if to erase all traces of their prey from the world."
Rosalind said nothing. Her throat had gone dry.
"But Redmark now…" Maera's voice dropped, heavier than before. "They are no longer the savage tribesmen they once were. Now, they are little more than rabble—mercenaries, escaped convicts, thugs hiding behind warrior masks. They carry the red banner of Redmark, but their souls… are hollow."
Her hands clenched tightly, veins rising beneath the skin.
"They pillage, they rape, they burn—for pleasure. Causing pain has become their sport. And that… that is what chills me more than anything else."
A light breeze slipped through the window, stirring the dust in the sunbeam. Rosalind sat frozen, something inside her quietly cracking apart—grief and anger, unfamiliar and wordless.
Her breath caught in her throat. She felt as if she were standing in front of a locked door, one that had always been there—but only now did she realize what lay behind it: stories like Maera's, buried in silence and ash.
Redmark was no longer just a name printed on military reports.
They were ghosts.
They were blood.
They were fate etched into the lives of people like Maera.
"Still… it's all behind us now. Even Redmark is no longer what it used to be," Rosalind said softly, almost as if reminding herself.
Her breath caught for a moment, but then she inhaled deeply—as if gathering scattered pieces of herself, drawing them back into place. The quiet around her was no longer heavy with sorrow. It held something else now. A quiet shift. A beginning.
"If they have changed," she continued, "then so must we. We cannot hold on to the past like armor. We can only move forward."
She looked down at her hands—small, pale, still trembling faintly from all she had heard. Then slowly, she clasped them together. Steadied them.
"There's only one thing that must not change," she whispered, her eyes rising to meet the light beyond the window. "It's that they will not win. They never will."
Her voice was no louder than before, but within it stirred something fierce, something quietly luminous.
"No matter how they change, no matter how they return… we will not let them succeed—not now, not ever."
A quiet moment passed. Then Maera looked at her with that same bright, unwavering smile—the one that lit up the dim room like sunlight in early spring.
From the very first day she had laid eyes on Rosalind, she had known.
This young woman, with fire in her words and warmth in her gaze, was the spring wind meant to thaw the cold of the North.
"I agree with you, my lady," Maera said, voice soft but full of conviction.
"Still... I wonder if I've overstepped," Rosalind murmured, her voice softening with doubt.Her fingers brushed the edge of the desk, restless. "I should have spoken to Dorian first."A breath caught in her chest. If it were him—would he have chosen this path?Would he see her decision as strength… or defiance?
"I only hope this doesn't make him feel... disregarded."
Now that she thought about it, perhaps she'd been a bit too quick. Too swept up in purpose to remember that she wasn't alone in carrying it.
"Trust me, my lady," Maera replied, her voice calm and steady. "What you've done—for Everfrost, for the people of the North—every decision has been the right one."
She met Rosalind's eyes, calm and steady.
"I'm certain the Duke will always respect a decision that serves the people's good. Not just because it comes from you... but because it's true."
Just then, there was another knock at the door—familiar, but more hurried than before.
"My lady, it's Elise. I have something to report."
Rosalind's eyes widened slightly in surprise. She glanced at Maera, still seated beside her.
"Come in, Elise," Maera called gently.
The door opened, and Elise stepped in with a quick bow to Rosalind, then another to Maera.
"My lady," she said, "you have a visitor."
"A visitor?" Rosalind frowned.
She couldn't think of anyone in the North close enough to warrant an unannounced visit.
"Is it a noblewoman?" she asked, puzzled. "I wasn't informed of anyone arriving today."
But Elise only smiled.
"You should come to the front courtyard, my lady. I'm sure you'll be quite surprised."
There was no denying it—Elise had piqued her curiosity. And perhaps… it wouldn't hurt to step outside for a moment.
With that thought, Rosalind stood.
"Well then, shall we go welcome our guest?"
Both Maera and Elise nodded, falling into step beside her as they made their way down the hall. Rosalind's study was on the opposite wing from the main entrance, so it took them a few minutes to reach the front.
But even before they arrived, she could already hear the sound of voices—lively, animated.
This wasn't a guest. It was a whole party.
She stepped out into the front courtyard and came to a halt.
A caravan stretched out before her—horses, riders, and five or six carts loaded with crates. Supplies, she realized, and on every crate was a seal she knew all too well.
The royal crest.
"This is…" she began, still trying to grasp what she was seeing.
But before she could finish, a deep, familiar voice spoke behind her.
"Your Grace, Rosalind Valemont."
And for a moment—just a moment—all the weight she carried fell away.
There, standing tall in his riding cloak, eyes alight with the same fierce intelligence she remembered, was Theodore Lennox.
"Well, look who it is," she smile.
"Theodore Lennox."