Elias watched from the upper colonnade as his new duchess crossed the central courtyard, a satchel slung over one shoulder, her hair braided simply down her back. The morning mist had not yet lifted, and the stone glistened with dew. She walked steadily, pausing once to speak with a young page, once more to adjust a potted fern that had been blown over in the night wind.
She hadn't noticed him.
Or—more likely—she had, and simply chose not to acknowledge it.
He leaned heavier on his cane than usual. The ache in his thigh had flared with the change in weather. He would need to rest soon, but he lingered longer than he should've, his gaze following the measured grace of her movements.
Three days. Three days since the wedding and they had spoken no more than five words since.
And yet… he had heard her name on many lips.
"She reviewed the entire household roster," Madam Therin Caelith had said. "Suggested changes to the kitchen deliveries herself. Spoke plainly to the steward about heating inconsistencies in the west wing. She learns fast, Your Grace."
He'd nodded at the time, saying nothing. But the reports pleased him.
That morning, she'd spent an hour in the south corridor correcting inventory tallies. The day before, she had walked the length of the east stables alone, without fanfare, just to meet the staff herself.
She had not flinched at his presence. But neither had she seemed eager to please. He found that… refreshing.
When she vanished from view beneath the portico, Elias let out a breath and slowly turned back toward his study. The weight on his leg was unkind, and the stairs were cruel, but he didn't ring for assistance. He preferred to move alone.
Even when it hurt.
He was reading near the fire later that evening when a knock came at the door.
"Enter," he called, voice low.
Ilya stepped in, the faint scent of parchment and lavender following her. She wore a slate blue gown today, modestly cut, its sleeves rolled just enough to suggest she'd been working. There was ink on one fingertip and a soft flush in her cheeks.
"Good evening," she said.
He rose slowly, the cane in his left hand grounding him with a soft tap.
"Lady Ilya," he greeted. "Please, come in."
She hesitated for only a moment before sitting across from him. He remained standing until the fire forced a throb through his hip. With a quiet breath, he lowered himself into the opposite chair, careful not to grimace as the fabric brushed his ribs.
"I hope I'm not intruding," she said.
"You are not."
"I brought the final tally from Madam Caelith. Staff changes, adjusted duties, the revised winter preparation schedule."
He accepted the scroll but did not unroll it.
"I've heard you've been efficient," he said. "And decisive."
She arched a brow slightly. "Is that a compliment?"
"A rare one," he said with a hint of warmth. "From me."
Something flickered in her eyes then—perhaps amusement. Perhaps suspicion.
"I don't think you're as cold as people say," she said.
He looked at her carefully. "You don't?"
"No. But I think you learned to stop offering warmth to people who never returned it."
That surprised him. Not her intuition—he was coming to expect that—but the quiet conviction with which she said it.
Elias lowered his gaze, fingertips resting lightly on the scroll in his lap. "It's difficult to give warmth when your very body punishes you for showing it."
She looked at him, head tilted. "It hurts to smile?"
"Yes."
He didn't say it bitterly. Just honestly.
She studied him for a long moment. "I hadn't noticed you tried."
That startled a dry huff of air from his chest—half breath, half laugh.
"Touché."
He adjusted slightly in his seat, careful of the scarred skin beneath his collar. "I'll admit… I'm still trying to understand you."
"And I, you."
He glanced over. "Then let me help. Ask."
Her voice softened. "Why did you really agree to marry me?"
The fire cracked quietly between them. He leaned his cane against the chair, eyes fixed on the flames for a long moment.
"Because I was ordered to," he said at last. "But also… because I've spent many years alone, and I think I've grown tired of pretending that solitude is strength."
She didn't answer right away. When she did, it was with gentleness he hadn't expected.
"I don't like pretending either."
Their eyes met. Neither looked away.
He shifted again, pain brushing beneath the ribs where flame once kissed bone.
"If I didn't know any better, my lady...I'd say we were flirting."
She laughed again. Rich, beautiful...like high bells near winters end.
"Well...we are married, right? It may be political but no reason we can't enjoy one another's company at the least."
Elias nodded.
"Yes well...I suppose not." He cleared his throat. "You are doing very well…I expect my senior staff are quite surprised by this and pleasantly so. That aside, would you...care to join me for breakfast tomorrow?"
She would nod.
"I would like that very much."
He wished he could read her mind.
"Right. Then tomorrow it is. Thank you for this, I shall review it and approve it as soon as possible.
She stood then, quietly, and gathered her things. "Alright. Then good night, Your Grace."
He paused.
Then he said: "Elias."
She turned, furrowing her brow.
"If we're going to share a life," he said gently, "you should be able to say my name."
She nodded, only once, smiling again. It was bright. Happy- such a smile of rich depth that he felt his heart skip a beat. "Yes. Of course. Good night, Elias."
When she left, her footsteps disappeared into the corridor like breath leaving a glass.
And for a long while after, Elias remained by the fire, his lips parted in the ghost of a smile that ached far more than it should have—but hurt just a little less than before.