Isolde's POV
I didn't return to my room after tea.
Not immediately.
Lady Marguerite's final words clung to me like burrs: "You will be taught the noble ways."
She hadn't looked back when she said it, just vanished down the corridor like smoke in wind.
So I wandered.
I told myself I was only walking off the chill. That I needed to breathe. But the truth was, I didn't want to go back to that room. Not yet.
The halls stretched quiet and long. I followed instinct more than memory, past shuttered windows and sleeping portraits, deeper into the manor where the rugs thinned and the scent of woodsmoke gave way to stone.
That was when I heard it.
A groan, low and raw, like it had been dragged unwilling from someone's throat.
I froze, spine rigid.
Another followed, sharper this time, cut short like someone was biting down on pain.
There was a door at the end of the corridor. Unmarked. Plain. A thread of light spilled from beneath it, golden and flickering.
I crept closer, one step at a time, until I could hear them clearly.
"Steady."
A man's voice, older, clinical.
"I am steady," came the reply, tight, furious.
Another groan tore through the air, followed by a sharp, rasping curse.
"Hellfire."
My hand flew to my mouth.
"You're improving, my lord," the first voice offered, cautious, coaxing.
"Then your standards are pitiful."
There was a sudden clatter, metal crashing against stone.
I jumped.
The tray. Whatever it carried, tools, bandages, was now scattered across the floor.
I staggered back, breath caught, heart pounding. But before I could retreat fully, my shoe slipped against the edge of the uneven floor.
And I collided into someone.
A gasp escaped me.
Strong arms caught me, halting my fall. I looked up, startled.
A stranger stared back at me.
Young, no older than I. Sharp-featured, with an expression caught somewhere between surprise and amusement.
His hands remained on my arms, steadying me.
"Forgive me," I whispered, breathless.
One corner of his mouth curved faintly. "The halls are long and winding. Easy to lose your way."
I stepped back, heart still thudding. "I didn't mean to, I thought I heard…"
His hand lingered a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back.
"I'm sorry," I murmured again, brushing invisible dust from my skirt. "I didn't mean to intrude. I didn't know anyone was…"
"I believe I said the halls were long and winding," he said smoothly, lips tugging into a faint, unreadable smile. "You've no need to apologize."
There was something practiced in the way he held himself. Casual, but not careless. A nobleman's ease.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," I ventured, voice steadier than I felt.
He bowed his head slightly. "Lucien. Cousin to the Duke."
Ah. Of course.
The resemblance, now that I looked, was there, in the jaw, the mouth. But where the Duke was spoken of in whispers, this man seemed made of silver and smirks.
"And you," he added, though it wasn't really a question, "must be Lady Isolde."
I nodded. "Yes. Newly arrived."
His eyes lingered on mine just long enough to make the air feel thinner.
"Then allow me to be the first," he said, offering an arm, "to welcome you to Ravenshade… properly."
I hesitated only a heartbeat before placing my hand lightly on his sleeve.
His arm was warm beneath the fabric, steady.
We turned together, the sound of our footsteps muffled by ancient rugs.
Behind us, the door remained shut.
But I could still feel the echo of pain from behind it… and the weight of something I hadn't meant to find.
We walked down the shadowed corridor, the distant echo of groans still faint in my ears. The manor felt heavier now, every stone seemed to hold a secret, every whisper a warning.
Lucien's footsteps were measured beside mine, but I could feel his eyes watching me, sharp and unreadable.
"So," he said, voice low, "how are you finding Ravenshade so far?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Lonely," I admitted.
He gave a small, knowing smile. "That, my lady, is to be expected."
I glanced at him, searching his face for any hint of kindness. Instead, I found amusement. Not cruel, but distant.
"You'll find it easier if you learn which battles are worth fighting," he said, his tone almost a lesson.
I nodded, unsure if he was warning me or simply stating fact.
We reached the turn leading back to my wing. Lucien stopped and gave me a slight bow.
"Should you need anything," he said, "don't hesitate to seek me out."
I hesitated, then managed, "Thank you, Cousin Lucien."
He smiled again, a flash of something unreadable before he turned and disappeared down the hall.
I watched him go, heart pounding with more questions than answers.
The door to my room never looked so inviting as I walked into it.
I closed the heavy door behind me and sank onto the edge of the bed, the weight of the day pressing down. The manor's silence felt suffocating, full of shadows and secrets I was only beginning to glimpse.
I touched the worn fabric of the bedspread and whispered to myself, "What does he even look like… my supposed husband?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered, as the house settled around me, cold and watchful.
And somewhere beyond these walls, a presence stirred.
******
Elias' Pov
Pain surged through my body like a living thing, coiling and tightening with every breath. The physicians insisted I was improving, but their hollow reassurances did little to quiet the fire beneath my skin.
"Steady," the doctor murmured again, pressing the cloth against my leg.
"I am steady," I growled, biting back the curse rising on my tongue.
A sudden flare of anger snapped loose, and with a sharp motion, I sent the tray clattering to the floor. The noise echoed like a gunshot in the silent chamber.
"Blast it all!" I snarled, voice raw.
The doctor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're stronger than I expected, my lord. But patience is the only cure now."
I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms.
Patience was a luxury I did not possess.
I clenched my teeth against the dull, relentless ache that pulsed from the ruined limb up through my back. Every motion was a reckoning, every breath a quiet reminder of what had been taken from me. The physicians spoke softly near the hearth, their voices dipped in caution, as though sound itself might splinter me further.
"Strength need not always be the adversary, my lord," said the elder, crouching beside me to adjust the splint. "The body does not yield to command. It requires time."
Time. The word grated. It stretched like tar, slow, suffocating, and always watching. I gave no reply. A man like me had once ruled a horse with a glance. Now I sat in shadow, watching dust settle on windows I could no longer reach.
The younger physician added, carefully, "You are improving."
I laughed, short, bitter. "Do not flatter me." The ache sharpened as I shifted. My hand twitched toward the cane and failed. It toppled with a clatter that rang too loud in the chamber, and shame bit deeper than any wound. "Leave it," I snapped.
They retreated in silence, but I caught the exchange between them. The concern. The quiet questions they dared not voice.
I stared into the fire. And the, movement. Not in the room, but beyond it. A flicker, a breath, the soft gasp of someone lingering where they should not. There had been someone behind the door. Listening.
Damnation.
The tray hit the floor moments before the footsteps fled. She'd heard everything. The girl. My supposed wife.
Isolde.
I had kept to the shadows by design. Let her believe I was a ghost. Let her fear me, forget me, invent me. That would have been easier, for both of us. But now I wondered what impression I'd left in her mind. A madman? A beast in a chair? A man too proud to be seen?
I could not say. And I hated not knowing.
Still, I would summon her. Once. See her with my own eyes, hear her voice unmarred by gossip or duty. If she was weak, I'd send her home. But if she had fire…
Then perhaps she might stay.