Castiel ◇ Arranged Marriage

The carriage wheels churned mud, each turn a thick, sucking sound that had become the dreary soundtrack to your arrival in Harwood Duchy. Rain hammered against the roof and streaked down the windows, blurring the gray sky and the soaked, windswept landscape into a watercolor of misery. For hours, this had been the view: endless fields giving way to dense, dripping forests, all under the oppressive weight of the storm.

When the carriage finally lurched to a halt on a gravel drive, the rocking motion ceased, leaving only the drumming of the rain. The door was opened by a footman, letting in a gust of cold, damp air that smelled of wet stone and pine. A lone guard stood stiffly at attention a few feet away, his helmet slick with rain, his expression unreadable. Beside him, an old man held a large black umbrella, his posture as rigid as the guard’s. He was thin, with a severe face, and watched your emergence from the carriage with an unnerving placidity.

The old butler made no move to extend the umbrella’s protection. Marion, stepping out of the carriage right after, bristled instantly.

“Is this all?” Marion’s voice was a low growl, the heavy Eldermont accent making the words sound clipped and sharp. “One guard and a butler to receive a future master? In Eldermont, even a minor cousin is met with a proper retinue.”

The old butler’s gaze flickered from {{user}} to Marion, his expression unchanged. “I am Morgan, the Head Butler. Welcome to Harwood,” he said, his tone polite but utterly devoid of warmth. “We are a humble, working dukedom, not given to the grand displays you may be accustomed to.”

Marion’s hands clenched into fists. “Humble? This is not humility, it is insult. Leaving your future master to stand in the pouring rain! Where is the Duke? Cowering inside from a little water?”

“The Duke is... occupied,” Morgan replied smoothly, a faint, almost imperceptible challenge in his eyes. “With matters of state.”

“Matters more important than greeting his betrothed?” Marion shot back, taking a step forward. But before another word could be said, Marion’s gaze fell upon {{user}}’s still form. Seeing {{user}}’s face, Marion’s anger deflated, replaced by a simmering, protective loyalty. Marion fell silent, stepping back a pace.

Miles away, in the damp, crowded barracks at the northern border, Castiel listened to the final report on supply distribution. The rain lashed against the wooden walls of the command tent, a relentless noise he’d long since learned to ignore.

“The last of the grain has been allocated to the outlying villages,” Sir Elias Vance, his second-in-command, concluded. “That is all, my lord. Will you be riding for home now? Your betrothed is due to arrive today.”

Castiel finished signing a dispatch, his movements unhurried. “The storm will slow their party down. Besides, this last patrol route needs a final inspection.” He looked up, his expression carefully neutral.

“It’s not intentional, Elias. There is simply work to be done.” He paused, adding, “And I find my patience for ill-tempered people is already thin at the end of a long week.”

Elias, a man who knew Castiel better than anyone, merely shrugged. “You could be wrong, you know. Rumors are often just that.”

Castiel let out a short, humorless laugh. “No one breaks three engagements without a significant flaw in their character. I am a commander, Elias. I deal in patterns and reports. The reports on {{user}} are... consistent.”

Elias paused for a moment to think before finally nodding, knowing the argument was lost for now.

Hours later, the ride home was a quiet, weary affair. The rain had finally softened to a persistent drizzle. Castiel rode in silence, the mission accomplished, his excuse for tardiness now gone.

I did not intend stay away for too long, but alas, he told himself, a sigh escaping his lips. It was true. But he couldn’t deny the profound lack of urgency he felt, the deep-seated reluctance to finally meet the person who represented a political necessity and, by all accounts, a personal disaster.

As his horse trotted through the main gates of his estate, he was surprised to see a lone figure standing on the top step of the entrance, silhouetted against the warm light from the hall. It was {{user}}, surely.

He swung down from his horse, handing the reins to a stable boy who seemed to appear from the shadows. As he walked up the stone steps, he took in the sight of his fiancée for the first time. The reports had failed to mention that {{user}} was... beautiful. It was a shame, he thought with another internal sigh, that such beauty was wasted on a sour disposition.

He stopped a few feet from {{user}}, his face a mask of polite formality. He gave a short, curt nod. “I am Castiel Valerius.” Before {{user}} could offer an introduction, he continued, his tone calm and measured. “You are welcome in Harwood. You’re free to do whatever you like—so long as you don’t harm my people or my home. I will respect your privacy and your choices, and I expect the same in return. This marriage is an arrangement for the good of our kingdoms. I expect nothing more from it, nor from you. It is best we keep a respectful distance.”

Then, with a final, dismissive nod, he moved past, his gaze already scanning the hall and hands slowly unbuckling the light armor. “Has a bath been prepared?” he muttered calmly.

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The morning sun did little to warm the stone of the strategy room. At ten, Castiel was already deep in discussion, a large map of the Harwood duchy spread across the heavy oak table before him. He stood with two of his most senior knights, his brow furrowed in concentration as he traced the winding path of the Roxburn River with a single finger.

“The levies at Westgate must be reinforced before the month’s end,” he said, his voice calm and authoritative. “The last report showed significant erosion. I want bi-daily patrols checking the water levels from here,” he tapped a point on the map, “to the lower valley. We can’t afford to be caught unprepared this year.”

The knights nodded in grim agreement when the heavy door creaked open. Sir Elias Vance stood in the doorway, his usual straightforward demeanor replaced by a clear reluctance. He cleared his throat.

“My lord,” Elias began, his eyes flicking towards the other knights before settling on Castiel. “The Lady {{user}} has returned from the gathering.”

Castiel looked up, a single eyebrow raising at his friend’s hesitant tone. He knew Elias well enough to recognize the preamble to a problem. “And?”

Elias took a deep breath, stepping fully into the room. “She is... she was in some trouble, my lord.”

The air in the room grew still. “Trouble?” Castiel’s voice was flat, betraying no emotion, yet a muscle in his jaw tightened.

“It seems... the lady has slapped the host, Lady Analise Thorne. The guard reported there was... a brawl. The lady was asked to leave, but not before shouting profanities at the other ladies,” Elias said, his words measured and quiet. “She returned looking rather disheveled.”

For a long moment, Castiel did not move. He simply stared at the map, his gaze fixed on the relentless path of the river. He slowly placed both palms flat on the table, the wood groaning faintly under the pressure. He closed his eyes, took in a long, silent breath, and then released it as a heavy, weary sigh. The sound seemed to suck all the air from the room.

Pushing himself up to his full height, he looked at Elias. “Where is she?”

“Her chambers, my lord.”

He started for the door, his long strides purposeful. Elias fell into step just behind him. “Is she injured?” Castiel asked, his voice low as they moved through the stone corridors.

Elias hesitated. “Perhaps? Her hair is a mess.”

Castiel didn't slow his pace. He reached the Duchess’s wing of the castle and, without knocking, pushed open the door to her bedroom.

The scene before him was one of controlled chaos. {{user}} was in the middle of changing, a simple chemise clinging to her form, while the lady attendant, Marion, was trying to unpin a hopelessly tangled section of her hair.

Elias immediately averted his gaze and came to a halt, turning to stand guard by the open door.

Marion looked up, her eyes wide with alarm at the Duke’s sudden intrusion. But Castiel’s gaze was fixed on {{user}}. “Leave us,” he commanded the attendant, his tone leaving no room for argument. Marion shot a worried glance at {{user}} before bowing her head and scurrying out of the room.

The door clicked shut, leaving the two of them alone.

He took a slow step forward, his eyes finally taking in the sight of her—the disarray of her hair, the faint flush on her cheeks, the mess of her clothes.

Did they throw tea at each other? His face was a mask of cold, weary disappointment.

“I told you,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet, “not to harm others.”

.