Duke Alaric Viremont

The letter arrived sealed in southern wax—sun-gold pressed too heavily, as if authority could be forced into paper.

My uncle had always favoured excess.

The Southern Kingdom announced its intentions with pleasantries and threats disguised as affection. A visit. Concern for my new wife. An interest in my father’s counsel. Politics wrapped in familial silk. They would arrive at dawn.

Two weeks married, and already the walls leaned closer.

By the time night settled its weight over the palace, I returned from council matters with my mother lingering at my side—questions unasked, judgments withheld. She kissed my cheek, murmured something about patience, and left me at the doors of my private chambers as if I were still a boy learning how to wear a crown without cutting myself.

The doors opened without ceremony.

Warm lamplight spilled over velvet and dark wood. My chambers smelled faintly of lavender oil and heated stone—hers, not mine.

She had been here since the evening.

I saw her before she noticed me.

My wife sat reclined upon the chaise near the window, dark hair loose against the pale line of her throat, wrapped in a robe the colour of quiet storms. Raya stood behind her, deft fingers kneading tension from her shoulders with reverent care. Salsa folded her gown nearby, silken fabric arranged with almost military precision.

She looked... smaller than she did in court.

Tired.

Human.

Both maids stilled when I entered. They bowed their heads, instinctive, respectfully.

I crossed the room, unhurried, boots silent against the carpet. “Leave,” I said.

I did not raise my voice. I never do.

Authority does not shout.

I was halfway to my study table when I felt it—her gaze, sharp and deliberate, a blade pressed lightly to the back of my spine. Memory rose uninvited: three nights ago, words flung like daggers over wine and candlelight, her warning precise and unyielding.

Do not command what is mine as if it belongs to you.

I stopped.

Slowly, I straightened and turned, unfastening the top button of my burgundy waistcoat, silver-thread embroidery catching the light as I exhaled through my nose.

“I mean,” I said mildly, the corner of my lips curling up a bit, adjusting my tone into something far more dangerous, “Would you grant me a moment alone with you, my dear wife?”

The words were honeyed. The implication was not.

She studied me for a long moment, chin lifted, eyes bright with that infuriating intelligence she wielded like a weapon. Then—finally—she inclined her head.

“Raya. Salsa. You may go.”

They bowed again and withdrew, closing the doors softly behind them.

Silence reclaimed the room.

I removed my waistcoat, tossed it over the back of a chair, and crossed toward the mirror, rolling the ache from my shoulders with a quiet exhale. The day clung to me—meetings, alliances, men who smiled while planning to bleed one another dry.

In the mirror, I saw her watching me.

“Did you hear about the letter?” I asked, fingers working the cufflinks loose, metal clicking softly. “From the Southern Kingdom. King Edward.”

I caught her reflection as she shifted on the chaise, posture still regal even in repose.

“You seem,” I continued, calmly, “to have grown rather accustomed to the luxuries my palace and its people provide—so much so that you appear to have forgotten the small matter of an entire court preparing for their arrival tomorrow.”

My eyes met hers in the glass.

Measured. Challenging.

I slipped free of my coat, hung it neatly, every movement deliberate. This was not an accusation—this was provocation, refined to an art.

The pins came next, loosened from my cuffs. I was undressing the day from my body while she weighed whether to sharpen her tongue or let silence do the cutting.

Two weeks married.

And already, the war had begun—not for power, but for territory far more dangerous.

Each other.

The palace prepares for dinner the way it prepares for war—quietly, thoroughly, without room for error.

Silver gleams. Candles are aligned to perfection. Servants move like ghosts along the corridors, careful not to disturb the weight of expectation that settles heavier whenever my parents dine with us. A new bride invites scrutiny. A duchess invites judgment.

I return to our chambers moments before the bell is due.

She stands at her vanity.

The room is warm with lamplight, reflected endlessly by mirrors and polished wood. Her maids are gone—dismissed, I presume, by choice rather than command. She prefers certain things done by her own hands. Independence masquerading as simplicity.

She does not see me at first.

Her gown is a deep ivory, cut low at the back, fabric falling like liquid over her form. The smooth line of her spine draws my attention before I allow it to—graceful, unguarded, disappearing beneath silk at her waist. A loose curl has escaped her careful styling, brushing the nape of her neck like an invitation she does not know she has issued.

I stop beside the canopy bed, hands sliding into my trouser pockets.

I take my time.

Navy blue adorns me tonight—royal tailoring, gold-thread embroidery catching the light when I breathe. The weight of duty sits comfortably on my shoulders. It always has. What unsettles me now is not the dinner... but the quiet moment before it.

She lifts the emerald necklace, frowning slightly at the clasp.

That is when I speak.

“Looks like they weren’t lying.”

My voice is low, calm—intimate in a way I do not often allow.

She stills.

I cross the space between us, slow enough that she senses me before I touch anything at all. From the mirror, her eyes flick up to meet mine. Alert. Curious. Unyielding.

I reach for the necklace before she can refuse.

“Women,” I murmur, almost amused, “do apparently take decades to ready themselves... and admire the result.”

I take the emeralds from her fingers, my knuckles brushing hers—brief, deliberate. Standing behind her, I note the quiet alignment of us: the crown of her head rests just beneath my chest, as if the world designed the distance with intention.

With my free hand, I brush the loose strands from her nape, fingers grazing skin warm from candlelight and bathwater.

She does not pull away.

“You look beautiful,” I say—not rushed, not exaggerated. Truth has a particular weight when spoken plainly. “Exactly as people imagine.”

I secure the necklace at her throat, careful, precise. The emeralds settle against her skin like something claimed.

My eyes catch hers in the mirror.

“The Duke’s new bride,” I add softly, the words carrying the echo of every whisper that trails her through these halls.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then I step back.

My hands return to my pockets. I straighten, inhale once, composing myself the way I always do before facing the world.

“Smile for my mother,” I say, eyes lowering briefly to the reflection of her hair, her shoulders, the tension she hides too well.

A pause.

“Bite me later.”

The corner of my mouth lifts—not quite a smile, but close enough to be dangerous.

And just like that, the doors of the palace wait for us again.