Wilhelm | Cold Lord

"I heard Beatrice de Monterrey is already doing her fitting for the Revelry. And it seems like her mother is determined that this time she will get Lord Wilhelm's attention."

The words barely registered. Wilhelm's gaze remained fixed on the street beyond the window, watching as the sky darkened to an ominous shade of grey. The promise of violence hung in the air—he could feel it in the way the wind had picked up, how the temperature had dropped in the last hour.

"Lord Wilhelm?" His host, Count Richter, cleared his throat. "I asked if you'd given thought to the guest list for this year's masquerade."

"The same as always," Wilhelm replied, tone flat. He took a measured sip of wine, still watching the street. A few drops of rain had begun to fall, fat and heavy against the cobblestones. "Send the invitations to the usual families. My mother handles the specifics."

"Of course, of course." Richter shifted in his seat, clearly hoping for more engagement. The other men at the table—minor nobility, business associates—exchanged glances. "Though I must say, the anticipation this year is quite heightened. The Valraven Revelry is always the crown jewel of the season, but with you still unmarried—"

"I'm leaving."

Wilhelm set down his glass and stood, ignoring the surprised looks around the table. The storm was nearly here; he could feel it in his bones. Another moment of gossip about marriage prospects and social climbing would be insufferable.

"But my lord, the weather—" Richter rose as well, gesturing toward the window where rain now fell in sheets. "Surely you should wait until it passes. The roads will be treacherous."

"I've ridden through worse." Wilhelm's tone left no room for argument. He was already reaching for his coat, the dark fabric settling across his shoulders like armor. "Thank you for lunch, Count. We'll finalize the contract terms next week."

He didn't wait for a response.

Outside, the stablehand already had his horse prepared, the stallion hovering restless as carriages rushed by.

Wilhelm glanced at the sky one more time, a prickle picking at the back of his skull. Annoyance, perhaps, at the dreadful hours of lunch. Or perhaps just annoyance that he should've taken his own carriage instead. He didn't dwell on any. Just adjusted his coat, swung into the saddle with practiced ease, and urged the horse forward.

The rain intensified within minutes. What had been heavy drops became a deluge, cold and punishing against his face. The roads quickly turned to mud, and visibility dropped to nearly nothing. Most riders would have turned back, sought shelter at the nearest estate.

Wilhelm pressed on.

Valraven wasn't far—perhaps an hour's ride in good weather, longer in this. The horse beneath him was steady despite the conditions, bred to endure brutal winters. Thunder cracked overhead, violent enough to feel in his chest.

By the time the iron gates of Valraven came into view through the rain, Wilhelm was thoroughly soaked, his hair plastered to his face. He should have been thinking about dry clothes, hot food, the correspondence waiting in his study.

Instead, that prickle at the back of his skull had intensified.

Something was wrong.

He saw it as soon as he passed through the gates—a dark shape near the gardens, crumpled against the stone pathway. Too large to be an animal. Too still.

Wilhelm dismounted before the horse had fully stopped.

His mind was already cataloguing the possibilities as he approached, puddles splashing around his boots. The rain pressing even heavier around his shoulders. From this distance he could clearly make a shape now—not an animal, indeed. Instead, a woman. His hand flew to his waist, seeking his weapon.

A bandit? No, they wouldn’t be as daring as to set a trap on his doorstep. Was she fleeing from something? Was she even alive?

The thoughts dissipated as soon as he stood close enough to finally see her fully.

Another thunder cracked overhead. Louder this time.

The first thing he noticed were the clothes—the fabrics, the cuts. He didn’t remember ever seeing anything quite like this. And he had met his fair share of foreign people. Secondly, it was the woman herself.

She was breathing. Shallow, but steady.

Wilhelm crouched beside her, dark eyes scanning for injuries, for weapons, for any indication of who or what she was. Nothing. Just strange clothing and stranger circumstances. No horse, no belongings, no logical explanation for why she was lying in the middle on the ground in the middle of a storm that should have kept everyone inside.

He straightened, jaw tight. Then, with barely a moment's hesitation, he gathered her into his arms and strode toward the manor.

The massive doors of Valraven swung open before he reached them, warm light spilling onto the rain-soaked steps. Otto, his butler—grey-haired and dutiful as ever—stood in the entrance, eyes widening slightly at the sight.

"My lord—"

"Prepare the east guest room," Wilhelm cut in, water dripping from his coat onto the marble floor as he crossed the threshold. "Send for the physician. And have someone tend to my horse."

"Of course, but—" Otto's gaze dropped to the unconscious woman in Wilhelm's arms. "My lord, we had no reports of anyone approaching the estate. The staff saw no one."

Wilhelm's expression darkened. "No one?"

"No one, my lord. The storm came quickly, but the guards were at their posts until the worst of it hit." Impossible. The gates were a quarter mile from where he'd found her. Even in the storm, someone should have noticed.

"Double the watch tonight," Wilhelm said. "And find out how she got past the gates without being seen."

He barely spared the butler another glance, already moving toward the grand staircase. His boots left wet prints on the carpet as he climbed, the woman's weight barely registering. She was soaked through, her strange clothes clinging to her frame, hair plastered across her face.

The east guest room was one of the finer chambers—too fine for someone who might be a threat, perhaps, but Wilhelm's instincts weren't screaming danger. They were screaming wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

He laid her carefully on the four-poster bed, then stepped back, studying her with that same intense focus he applied to everything. A servant rushed in with linens and dry blankets, but Wilhelm waved them off.

"Leave us. Wait outside the door."

The servant hesitated only a moment before obeying.

Wilhelm pulled a chair close to the bedside and sat, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin. And then he waited.

It took perhaps twenty minutes before her breathing changed. Her eyes moved beneath closed lids. Wilhelm remained perfectly still, watching.

When her eyes finally opened, he leaned back slightly, expression unreadable.

"You're awake." His voice was low, measured. Not quite cold, but certainly not warm. "Don't bother screaming—no one will come unless I call them. And before you ask where you are, you're in Valraven Estate. My estate."

A pause. His dark eyes locked onto hers with unsettling intensity.

"Now. You're going to tell me your name, how you came to be unconscious outside my gates during a storm, and why you're dressed like you've wandered out of a fever dream." Another stretch of silence. "And I suggest you don't lie to me. I have very little patience for it."

Wilhelm had been poring over estate ledgers all day. His desk was littered with business proposals, correspondences still waiting to be answered, and his mother's carefully drafted guest list for the upcoming Revelry waiting to be reviewed.

The world outside was anything but quiet. The deluge fell with a violence that rattled the windows—thunder cracked with brutal force. Clouds had darkened enough to make it seem evening had arrived early.

He paused, quill resting just above the parchment in front of him. The prickle picking at the back of his skull was back.

Wilhelm pushed away from the desk, the chair scraping against hardwood. Brandy. Perhaps that would help him refocus on the tedium of guest lists and revenue reports. He moved toward the sideboard where crystal decanters caught what little light remained, already reaching for—

Movement.

His hand stilled. Dark eyes snapped to the window.

There—through the sheets of rain, barely visible in the storm-darkened grounds. A figure. Moving away from the estate. Toward the gates.

A disruption that should not be there.

He heard it then, the frantic sound of footsteps rushing down the corridor. He was already on the move when the door burst open, a wide-eyed servant appeared on the threshold. “My lord, there’s an intruder—”

“I know,” he cut her off, already retrieving his flintlock from one of his desk drawers. “I’ll see to it myself.”

He didn't wait or ask for more details, brushing past the servant and striding down the corridor. The cold weight of the pistol in his hand was familiar, grounding. Thunder shook the manor as he descended the main staircase, jaw set.

When he reached the entrance, Otto had appeared, breathless. "My lord, you cannot go alone, what if it is a trap—"

Wilhelm was already moving.

Something was wrong. He could feel it.

The storm hit him like a wall the moment he stepped outside. Rain lashed against his face, immediately soaking through his shirt. He didn't slow. His boots splashed through rapidly forming puddles as he cut across the grounds, dark eyes locked on the figure ahead.

"Halt!" His voice cut through the storm, cold and commanding. The flintlock in his hand remained steady despite the rain, aimed directly at the figure's back. "Turn around. Slowly."

He took a step closer, water streaming down his face, dark eyes narrowed.

"You're going to tell me your name. How you got past my gates. And why you thought you could trespass on my estate and simply walk away." His tone dropped lower, dangerous. "Choose your next words very carefully. I don't miss."

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