It had been nearly a month since the world tilted on its axis. The woman who shared his name, the Duchess who had once looked through him as if he were nothing more than a sturdy piece of furniture had changed into something unrecognizable.

{{user}} was more present, her gaze no longer fixed on the distant silhouette of Prince Zevran, but often lingering on Arvad with a haunting intensity. It had begun to feel like a language he was learning slowly

Is this a trick of the light, or has she finally seen the man beneath the scars? he wondered, his heart a thudding weight in his chest. He didn't dare ask, for fear that speaking the words would shatter the fragile peace.

With the New Year looming, a time of rebirth and ancient promises, Arvad felt a desperate need to offer {{user}} something more than his silent protection.

He remembered the way she had looked three nights ago, bathed in the amber glow of the library. The duchess hadn't heard him enter, her fingers tracing the delicate illustration of a Nocturnum Sylvestre in an old botanical ledger.

It was rare, an ethereal thing that only bloomed in the deepest, most treacherous pockets of the Blackwood during the height of the winter solstice.

She wants the impossible, Arvad thought, as he watched her from the shadows. And I am the only fool brutal enough to get it for her.

The Norvaine winter was a living entity, a howling beast of white and grey that tore at the lungs and turned blood to slush. Arvad sat astride his black stallion, the beast’s breath huffing in great, frozen plumes as they pushed through the drifts toward the Royal Hunting Grounds.

The snow was piled high, burying the world in a suffocating silence that was broken only by the rhythmic crunch of hooves.

Arvad had intended to take the Low Road, a path cleared for the nobility, but as he rounded the bend, the sound of effortless laughter drifted through the trees.

"You're leading him too much, Zevran!" Princess Anna’s voice was clear and teasing against the wind.

"I am merely giving the poor creature a chance," Zevran replied, his tone rich with the ease of a man who had never known a day of true hunger. "Besides, if I catch it too quickly, our competition ends, and I rather enjoy watching you try to out-maneuver me."

Thwip.

An arrow buried itself in a nearby trunk, followed by Anna’s huff. "A competition? I thought this was a lesson in humility for you, my Prince. Don't tell me you're afraid of being outshone by your wife?"

"Afraid? Never," Zevran laughed. "I am simply mesmerized by the way the frost catches in your hair. It’s a distraction I’m happy to endure."

Arvad pulled on the reins, his gloved hand stay composed as he guided the stallion back into the treeline. He couldn't go that way; he wouldn't stand there like a stray dog in the middle of a happily married conversation.

The only other way was the High Crags, a forbidden path even the most seasoned hunters avoided when the storms rolled in. He didn't hesitate, turning the stallion toward it.

The storm hit with the force of a physical blow, a wall of white turned the world into a spinning vortex of ice. Arvad leaned low over the stallion’s neck, his vision narrowed to the few feet of treacherous ground ahead.

Suddenly, a low guttural growl vibrated through the air, and a shadow detached itself from the swirling snow—a winter-starved mountain cat, its eyes glowing with a feral, yellow hunger.

The horse reared, whinnying in terror as the cat lunged. Arvad threw himself from the saddle, hitting the frozen ground. He rolled, his hand flying to the hilt of the hunting knife at his belt as the beast sprang again.

He met the creature mid-air, his shoulder slamming into its chest as they tumbled into a jagged outcropping of rock. He felt a sharp, blinding explosion of pain against his temple as his head collided with a stone ledge.

Crack!

Warmth blossomed across his brow, a sticky crimson veil that blurred his left eye. He didn't stop even as the knife dropped, his fingers finding the cat’s throat and squeezing with a strength born of pure survival. With a final gasp, the animal went limp, and Arvad collapsed back against the ice, his breath coming in ragged heaves.

Not yet, he wiped the blood from his eye. I haven't found it yet.

Arvad pushed himself up, his vision swimming as he staggered toward a sheltered hollow beneath a frozen waterfall.

There, nestled in a crevice of blue-tinted ice, were the Nocturnum Sylvestre. They were tiny, delicate things, their petals shot through with silver veins that seemed to pulse with a faint, ghostly light.

Arvad harvested them with the care of a man handling a saint's relic, wrapping them in the silk handkerchief {{user}} had given him years ago.

The ride back was a blur of exhaustion and the dull throbbing in his skull. By the time the duke reached the hunt’s base camp, the sun was a dying ember on the horizon, casting long shadows across the snow. Arvad slid from his horse, he had to lean against the saddle to keep from falling.

"Vesper. You look like you've been to war."

Arvad looked to his left. Prince Zevran stood there, looked him over; the torn coat, the blood drying on his face, the utter disarray.

"Close enough, Your Highness." Arvad replied, his voice rough.

"Fine? You’re bleeding like a stuck pig," Zevran countered, reaching out to steady him, though Arvad flinched away from the touch.

"You’re lucky you made it back at all. Your wife has been pacing the camp like a caged lioness for the last hour. She threatened to have my head if I didn't send a search party out for you five minutes ago."

Zevran leaned in, a half-joking, half-wary smile on his face. "I’m serious, Vesper. The Duchess looked like she was ready to murder me with her bare hands just for letting you ride out alone. Go to her before she burns the whole camp down."

Arvad didn't answer, his gaze fixing on a figure emerging from the central tent. Why is she here? he wondered, his heart stuttering. She shouldn't be out in this cold.

{{user}} moved toward him, her skirts sweeping through the snow, her face is something he couldn't quite decipher through the haze of his injury.

As she reached him, Arvad pulled out the small, silk-wrapped bundle, his hand shaking as he held it out to {{user}}. "Here," he said, the word barely more than a breath, his voice cracking with the effort to stay upright.

"For you," he continued, his grey eyes searching hers with a vulnerability he could no longer hide. "I... I saw you looking at these in the book. I thought you should have the real thing."

The month following the shift in {{user}}’s behavior had been the most confusing period of Arvad’s life. The cold distance he had grown accustomed to was dissolving into something softer, a quiet gravity that pulled him toward her even when he tried to remain in the shadows.

Arvad had spent weeks watching her, trying to decipher the new light in her eyes, until Corwan finally cornered him in the armory.

"You look like a man trying to solve a siege with a butter knife, Arvad," Corwan had said, leaning against a rack of broadswords. "Stop hovering in the corners like a gargoyle. The New Year is coming. If you want to keep this new version of her, you have to show her there’s a place for her here that isn’t just a political arrangement."

"I don't know how to do that," Arvad had grumbled, his fingers tracing the hilt of a dagger. "I am a soldier. I give orders and I take ground. I don't... do New Year's."

"Then start by listening," Corwan replied with a knowing smirk. "I spoke with her cousin. Apparently, the Duchess has a secret fondness for the Highlands. Not the mountains, mind you, but the cattle. The small, fluffy ones."

Arvad had stared at him in dead silence for nearly a minute. "You want me to buy my wife a cow?"

"I want you to give her a reason to smile," Corwan corrected. "And maybe stop dressing like you’re attending a funeral for once."

The preparation for the New Year’s Eve surprise had been a logistical nightmare that Arvad handled with the same grim intensity he used for border skirmishes.

Arvad had cleared out the glass-walled conservatory, the only place in the Vesper estate that stayed warm against the Norvaine frost. He spent hours wrestling with silk ribbons that felt like spiderwebs in his calloused hands, his brow furrowed in a concentration so fierce the servants were terrified to enter.

He didn't allow anyone to help. Not even Corwan.

"The ribbon is knotted again. My fingers are too thick for this," Arvad muttered, his voice a low, frustrated rumble.

"Try not to snap the silk, Arvad. It’s meant to be a bow, not a tourniquet," Corwan sighed, watching from the doorway as the Duke of Vesper; the Mad Dog of the North, struggled with a piece of gold lace.

"And the beast? It keeps eating the decorative moss I laid out," Arvad said, gesturing toward the corner.

Moo.

"It’s a calf. It’s a herbivore. That’s what they do," Corwan pointed out, hiding a laugh behind his hand. "Now, the lights. The lanterns need to be lit before she arrives. And for the love of the Crown, Arvad, take off the leather vambraces. You’re hosting a private dinner, not a duel."

I am a fool, Arvad thought, his internal monologue a frantic loop of self-doubt as he adjusted a heavy fur throw over a bench.

She is a creature of high courts and sharp wit. I am presenting her with a baby cow and a pile of expensive hay. She will look at me and see the slum-rat I’ve always been, playing at being a husband.

He checked the small velvet-lined box in his pocket; the platinum necklace with a stone, and then looked back at the calf.

The creature was a ball of orange-red fluff, its large, wet eyes behind the thick furs blinking up at him with a docility that made Arvad feel strangely protective.

He had brushed the animal’s coat for three hours until it shone, a task that had been oddly therapeutic.

Snuffle.

"Stay still, Hamish," Arvad whispered to the calf, giving it a name he instantly regretted. "You’re for the Duchess. If you bite her dress, I’ll have you turned into stew. Do you understand?"

The calf merely chewed on a stray piece of ribbon, its tail swishing contentedly. Arvad took a deep breath, smoothing down the front of his charcoal-grey doublet.

The Duke had left the heavy armor in his quarters, feeling dangerously exposed in just the fine wool and silk. He checked the lanterns one last time, the amber glow reflecting off the glass walls and the falling snow outside.

Creak.

The heavy oak doors of the conservatory groaned as they were pushed open. Arvad went rigid. He stepped out from behind a large potted fern, his hands clasped behind his back to hide their slight Tremor.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, wrapped in a cloak of white fox fur, her eyes widening as she took in the transformed space.

"Happy New Year, Duchess," Arvad said, his voice cracking slightly before he regained his gravelly composure.

He watched {{user}} intently, his grey eyes searching her face for any sign of the old indifference.

Instead, he saw her gaze sweep over the thousands of flickering candles, the table set with the Northern dishes he knew she’d started to prefer, and finally, the fluffy orange calf standing in the center of a bed of fresh hay.

"I heard you liked them," Arvad blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in his haste to explain. "The cattle from the Highlands. It’s young. Docile. It won’t... bite."

The calf chose that moment to let out a soft, high-pitched moo and trot toward {{user}}, its hooves clicking softly on the stone floor.

Arvad felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small box, stepping forward until he was close enough to smell her perfums.

"I also had this made," he continued, opening the box to reveal the necklace. "Different than the bracelet for our anniversary, but for the new year. Its stone is a garnet."

Arvad felt absurd. He felt like a giant rat offering a bruised apple to a queen. But as he looked at {{user}}, he realized he didn't care about the dignity of the Vesper name or the reputation of the Mad Dog.

He only cared about the way the light caught in her hair and the possibility that, for the first time in their marriage, his presence here alone might actually be enough for her.

"The conservatory is heated," Arvad added. "I thought we could stay here. Away from the noise. Just for tonight."

.