“Your Highness, rumors are intensifying regarding barbarian incursions along the northern riverbank.”
Eric looked up from the map spread across his desk, his brow furrowing as he addressed his lead scout, Hyatt.
“The border is fortified, Hyatt. If there were movements on that scale, the signal fires would have been lit days ago. My own knights haven't reported a single displaced villager.”
“It’s the herbalists and the woodsmen, sir. They’re coming in from the deep forests with stories of scouts clad in northern furs. I sent a patrol to investigate the reported coordinates, and they found... traces. Faint, but undeniable. Cold campfires and barbarian-style boot prints.”
Eric stroked his jaw, his eyes narrowing. It didn't make sense. He’d spent years in the north; he knew the tribes. They were opportunistic, not suicidal. To move so close to the Brant border without triggering the primary defenses suggested a level of stealth—or a level of inside knowledge—that was deeply troubling.
“Investigate the source of these herbalist reports,” Eric commanded. “I want to know exactly who started the whisper campaign. In the meantime, prepare the vanguard. I will leave for the North as soon as the logistics are in place.”
Hyatt offered a crisp, military bow. “At once, Your Highness.”
As the scout left, Eric leaned back in his chair, his mind already drifting from the logistics of war to the silence of the residential wing. *I should see her before I go,* he thought. *Before the distance becomes permanent.*
***
*[My dear daughter, I have orchestrated the pieces according to your request. The rumors are sown, and the pressure on the Northern border is mounting. Now, it is time for you to fulfill your end of the bargain—provide your father with the justification he needs to act.]*
Cornelia smiled as she burned the Emperor’s letter in the hearth. The ash crumbled into the flames, disappearing like a secret kept too long.
“The board is set,” she whispered.
A shadow detached itself from the heavy velvet curtains. Sardin stepped into the light, his mask and dark traveling cloak still dusted with the dirt of the gardens. He dropped to one knee, his head bowed.
“The Dowager’s head maid has given the order,” Sardin reported. “They’re accelerating the 'gift.' They want it delivered while the Duke is preoccupied with the departure.”
“Perfect,” Cornelia said. “My father was remarkably efficient in spreading the barbarian rumors. Eric will have no choice but to head north to investigate. And once he’s gone, Bianca will strike.”
Sardin looked up, his eyes full of a frantic, suppressed worry. “My lady... this plan... you’re putting yourself directly in the path of a predator. Why don't you show any fear? Any hesitation? Even in the most dire circumstances, you act as if you’re made of glass and steel.”
Cornelia looked at him, her expression softening for a fraction of a second. She saw the devotion in the former gladiator’s eyes—the desire to protect her that bordered on the holy. To him, she was a fragile thing to be guarded. To her, she was a general who had already seen the end of the war.
“Tears don't win battles, Sardin,” she said quietly. “And fear is a luxury I sold years ago. By the way, have you seen Janet?”
“She’s still recovering in the knights' quarters, my lady. She’s been... restless. She visits the Duke’s office frequently.”
Cornelia’s gaze flickered. Janet had taken a blow meant for her. The guilt was a small, sharp stone in her shoe—constant and irritating.
“Tell her she’s released from her duties as my escort,” Cornelia said. “Effective immediately. She shouldn't be associated with me when the Dowager’s gift arrives. It will only put her in the crosshairs again.”
Sardin sighed but offered a respectful nod. “I will convey the message.”
***
Sardin slipped out of the window and made his way toward the knights' pavilion. He was a master of his craft, a man who could move through a crowded room without displacing the air. But as he passed the southern flower beds, he found himself suddenly pinned by a gaze that felt like a physical weight.
“What are you doing here?”
Sardin froze. He hadn't felt the presence until the voice spoke. He turned to find Eric standing five paces away, his blue eyes as sharp and unforgiving as a winter sky.
*How did he hide his presence to this extent?* Sardin wondered. *I’ve fought Imperial Guards who couldn't match this level of stealth.*
“I asked you a question,” Eric said, stepping closer. “Are you hiding something?”
Sardin’s mind raced. He’d hidden his mask and cloak in a hollow log, but he still felt exposed. He quickly pointed to the lavender bushes. “The Duchess... she said she wanted flowers. I was going to pick some for her room.”
Eric’s eyes dropped to the lavender. For a moment, his expression shifted—a flash of something that looked like clinical concern.
“Lavender is not recommended for women in their first trimester,” Eric said, his voice flat. “The scent can be overstimulating and cause nausea.”
Sardin blinked. *The Duke knows the specifics of prenatal care?*
“I... I apologize, Your Highness. I didn't know.”
“There’s no need to pick anything,” Eric said, his gaze returning to Sardin. “You are her shadow, not her florist. Go back to your post.”
Sardin turned to leave, but Eric’s next words stopped him cold.
“And there’s no need for *you* to bring her flowers, anyway. I’ll be the one bringing a bouquet to my wife. I was heading to her chambers regardless.”
Sardin stared at the Duke, his mouth slightly agape. He looked for the usual cold indifference, the neglect that had defined the last five years of Cornelia’s marriage. But he found only a fierce, possessive intensity.
*He’s not just protecting his property anymore,* Sardin realized, a cold chill running down his spine. *He’s starting to act like a man who actually loves her. And that... that changes everything.*