Chapter 1Of Longing and Parting

At the birthday feast, I unwittingly wore the late Duchess Consort Seraphina’s gown. The eight-year-old heir, young Arthur, publicly shoved me into the lily pond. He watched with cold, unfeeling eyes as I thrashed in the water, his expression mirroring his father, Duke Theron Vance – distant and utterly devoid of warmth.

“Don’t think dressing like my mother will ever let you usurp her place,” he’d spat, his voice sharp and venomous. “The moment I come of age, I will cast you out of the Regent’s Keep!”

The chill waters engulfed my body, chilling my very soul. Gazing at the child I had raised with my own hands, there was no sorrow, no fury within me, only a quiet sigh.

“You needn’t cast me out. I shall leave tomorrow anyway.”

* * *

The late spring breeze was as cutting as Arthur’s glare. I accepted the cloak a chambermaid offered, intending to return to my chambers and change. But as I turned, a thorny bush by the pond caught my skirt. There was a sharp tearing sound. The hem of my gown, intricately embroidered with golden thread, ripped, a long, ragged tear marring its elegant sweep.

“You wretched woman! That was my mother’s favorite gown when she was alive!”

Arthur, who had been watching the spectacle with a sneer, transformed instantly into a furious, wild creature. His eyes blazed, red-rimmed with hatred. His childish face was twisted, brimming with scorn.

I looked at him, my gaze complex. “Arthur, you’re lying.” The late Duchess Consort had always favored opulent silks and elaborate jewels; a gown of such simple elegance she would never have touched.

Caught in his fabrication, Arthur’s bravado wavered. He stomped his foot in a burst of frustration, then turned and ran off, leaving a trail of youthful fury. I did not, as was my habit, pursue him to offer an explanation. After seeing off the last of the bewildered guests, I returned to my chambers alone.

As I pushed open the door, a white cat, its neck brutally twisted, hung suspended before me. Scarlet blood dripped onto the polished marble floor, soaking my slippers and staining Nimbus’s soft, pure white fur. In my horrified stillness, Arthur’s defiant laugh echoed from behind me.

“Hahaha! You deserve it! You made me lose my mother, and now I’ll make you lose what’s most important to you!” He made a childish, mocking face at me, then ran off, his laughter echoing down the silent corridor.

I stood there, staring at the growing pool of blood on the floor, speechless for a long time. Years ago, I had arrived at the Capital, a solitary figure with my hawk, my wild horse, and a handful of sand from the Sunken Sands. But the sprawling Regent’s Keep had no room for any free or untamed soul. They had sent away my hawk, led away my horse. They had given me a wailing infant and a Persian white cat, a gift from some foreign envoy.

It took me eight long years to nurture them, to raise them. To lose them, however, took but a mere instant.

A sigh escaped me, and then I caught the familiar scent of sandalwood. I looked up. Duke Theron Vance stood silently before me. Father and son were indeed cut from the same stone. Both possessed the same aloof nobility, the same disdain for all lesser beings. He opened his arms, expecting me to step forward and attend to him, to loosen his robes and ease his burdens.

He spoke, as if to himself, “I heard what happened today. Elara Hayes, you were at fault.”

Seeing me remain motionless, his brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of displeasure in his eyes. His gaze swept over the bloodstained floor, and his tone softened, if only just. “The child is young. Why quarrel with him?”

At Duke Theron’s unspoken command, the bloodstains on the floor were quickly wiped away. The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows. Nimbus, who used to playfully chase the dancing flames, seemed to have never existed. Just like me. I had devoted myself to them for eight years, tending to their every need. Yet, I had failed to leave even a faint mark on the hearts of this father and son.

Duke Theron, dressed in fresh robes, settled onto the daybed and gently tapped the low table, signaling me to pour him tea. I instinctively obeyed. As I drew near, his large hand encircled my waist, pulling me into his embrace. He gently caressed my cheek.

“Today is your birthday, Elara. You need not take the anti-conception elixir tonight. If you conceive, consider it my gift to you.”

His warm breath feathered against my neck, yet a shiver of ice ran through me. Duke Theron was a man of vigorous passions. In the first month of our union, I found myself with child. Before I could even rejoice, he sent a servant with a bitter draught.

“I love only Seraphina in this life, and I shall have but one child: Arthur. Should you conceive, it would inevitably breed ambition in your heart, distracting you from your duties to Arthur.”

Thereafter, after every shared intimacy, he would watch me drink the anti-conception elixir. For eight years, without fail, day after day.

Today, faced with Duke Theron’s unexpected ‘grace,’ I should have trembled with gratitude, eager to serve him with utmost devotion. But for the first time, I recoiled from his touch.

“Your Grace, the eight-year pact has concluded. Tomorrow, I must depart.”