The grand carriage hurtled past the wrought-iron gates of the Duchy, its windows sealed against the cold. Marcella was swathed in thick blankets. Berith sat beside her, elbows resting on his knees, his hands tangled in his hair. The madness had drained from him at last, leaving behind only its ghost and the consequences it carried.
It had been a long night. A long, brutal, bleeding night.
He glanced sideways, his gaze falling on the sleeping girl. But to him... to him, she was everything. He leaned back, head against the carriage wall.
Berith had broken the law of blood. He had chosen her.
Sowhere between Ashenholt and the Cardanian borders, he finally found his voice. "I was furious with you," he said, though she could not hear. "I wanted to hate you for betraying ." His voice broke as he looked out at the snowy forests passing by. "But I think... I was angrier at myself."
Berith lowered his head, his tone softened, vulnerable in a way he had never allowed before. "You once told that there’s a difference between saving soone and keeping them. I didn’t understand what you ant back then. But now... now I think I do."
He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. "I don’t save you just so I can keep you. I want you to live even if that ans I burn."
********
The scent of jasmine lingered in the chamber, soft sunlight seeping through sheer curtains that billowed with the morning breeze.
Marcella stirred, eyelids fluttering open slowly, lashes casting shadows upon her pale cheeks. The first sensation that greeted her was the plush mattress beneath her, the silk sheets wrapped around her limbs. The second—confusion.
This room. This bed.
She sat up, a cold whisper crawling down her spine as her gaze swept the surroundings. Velvet drapes, polished mahogany, the pale gold embroidery on the walls—it was the sa bridal chamber she had spent her wedding night in, all alone.
But how? How was Marcella back here? The last mory she could summon was of a cold circle of runes, the chanting of eldritch tongues, her body trembling as demons closed in. The Black Vale. She had been in the Black Vale. She had seen the demons.
Marcella threw the covers aside and padded barefoot across the marble floor to the window. The garden outside, the sprawling lawns of Montclair Manor blooming with spring’s final kiss. She touched the sill, grounding herself, heart pounding in her chest.
How is this real? Was it all a nightmare?
Her thoughts scattered when she looked down and realized she wasn’t wearing her torn silver gown from the Fla ball. Instead, a lavender night robe clung to her fra, light as a petal and slling faintly of lavender.
Who changed ?
As if summoned by her thoughts, the door creaked open and Lira, her maid, entered with a silver tray, the aroma of herb broth rising with steam.
"My lady!" Lira gasped with a relieved smile. "You’re awake."
Marcella turned, still disoriented. "Lira, what... how am I here? Who brought back?"
Lira placed the tray gently on the side table and adjusted her apron. "His Grace did. He carried you in himself. We arrived yesterday evening. You’ve been asleep for two days, my lady."
"Two days?" Marcella whispered, eyes wide.
"I changed your robes," Lira added, almost apologetically. "Your dress was... damaged."
Marcella nodded absentmindedly, thoughts racing faster than her breath. None of this made sense.
"Where is Berith?" she asked.
"In his study room, my lady."
Without another word, Marcella gathered her robe and rushed through the corridors, feet barely touching the marble as she navigated the familiar halls of the Montclair estate.
When she reached the study, the door was already ajar. She pushed it open.
Berith sat by the arched window, morning light pouring over him. The golden rays kissed the sharp angles of his jaw, softening the storm in his dark eyes. A book rested in his hands, though his fingers hadn’t turned a page for minutes.
"Berith," Marcella whispered, tasting his na on her lips.
His gaze lifted. "You are awake?" Berith asked, as though he hadn’t burned down the Ashenholt duch two nights ago or cradled her like a dying star.
Marcella walked in, crossing the expanse between them, and sank into the chair opposite him. For a mont, she only looked at him. "Why are we here in Cardania?" she asked. "Why did you bring back?"
Berith shut the book and t her gaze, calm as still water. "What do you an, why? This is our ho. Of course we’re here."
Marcella’s lips parted, her patience beginning to fray. "You know what I’m asking. Don’t feign ignorance. Did you save from the demons of Black Vale?"
Berith leaned back slightly in his chair, letting out an almost amused laugh. "Demons? Are you serious, Marcella? You believe in such things? How superstitious of you."
Out of all the responses she had prepared herself for, this wasn’t the one she saw coming. Disbelief. Dismissal. Mockery.
"You’re doing it again," she said, voice cracking with restrained fury.
Berith blinked slowly. "Doing what?"
"This," she hissed. "Pretending nothing happened. Mocking , acting like I’m crazy for believing what I saw. You did it then, too when the intruder was killed."
He was silent, the mask on his face slipping—just barely.
"I was in the Black Vale. I saw them. They were going to kill . And now I’m here, in Cardania, like it never happened."
Berith’s jaw tensed. It was the first crack in his polished facade.
"I’m not crazy," she whispered. "So stop treating like I am."
Every ti the world threatened to end around her, he was there. Every ti the veil between life and death thinned, it was Berith who pulled her back.
And every ti, he feigned ignorance.
Berith stood, walking to the sideboard and pouring himself a glass of water. His back to her, his voice was quieter. "Maybe it was the exhaustion. They can cause you hallucinations."
Marcella rose to her feet. "I was there, Berith. I saw them. The circle. The demons. I felt them."
He turned, eyes dark and guarded. "And yet, you’re alive and safe here. Isn’t that what matters?"
Marcella stepped closer. "Tell the truth. Did you save ?"
His silence was answer enough. His grip on the glass tightened ever so slightly.
"Why won’t you just say it?" she whispered.
Then—
CRACK.
The sound split the air, sharp as a whip.
Berith’s eyes flashed.
A fraction of a second later, his arm shot forward, grabbing Marcella and yanking her down and toward him. She gasped as she collided with his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around her, shielding her.
Sothing embedded itself in the wooden pillar behind where she had just stood.
An arrow.
Marcella’s breath ca in quick, shallow bursts against his chest, her fingers digging into his tunic. She could still feel the wind of death that had rushed past her—the hiss of the arrow so close, it nearly kissed her temple.
Berith slowly loosened his grip and tilted her face up, his hands cradling her cheeks. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head mutely.
Berith turned, still shielding her slightly with his body. He was already walking, one hand keeping her behind him as the other pulled the arrow free from the pillar. There was a piece of parchnt tied with a red thread around the shaft.
A ssage.
Berith bent down, plucked the arrow, and unfurled the paper.
Marcella stood behind him now, barely daring to breathe. "What... does it say?"
Berith didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the script once, then again, slower this ti. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Marcella grabbed his wrist. "Berith."
He turned his back on her and crumpled the note in one hand. "That was a warning."
Marcella narrowed her eyes. "From whom?"
Berith exhaled, looking out the window, as though expecting another arrow to follow. "The crest on the parchnt... it belongs to House Montclair."
Her blood ran cold. "But that doesn’t make sense," she said, confused. "Montclair is your family."
"Yes," he said coldly. "and they have just made it very clear where they stand."
Marcella took a step closer. "You an... your own family wants you dead?"
"No," he protested. "They want you dead."
Marcella stared at him, the floor tilting beneath her feet. "Why would they..?"
Berith’s shoulders stiffened. "Yes! The ritual, the attack on Black Vale. All of it. It was them."
Marcella recoiled, breath catching. "What?"
"My family was after it." he confronted, voice splintering with restrained fury. "The summoning. The circle. The demons. It was never rogue warlocks or deserters. It was Montclair blood—my blood—that called the darkness down upon you."
Marcella’s throat tightened. Her heart, already fraying, now split. "You knew," she whispered. "You knew and you let think I was losing my mind!"
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