Location: Armathane, East Courtyard → Duchess's Private Solar
Time: Day 231 After Alec's Arrival
The eastern courtyard was quiet at dusk — too quiet for the season. Summer's breath was settling in, warm and dry, but Serina felt only the churn beneath her ribs.
She sat on the carved bench beneath the sunstone arbor, her knees drawn together, fingers laced in her lap. She wasn't dressed in silk or finery today — just the grey-blue scholar's dress Alec preferred his administrators to wear. Practical. Efficient. Forgettable.
She hated how well it fit.
Footsteps approached behind her — soft, controlled, unreadable.
Only one person in Armathane walked like that.
"Lady Alra," Serina said without turning.
"You called for me, my lady?" Alra's voice was low, pleasant. Dangerous only to those who didn't listen closely.
Serina nodded. "Yes. Sit. Please."
She did.
A long pause passed between them, filled only by the rustle of wind through wisteria vines.
Then Serina exhaled slowly.
"I think I'm in love with him."
Alra said nothing for a long moment.
Then: "No. Not yet."
Serina blinked. "What?"
"You're not in love with him yet," Alra said gently. "But you are close. And that makes it real."
Serina looked down at her hands. "He doesn't see it. Doesn't feel anything for me. He talks to me like I'm… like I'm a schematic."
"You're not a schematic," Alra said. "You're a system. And systems? He understands them better than people."
"I know," Serina whispered. "And I thought I could work with that. But now… Mira's here."
Alra smiled slightly. "The healer."
"She doesn't even try," Serina muttered. "And he—he talks to her. Spends time with her. He's warmer with her. Not by much, but…"
"But enough," Alra finished.
Serina nodded.
Alra leaned back on the bench, crossed her legs at the ankle. "Do you want to know the truth?"
Serina turned to her. "Always."
"Alec may not understand what he feels. But he feels something when he looks at you."
"You're sure?"
"I've trained spies to read fear on a heartbeat. I've watched kings lie without blinking. And I've watched Alec Castellan glance at you across a war table and forget what he was saying for two seconds."
Serina's breath caught.
"He doesn't look at anyone that way," Alra said. "Not even your mother."
Serina swallowed. "But I'm sixteen. He probably still sees me as a girl."
"You're sixteen," Alra repeated, "and you've helped plan half of this duchy's reforms. You speak three languages only he and you can fluently read. He teaches you daily. Do you think he would waste that on someone he didn't believe in?"
Serina blinked. "No."
"Exactly."
Alra stood, brushing her skirt.
"If you want him to see you as more than a student, stop behaving like one."
Serina stood too. "What do I do?"
"Stop waiting," Alra said simply. "Speak his language. Ask sharper questions. Make your presence felt. You don't need to seduce him."
She smiled faintly.
"You need to unsettle him."
--
The moment Lady Alra's footsteps faded down the gravel path, Serina sank back onto the stone bench, her spine straight but her breath uneven.
Unsettle him.
The words echoed. They weren't flirtatious advice. They were tactical. Purposeful. The kind of advice one gave a future duchess, not a girl nursing a noble crush.
And yet, despite herself, her fingers trembled.
Not from fear.
From anticipation.
She sat for a long while, watching the hanging lanterns sway on their iron hooks. Their light flickered against the courtyard walls, casting silhouettes that shifted and stretched like ghosts. Somewhere, a lute played in one of the side halls. Faint. Distant. Indifferent.
She looked down at her hands. They were ink-stained from the day's reports. Her nails were trimmed, her sleeves still cuffed. Useful hands. Smart hands. But not… alluring. Not memorable.
Was that what Mira had? That subtle, effortless gravity?
Serina clenched her jaw and stood.
She walked slowly back toward her wing of the palace, but stopped at the first mirror she passed—just outside the steward's office. The hallway was empty. She leaned in.
Her reflection looked tired. Her face too sharp, too composed. Her eyes had always been her best feature—Vaelora's eyes, everyone said—but tonight they looked… uncertain.
She unpinned her hair, letting it fall in waves over her shoulders. The transformation startled her.
She looked older.
Not in years.
In presence.
She untied her scholar's sash and let the front of her dress hang looser, just slightly. Not scandalous. Just… different.
She raised her chin.
"I'm not a child," she whispered to her reflection.
It didn't answer.
Back in her chambers, she shut the door and locked it.
She moved straight to her desk and opened the drawer that held the parchment Alec had given her weeks ago—the French passage. She'd memorized it now. Every curve of the script. Every hidden nuance in the way he'd chosen his words.
She whispered them aloud.
"Je vous ai enseigné non pas pour dominer, mais pour créer à mes côtés.""I taught you not to obey… but to create beside me."
Had he known what that would do to her?
Did he understand what kind of future he was offering her in those lessons?
If Mira was his connection to the world that had taken him in…
Then Serina was his bridge to the one he was building.
She picked up a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped her quill.
No hesitation.
Alec,
There are questions I've stopped asking. Not because I lack curiosity, but because I've learned that waiting is not the same as listening.
You gave me language. Strategy. A place beside you. But not once have you told me how you see me.
I'm not asking for sentiment. I'm asking for clarity. Because if I am to help shape this future… I need to know where I stand inside it.
Not beneath. Not behind. Beside.
—S.
She didn't sign her full name.
She didn't have to.
She stared at the letter for a long time before folding it carefully and placing it into the lockbox on her desk. She wouldn't send it.
Not yet.
But she wanted him to read it someday.
Maybe after she'd done what Lady Alra had told her to do.
Maybe after he'd stopped seeing her as a brilliant asset…
…and started seeing her as the woman who would shape the world with him.
Later that night, Alra slipped through the hidden passage near the library stairwell and entered the duchess's solar without being announced.
Vaelora was already there, half-lit by candlelight, pouring over grain reports.
Alra said nothing until the door closed.
"Your daughter is beginning to understand what she wants."
Vaelora didn't look up. "And what is that?"
"Power," Alra said. "Disguised as affection."
Now the duchess looked up. Her expression unreadable.
"She spoke of Mira?"
"She spoke of him. Of her place. Of the tension she doesn't quite know how to name."
Vaelora exhaled through her nose. "And do you think he'll ever see her as a woman?"
"Eventually," Alra said. "But only once she stops trying to be seen."
Vaelora leaned back in her chair, setting the scroll aside.
"She's young."
"She's sharper than you were at her age," Alra said. "And she has something you didn't."
Vaelora raised a brow. "Oh?"
"Access. He's already given her pieces of himself. She just doesn't realize what they mean."
The duchess was quiet for a long time.
Then: "And if he does choose her?"
Alra shrugged. "Then Midgard gains more than a reformer. It gains a dynasty."
"And if he doesn't?"
Alra tilted her head. "Then Serina will become his equal, even without his name. And that, my lady, might be more dangerous in the long run."
Vaelora smiled faintly.
"Good."