The Morning After the End
The sensation of death was not cold. It was scorching—a phantom heat of the flames that had engulfed the execution platform.
Seraphina gasped, her body jerking upright. Her lungs heaved, desperate for air, expecting the acrid taste of smoke and blood. Instead, she inhaled the scent of crisp pine, lavender oil, and expensive beeswax.
She blinked, her vision blurring. The room was not the dungeon cell where she had spent her final weeping days. It was a vast, cavernous chamber draped in heavy velvet curtains the color of crushed emeralds. Sunlight, bright and unforgiving, pierced through the gaps, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
Seraphina looked down at her hands. They were unblemished. The shackles were gone. The calluses from five years of despair were gone. Her skin was smooth, pale, and trembling.
"The Bridal Suite," she whispered, her voice cracking.
She threw off the heavy duvet—silk, imported from the capital—and rushed to the vanity mirror. The face staring back was younger, the eyes wide with panic but devoid of the hollow shadows that had haunted her later years.
She was twenty again. It was the morning after her wedding to Grand Duke Alaric Thorne.
A heavy thud echoed against the oak door, followed by the deep, rhythmic click of military boots against the marble floor. Seraphina froze. She knew that sound. It was the sound of the 'Monster of the North.'
In her past life, she had scrambled back into bed, pulling the sheets up to her chin, terrified of the man she had been sold to. She had trembled as he entered, and that fear had been the first brick in the wall that separated them until his death.
Not this time.
Seraphina took a deep breath, smoothing the thin lace of her nightgown. She did not retreat. She stood her ground as the door handle turned.
The door swung open, and he entered.
Grand Duke Alaric Thorne was a mountain of a man. He wore a crisp black military uniform, the silver buttons gleaming, a stark contrast to his dark, unruly hair. A jagged scar ran from his jaw down to his collarbone, a souvenir from the beast wars at the border. His eyes were the color of frozen obsidian—cold, sharp, and impenetrable.
He stopped dead when he saw her standing by the vanity. He had clearly expected her to be hiding.
"My Lady," Alaric said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in Seraphina’s chest. He did not look at her; his gaze was fixed respectfully, yet coldly, on the wall behind her. "I apologize for the intrusion. I assumed you would still be resting."
He walked to the small circular table near the fireplace and placed a stack of papers down. The sound was sharp in the silent room.
"The contract," he stated, his tone business-like.
Seraphina remembered this moment. He was about to tell her the rules: We will live separately. I will not touch you. You will have your own wing of the castle. Once you produce an heir—if we must—you are free to leave.
He thought he was being merciful. He thought he was saving her from a monster.
"I have drawn up the terms regarding your... privacy," Alaric continued, his gloved hands clasping behind his back. "I understand the rumors you have heard about me. I have no intention of forcing a marital duty upon you. The North is dangerous, and I am often away. You may live as a guest here. I only ask that you maintain the dignity of the House of Thorne."
He waited for her agreement. He waited for her relief.
Seraphina walked toward him.
Alaric stiffened as she approached. She was barefoot, the cold marble biting at her soles, but she didn't care. She stopped only inches from him. He was so tall she had to crane her neck to look him in the eye.
"You speak of privacy, Your Grace," Seraphina said softly. "And of duty."
Alaric flinched, finally looking down at her. "I do. I wish to make this union as bearable for you as possible."
"Bearable?" Seraphina tilted her head.
In her last life, she had seen this man die shielding her body with his own. She had seen the love in his eyes as the life drained from them—a love he had never spoken, only shown in shadows. She remembered the warmth of his blood on her hands.
She reached out.
Alaric’s breath hitched audibly as her small, pale hand landed on his chest, right over his heart. The wool of his uniform was rough, but the heat radiating from him was intense.
"You are my husband, Alaric," she said, using his given name. It sounded like a prayer on her lips. "I did not marry you to be a guest. And I did not marry you to live in a separate wing."
Alaric’s composure cracked. His obsidian eyes widened, a flicker of confusion and something darker—hunger?—flashing through them. He took a half-step back, as if burned.
"Seraphina," he warned, his voice dropping an octave. "You do not know what you are asking. I am... not a man for soft things. I am cursed. My presence alone brings chill to this house."
"Then warm me," she countered instantly.
She stepped forward again, closing the gap he had tried to create. Her hand slid up his chest, her fingers brushing the scar on his neck. He shuddered, his hands twitching at his sides, fighting the urge to either push her away or pull her close.
"The contract," Alaric rasped, nodding toward the table. "It states—"
"It states what you thought I wanted," Seraphina interrupted. She reached over to the table, picked up the thick parchment, and without breaking eye contact, tore it down the middle.
The sound of ripping paper was louder than a cannon blast in the quiet room.
Alaric looked at the torn pieces fluttering to the floor, stunned into silence.
"I will not sign a contract that makes me a stranger in my own home," Seraphina declared, her voice finding a strength she hadn't possessed in years. She stepped closer, her body nearly brushing against his uniform. She looked up at him through her lashes, lowering her voice to a whisper that was both a promise and a challenge.
"I am the Duchess of the North now. And I intend to perform all my duties." She paused, letting her gaze drop to his lips before returning to his eyes. "Starting with the one we neglected last night."
Alaric stood frozen, the ruthless commander of the Northern Army completely disarmed by a woman in lace and silk. For the first time, the ice in his eyes began to melt, replaced by a storm of confusion and rising heat.
"Seraphina," he breathed, and this time, it didn't sound like a warning. It sounded like a surrender.
