4. A Doll for the Duke

The door creaked open, but it wasn't the time for food or bath either. Cessalie was confused.

She sat up slowly, eyes narrowing. The door never opened this wide unless—

Her mother stood there.

Elysande’s silhouette filled the doorway, soft ash-blonde hair braided neatly over one shoulder, eyes too bright for the dim room. She looked… exhausted, old than she was supposed to like life in this house had leeched ten years from her in one.

Cessalie thought, What the hell does she want?

Elysande stepped inside quietly, heels barely tapping against the cold floor. In her arms was a bundle of rich silk—pastel blue, embroidered with delicate gold thread. One of those dainty dresses Cessalie despised, the kind that cinched too tight at the waist, the kind made for girls who sat still, smiled pretty and obeyed.

Her mother laid them down at the foot of the bed like she had every right to be here.

"You should get ready," she said. Her voice wasn’t cold but it wasn’t warm, either. Just… distant and detached like they were strangers sharing a room.

Cessalie’s hands curled into fists in her lap, but she stayed quiet.

Elysande’s eyes drifted to the bandages wrapping her arms. Her lips tightened for half a second.

"There’s a healer in the bath chamber if you want the rest of the wounds treated," she added.

Cessalie didn’t ask why she needed to get ready and why even healers were here in the first place. They always left her to rot and heal herself.

Elysande told her anyway.

"Duke Davian is coming to meet you."

Her stomach sank. Her mother threw the brick at her without any warning and care.

No Are you alright? or Do you want to do this?

Just Here’s the man you’re being sold to, darling. Smile pretty.

She shot to her feet, anger lighting every nerve like fire. "Are you serious?"

Elysande flinched. Barely. Like a reflex built from years of bracing for shouts. But her expression stayed the same.

"Your father wants no indiscipline."

Cessalie let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Oh no, can’t have that. Wouldn’t want the Duke’s perfect reputation ruined by his unruly, useless daughter."

Her mother’s gaze dropped to the floor.

And then, softer than Cessalie expected, almost fragile, "Be obedient, Cessalie. Keep your wounds covered."

She turned to leave.

Cessalie’s control snapped.

"Why did you even come here?" Her voice cracked with fury. "To play mother? Or just to make sure I don’t embarrass you when the man I didn’t ask for shows up?"

Elysande stopped in the doorway. She didn’t turn. Didn’t argue. Didn’t even pretend Cessalie was wrong.

She just stood there.

And for one second, Cessalie saw it. The pain buried under that tired, practiced blank face. The exhaustion. The quiet defeat.

And for one second, she almost… almost felt bad.

But no.

Silence wasn’t love. It never had been. Silence was surrender.

Her mother left the door open behind her. Cessalie understood it was a quiet message.

Dress up. Obey. Hide the bruises. And step out the room to thrown into another prison.

Cessalie stared at the pile of dresses like they were chains, not fabric.

She wanted to tear them apart, ripp the delicate silk into ribbons with her bare hands. But what would that change? They’d just send more. Hell, they’d send someone to dress her if she refused, like she was a doll too broken to move on her own.

So she picked the least revolting one. A muted gray-blue gown with tight sleeves and soft gold embroidery. Fitted at the waist. Flowing at the bottom. The kind that made you look elegant and harmless. Exactly where you didn’t want to belong.

The fabric was soft against her skin. It clung to the healing lashes beneath, dragging over the tender marks on her back like the silk itself was warning her.

Behave.

Cessalie moved to the mirror above the dresser, the same one with a faint crack splintering the top corner from the last time Cyrion hit her head against it.

The scar on her cheek stared back at her, reminding her not to speak up again.

She grabbed the powder and concealer, pressing them into her skin until the angry pinkness dulled. Then the brush. Light, careful circles. A little blush, not enough to seem eager, just enough to distract, too much, and they'd think she wanted him.

Her hair came down next. It fell past her shoulders. No pins. No jewels. Just enough to frame her face, cover the edge of the scar, and look presentable.

She didn’t look pretty but tamed. Not dressed for suitors but for slaughter.

And wasn’t that the point?

Cessalie stared at her reflection for a long second. The hollowed-eyed unfamiliar girl in the mirror stared back.

Maybe he won’t recognize me, she thought. Maybe neither of them will.

Cessalie sat there for a long time, waiting for someone to come take her.

After sometime, the door creaked open again, slower this time. It wasn’t her mother. It was Rena, head bowed, voice soft as ever.

"It’s time, my lady."

There was nothing else to say. Cessalie stood without a word, the silk of her gown whispering against itself as she moved. Two guards hovered outside the door, like they expected her to bolt at any second.

And honestly, if the windows in this wing weren’t so damn high, maybe she would’ve tried.

They didn’t speak, just flanked her as she walked, a prisoner being marched to her trial.

Corridor after corridor passed by. Cold stone. Towering arches. Heavy velvet curtains. The scent of old perfume and dust lingered in the air, like every woman who walked these halls before her had left behind all the words they weren’t allowed to speak.

The tapestries, the carved doors, the sparkling chandeliers Cessalie didn’t look twice. She’d seen them all a hundred times. When you’re locked up long enough, walking these halls feels like freedom.

But today, they were just walls leading to another cage.

To Davian.

Duke Davian Aurelthorn. Twenty-four. Widower. His wife had been dead for barely four months now. Before her death, they were married only a year.

They’d called it illness. Delicate, someone had whispered outside the drawing room once, thinking Cessalie wasn’t listening.

Delicate, my ass.

She knew what delicate women looked like in this house and when they broke under the pressure, no one blamed the men. They were simply called tragic.

Cessalie didn’t know Davian beyond whispers. He was a Duke, member of the Royal Court, one of those elites who stood beside the Crown and decided how the world turned.

They said he wasn’t cruel, said he was composed, honorable and a man who never raised his voice, even with the power to destroy.

But even quiet men carried knives. Some just hid them better.

Still… a small, dangerous part of her hoped. Hoped he wasn’t like the others. Hoped he wasn’t like Cyrion.

But hope?

Hope was stupid, douubt was safer.

And yet, that tiny, stubborn thread of hope sat there anyway. Low in her stomach,. waiting to be proven wrong.

The last door finally came into view. Larger. Darker wood. The kind that only important people got to stand behind.

Rena slowed, eyes flicking to Cessalie like she wanted to whisper good luck, but even that felt too dangerous in this house.

Cessalie didn’t wait for her to open it. She just nodded once.

Let’s get this over with.

The door creaked open slowly dragging silence along with it. The kind of silence that pressed against your ears, where even the flicker of candlelight sounded loud.

And there he was.

Duke Davian Aurelthorn.

Standing by the window, tall, composed, back to the room like he was painted into some tragic portrait. The afternoon sun spilled in, casting a gold outline along the sharp edge of his cheekbone, highlighting a jawline too clean, too precise. His suit was all black , no embroidery, no fuss , just sharp lines and expensive tailoring that clung to his lean, athletic frame like it belonged there.

Everything about him screamed control. The way he stood, spine straight, hands clasped loosely behind him, not rigid, but never careless. He didn’t slouch.

When he turned, it was slow, like nothing and no one rushed him.

His eyes landed on her, and it took every ounce of defiance Cessalie had not to shrink under that stare. Deep brown, nearly black, but not cold. Not warm either. Just… unreadable. The kind of gaze that judged without reacting.

He was handsome. Devastatingly so, in the sharp, quiet way that made people forget how to breathe. But there was something else too, carved into his face like grief that refused to fade, like time had aged him in places the rest of the world couldn’t see.

Cessalie didn’t bow. She just stood there.

"Lady Cessalie," he greeted, voice low and smooth, silk-wrapped steel.

She blinked. "Your Grace."

Her voice didn’t shake. She was proud of that much.

A pause stretched between them as he looked at her, not with hunger, not with anger, just… observation..

"You’ve grown," he said at last, and she hated how that sounded. Like she was still the child being paraded around.

Cessalie kept her expression blank. Let silence answer for her.

His gaze lingered a moment longer, probably catching the faint outline of the scar on her cheek she hadn’t managed to hide beneath powder. But he didn’t mention it.

Davian stepped forward. Not close enough to intimidate. Just enough to be… courteous.

"I know this isn’t how you would’ve chosen to meet," he said.

So, he did know.

Cessalie locked her hands behind her back, fingers curling into her palm. "No. It isn’t. But I don’t get many things I prefer."

Something shifted in his expression, barely a crack, the e faintest crease between his brows.

"I won’t force you," he said, plainly. "I came to speak. Your father wishes for this match. But I care more for clarity than obedience."

The words hit her harder than they should’ve. Harder than she expected.

I won’t force you.

No one said that in this house. No man ever had.

She should’ve felt relieved. Suspicious. Maybe grateful. All she felt… was tired.

She stared at him, eyes sharp, searching for the cracks beneath that flawless mask. What did he really want from her? What did he gain by marrying the weakest Draevin daughter? The one with no magic. No influence. No purpose.

Was this mercy? Or politics?

"I don’t trust men who say nice things," she muttered under her breath, the bitterness curling at the edges of her voice.

His expression didn’t shift, but his voice… it softened, just enough to slip past her defenses. "You shouldn’t."

He didn’t sit down right away. Instead, he moved to the side table, poured himself a glass of water calmly. He turned back to her like they weren’t standing in the middle of an arranged transaction dressed up as conversation.

"I won’t lie to you," he said. "I know what kind of man your father is. He’s no different than any man in this world."

The words hit harder than they should have, her breath catching for the briefest moment.

Davian watched her, calm as ever. Not like a man trying to win her over, not like a suitor desperate for approvab buut like someone who wasn’t afraid of her silence.

Cessalie blinked, forcing her face into its usual unreadable mask. But inside? Her mind was a storm of tangled thoughts and suspicion. Why was he talking like this? Why did he sound like… he cared?

"I like you, Cessalie," Davian said simply, settling into the chair across from her. He didn’t lean forward or reach for her hand. . "Not because you’re a Draevin. Not because you’re the only unmarried daughter left. I’ve seen you for years. You are unapologetically yourself, even when they try to suffocate that."

Her gaze flicked away before she could stop it, too many emotions twisting in her chest.

Four months. His wife had been gone four months, and here he was, offering careful compliments wrapped in grief. She didn’t know what disturbed her more, the sincerity or the possibility it was all rehearsed.

"You don’t even know me," she muttered.

"I know enough."

Her eyes snapped back to him. His expression stayed composed.

"I don’t want to tie you to a Lady’s duties," he added. "I have enough status. Enough wealth. If you want to read, read. If you want to leave this house, I’ll help you pack."

Her throat tightened. It was almost too much.

"Why me?"

"Because you look tired of being trapped," he answered easily. "And I’d rather offer a key than another cage."

The words should’ve comforted he but they didn’t. They only made her stomach knot tighter.

No one was this good in Cessalie's world.

Davian leaned back, giving her space, . Like he understood exactly how cornered she was, and wasn’t foolish enough to move too fast.

"I know trust doesn’t come easy," he said. "I don’t expect it today."

Cessalie stayed silent, eyes fixed on the crack in the wall behind him. Safer than looking at him.

Men always said the right things. That was the trick. They didn't care a woman with chains, but with patience, promises and gentle hands that clipped your wings once you believed them.

But Davian’s voice stayed likr silk over old wounds. "You don’t have to love me. Or like me. But I want you to feel safe. Eventually."

She didn’t answer.

Any other man would’ve bristled by now and called her rude for not answering.

Davian only smiled, like he’d expected it.

"There’s no escaping the marriage," he added. "That’s already sealed. I won’t lie. But what happens between now and then? That’s between you and me. I won’t tell your father a word. I won’t demand anything. I’ll wait."

Wait like I am some clock winding toward surrender.

Cessalie finally looked him in the eyes. "You’re very patient, Your Grace."

His reply was quiet and certain. "I have to be. You’re not the kind of girl a man should rush."

Even as her instincts screamed don’t trust him, a small, reckless part of Cessalie whispered maybe. Maybe he meant it. Maybe, for once, someone wasn’t lying.

Pathetic, she scolded herself. Just a few soft words about safety and your guard already cracked.

But she didn’t let that part win.

They sat in silence. Davian didn’t rush to fill it. That, oddly, made it easier to breathe.

"You don’t trust me," he said eventually.

"I don’t trust men," she corrected flatly.

He didn’t flinch. "That’s fair."

"I heard your wife died," she said, voice low. "Four months ago."

His jaw shifted. "Yes."

"She was sick?"

"That’s what they say."

She studied him. It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the full truth either.

"Do you miss her?"

"I didn’t love her," he replied. "She was kind. We were friends. But it was arranged, like this." His eyes didn’t waver. "The difference is, I won’t pretend this is love. I won’t expect you to be someone you’re not."

"And what am I?" she asked.

"Tired."

Cessalie looked away. "I don’t want to be a wife."

"I know."

"I’m not soft."

"I know."

"I don’t trust kind words."

"I won’t stop saying them."

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t smug. Just plain fact.

She hated that part of her wanted to believe him, to let someone carry even a fraction of the weight she’d dragged her whole life.

But she couldn’t. So she stayed quiet.

Davian left soon, answering a summons from the royal court. He said he’d return later.

Would he really?

There was something about him which made cessalie think about him. His voice, his presence, his clothes tailored to his frame, a great man, th kind fathers were proud of.

She wondered what that felt like.

Then she shoved the thought down where it belonged. Where it couldn’t hurt her.

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