Episode 5 – A Fragile Bloom

The night of the feast left Elenora restless. Long after the music faded and the guests departed, she lay awake in her chambers, her mind echoing with whispers of ridicule and the duke’s sharp defense.

She is mine.

The words burned in her heart, both frightening and strangely comforting. She was not used to belonging to anyone, nor did she fully understand the weight of his claim. Yet the memory of his voice, deep and unyielding, lingered like an unseen hand wrapped around her.

By morning, her body betrayed her. The strain of the feast, the fear, and the sleepless night left her feverish. Her maid gasped as she touched Elenora’s forehead.

“Your Highness, you’re burning up! I’ll fetch the physician at once.”

Elenora tried to sit up, but her limbs trembled. “It’s nothing… I only need a little rest…”

But her words were weak, her body far too fragile to disguise her condition.

When the physician arrived, his diagnosis was simple: exhaustion and fever. “She must rest,” he said firmly, “and be kept warm. No visits, no stress.”

The maid bowed and hurried to follow his instructions, but before she could even prepare a basin of water, the heavy sound of boots echoed against the marble floor.

The Duke of Ravenwall entered without ceremony, his cape trailing behind him. His cold gray eyes swept over the chamber, and when they landed on Elenora’s pale form, something unreadable flickered in them.

“You are ill,” he said flatly, as if the fact alone displeased him.

Elenora struggled to sit up. “I… I’m sorry to trouble you…”

His brow furrowed. “Foolish. Apologies will not heal you.”

At his command, the servants withdrew, leaving only the two of them. The room grew still, the air heavy. Elenora’s gaze fell to her hands, folded tightly in her lap. She did not know what to expect—scolding, perhaps, for weakness.

Instead, he moved closer, pulling a chair to her bedside. For a moment, he said nothing, simply studying her with that piercing gaze. Then, with deliberate calm, he reached for the cloth left on the basin. He dipped it into cool water, wrung it out with steady hands, and placed it gently against her burning forehead.

Elenora gasped softly, her eyes widening. She had never imagined a man so feared could move with such quiet care.

“You should not have wandered alone last night,” he murmured, his voice low but not unkind. “The court will always speak, but their words are beneath you. Do not let them take your strength.”

Her lips trembled. “I… I didn’t mean to be a burden.”

His eyes narrowed, sharp as steel. “You are not a burden. You are my fiancée. Do you think I would allow others to treat what is mine as less than precious?”

Her heart raced, her breath catching. She turned her face slightly, cheeks flushed from more than the fever. His words were stern, but his tone—though rough—held something she had never expected: protection.

The duke adjusted the cloth on her forehead, his expression unreadable. “Rest, Princess. Heal. That is your duty now.”

Her lashes fluttered shut, comforted by the cool touch of the cloth and the warmth of his presence nearby. For the first time since her marriage was arranged, she felt safe enough to surrender to sleep.

As she drifted into slumber, she did not see the way the duke lingered by her side, his gaze fixed on her delicate face. Nor did she hear the quiet words he spoke, softer than a whisper.

“A fragile bloom… yet even fragile things can endure.”

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