Arrival in the North

The morning sun was pale, casting a cold light across the walls of Evelina’s father’s palace. She stood before the grand gates, her white gown replaced by a simple traveling dress. Fingers twisting the fabric nervously, she took one last look at the place that had been her prison. The stone walls towered above her, mocking, whispering that leaving them behind would not free her from their shadow.

She had expected the Duke to be waiting, perhaps to see her off. But instead, a knight in northern armor approached, bowing stiffly.

“Duchess,” he said, voice flat, “His Grace has already departed. Urgent matters called him to the northern border. You will be escorted by us.”

Her lips parted in disbelief. “He… left without me?”

“Yes.”

There was no apology. Only a truth sharper than any blade. Evelina lowered her gaze, hiding the sting in her eyes. Why would he wait for her? Why would he even think of her? She was nothing more than a chain her father had fastened around him.

“Very well,” she whispered.

The knight gestured, and she was ushered into the carriage. The wheels creaked to life, and they began their long journey northward.

The road stretched endlessly, days blending into nights. Each mile felt colder than the last, until every breath she drew was shards of ice in her lungs. Evelina sat silently, her only companions the rattling of wheels and the occasional howl of wolves in the distance.

The knights spoke only when necessary. Their eyes, when they met hers, were cold, detached. She wondered what they thought of her. Did they know the rumors her father had spread? Did they already see her as a fallen woman, unworthy of respect?

Her mind wandered endlessly to Kael Ravenwood. What kind of man was he truly? Cold, yes, but beneath that exterior, did warmth remain? Did he ever laugh, smile, or had duty and war stripped him of everything but command and cruelty?

And the North… tales from her childhood painted it as endless winter, where monsters roamed and men fought daily to survive. What awaited her there? Would she even survive it?

At night, when the carriage stopped at roadside inns or temporary camps, Evelina lay awake, listening to the wind wail like a mourning song. Her body ached with fatigue, but her mind refused rest. Every future she imagined ended in darkness. Still, she did not cry; the tears had long since been spent.

After a week, the carriage finally rolled through massive gates, reinforced with iron. Before her rose the Ravenwood fortress — vast, carved from stone, standing defiant against the mountains. Its towers were crowned with black and silver banners, flapping in the cold wind.

Yet no one welcomed her. No musicians, no flowers, no noble courtiers. Only one maid stood at the entrance, her expression unreadable.

The carriage door opened. Evelina stepped down, breath turning to mist.

“Duchess. Follow me,” the maid said, voice clipped, eyes avoiding hers. Without waiting for a reply, she began walking. Evelina followed, boots echoing against stone floors.

Corridors were dim, lit by flickering torches. The air smelled of iron and frost — a place built for war, not comfort. Finally, the maid stopped before a door. “This will be your room.”

Inside, the space was smaller than she had imagined. The bed was carved but worn, curtains plain, walls bare. For a duchess, hardly fitting. Yet to Evelina, who had spent years in a crumbling attic, it felt almost luxurious.

She touched the quilt. Warm. Whole. No mold, no torn fabric. For the first time in years, something like gratitude stirred in her chest.

The maid spoke again. “Meals are in the hall. A maid will come in the morning to dress you. That is all.”

Without another word, she left. Silence pressed in. Evelina hugged herself in the middle of the room. She had dreamed of a home where she might be cherished, loved, even safe. Reality offered only stone and frost.

Still, she whispered softly, At least… at least it is mine.

The days blurred together. A maid came each morning, her hands brisk, her gaze cold. Evelina ate alone, her voice swallowed by the cavernous hall. She asked once if the Duke might join her. The maid replied simply, “His Grace has not returned.”

Afternoons were endless. Evelina stared out windows at snow drifting like ashes. Soldiers trained outside, messengers came and went, yet no one spoke to her. She was a ghost in the fortress, wandering halls built for kings and warriors.

At night, the wind howled against the stone, and Evelina imagined monsters beyond the walls might be kinder than the people within.

A week passed. She remained isolated, haunted by the silence.

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