Years passed like snow melting on stone—quiet, steady, inevitable. The halls of Devonshire Estate, once echoing with the uneasy silence of strangers, now hummed with the weight of two daughters growing up under one roof.
Vivica, at ten years old, was no longer the waif-like shadow seated stiffly at the edge of a grand dining table.
She was growing—graceful and composed, her beauty already beginning to show in the curve of her high cheekbones and the quiet intelligence in her sharp green eyes, a mirror of her father's. Tutors whispered of her brilliance. Her lessons in politics, diplomacy, language, and mathematics advanced faster than most kids twice her age. She learned the structure of estates before she lost her baby teeth.
And recently, she'd taken up the sword.
Most thought it strange for a young lady of her standing, but Damon had not refused her. Instead, he placed the hilt in her hand himself.
He trained her himself—who better, after all, than the only Swordmaster in the empire? Duke Damon Devonshire, the North's Iron Wolf, was a legend carved in steel, and if any hands were fit to shape his heir, they were his.
Their sessions took place in the stone courtyard behind the keep, where morning mist still clung to the moss and the wind carried the smell of steel and pine. Damon moved like a predator with purpose, precise and unreadable. Vivica mimicked him—not with the brute strength of a soldier, but with the ruthless focus of someone who refused to fail.
They were beautiful together—two statues cut from the same marble. The same sharp jaw. The same calculating eyes. The same silence.
The knights watched them in silent awe.
The servants couldn't help but stare whenever they crossed their path.
Yet for all their shared blood, they still felt like strangers reaching across a chasm.
Damon tried. In quiet ways.
He'd stay after lessons longer than needed. Offer an extra technique, a correction, a rare compliment. He left books in her room—on law, on lineage, on legendary female warriors. Once, a gift: a dagger made for her size, its grip wrapped in leather too fine for a child.
But Vivica never softened. She accepted everything without question or emotion.
Her thanks, when given, were distant. Polite. Formal.
She always kept a line drawn between them. Not overtly. Never rudely. But with the cool civility of someone who knew that closeness was a luxury she didn't trust.
Damon, despite all his authority and command, could not cross it.
He'd sometimes watch her from the archway as she trained with the house guards, the dagger glinting in her hand. She looked so much like her mother then it nearly undid him.
But Vivica never looked back.
And that, somehow, hurt more than any wound a blade could leave.
SEVERAL MONTHS LATER
Months passed like whispered pages turning in a book, and Belle's tenth birthday loomed near.
To mark the occasion, the family prepared for a grand celebration in the heart of the empire—the Imperial Capital—at the Devonshire Townhouse, a gilded ancestral estate nestled among the nobility's finest.
Preparations rippled through the northern duchy like a quiet storm. Servants bustled with trunk-loads of gowns and silks, footmen inspected wheels and reins, and knights reviewed travel formations.
Amid the orchestration, Vivica stood slightly apart—observing, quiet as snowfall, her presence acknowledged but never questioned.
She would ride in a separate carriage, as always.
Not because she was banished. But because she requested it.
Damon never said no to her—not when it came to the rare requests she made. Vivica asked for little, and he had long since recognized that solitude was not her retreat, but her comfort. He understood that. More than anyone, he understood it. And so, her carriage was trailed not by one, but two full columns of knights—an unspoken testament to the weight she carried and the fear he would never name aloud.
The journey from the North to the capital stretched for days, winding from the snow-laced peaks of Devonshire's keep to the emerald-warmed valleys of southern Ashford Empire.
Vivica, nestled in the quiet luxury of her private carriage, watched the changing world with wordless wonder.
Ice that never melted gave way to rivers that shimmered under springlight; stoic pines bent to groves of golden fruit trees and flowered terraces. Children waved as the convoy passed, women smiled, and banners fluttered in every village they crossed.
Vivica said nothing. But her fingers sometimes brushed the windowpane as if trying to trap the light outside, her emerald eyes wide even if her expression remained carved in calm.
When at last the towers of the Imperial Capital pierced the horizon, Vivica sat up straighter.
The city was vast—a marvel of gilded domes and marble spires, crowded with the heartbeat of thousands. Horses clattered over stone, vendors shouted their wares, and carriages in every color wove through the winding streets.
And then came the Devonshire Townhouse.
Three stories of architectural opulence, its façade carved from ivory stone and flanked with vine-draped balconies, arched windows, and iron-gilded gates. Servants in livery lined the entrance as her carriage pulled in, bowing low, but Vivica barely noticed. Her gaze had lifted—quietly, intently—taking in the sheer size of it all.
A lesser child might have gasped, pointed, smiled.
Vivica only stepped down with a gentle touch to the gilded handle, her face composed. But deep inside, where no one could see, something stirred. Awe, maybe. Or the quiet thrill of being part of something grand.
And like always, she carried it alone.
**
Preparations for Belle's birthday ball transformed the Devonshire Townhouse into a hive of dazzling chaos.
Silks from foreign shores arrived by the bolt, perfumed candles lined the corridors, and crystal chandeliers were polished until they glowed like moons overhead.
Every servant was in motion, every floor was dusted to perfection. Invitations had been sent to noble families across the Empire, and musicians rehearsed in the grand hall beneath sweeping arches of painted gold.
Belle Devonshire was born out of wedlock, a scandal the entire empire knew all too well. Yet, despite her illegitimacy, the northern duke showered her with affection, and the nobles scrambled to stay in his favor.
The birthday girl herself was in a constant whirl of fittings and excitement—laughter following her like perfume. She was radiant, full of life and dreams, every bit the glittering young lady the capital expected.
But Vivica kept to the quieter corners of the townhouse. Her world existed on the top floor, at the end of the east wing, behind white double doors etched with gold vines… the Hyacinth Chamber.
Her late mother's room.
Vivian Devonshire's legacy lingered in every inch.
Pale lilac drapery swept from the ceiling in cascading folds. The walls were a study in artistry—frescoes of soft twilight skies, with climbing wisteria and swans in flight. Mirrors framed in antique silver, floors inlaid with imperial rosewood, and a balcony that overlooked the jewel-studded skyline of the capital. The chamber had been designed by Albin LeMarque himself, the empire's most esteemed architect, who had created it for the late duchess as a wedding gift from Damon.
Diana had never once been allowed to set foot inside.
Vivica sat at the writing desk, studying a document on provincial succession laws. Her pen scratched lightly across parchment—notes, reflections, quiet thoughts. Her emerald eyes flicked to the side as the door creaked open.
Damon entered.
He rarely intruded on her space—but when he did, it was always with something real behind his cold facade.
Today was no different.
"You've filled this room well," he uttered, glancing once around.
"It's Mother's room," Vivica replied, setting down her pen. "It doesn't need filling."
A pause. Damon walked further in, the soft thud of his boots dulled by the luxurious velvet carpet.
"I always thought she would grow old in this room," he said quietly. "But it suits you. You're… both hers and not."
Vivica didn't answer. Her expression remained carefully stoic.
Damon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The ball will be a storm. You don't need to attend if it exhausts you."
"I'll be there," Vivica said without hesitation. "It's Belle's celebration."
There was silence between them—thick, but not unpleasant. Damon looked at her then, really looked. At how her posture echoed his, how those sharp emerald eyes mirrored his own. The more she grew, the more she resembled a perfect balance of both him and Vivian. A ghost, yes—but also something entirely alive.
Before he could speak further, a knock echoed through the Hyacinth Chamber.
"My lord," came the voice of his steward from behind the door, "the Crown Prince has arrived. He seeks audience… and asks that your heir be present as well."
Damon's brows lifted faintly. Vivica blinked.
"The Crown Prince?" She asked, quiet surprise flickering across her features.
Damon nodded once, grim and thoughtful. "Put on your court sash, Vivica. You're not just my daughter now. You're Devonshire's voice in the Empire."