The drawing room of the Devonshire Townhouse had been transformed into a council chamber.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, setting fire to the crystal decanter on the sideboard and painting amber across the floor. Heavy drapes muffled the outside noise of carriages and chatter. A map of the Ashford Empire was unfurled on the long table, weighted at the corners by silver compasses and gilded inkstands.
Vivica stood near the window, arms folded neatly behind her back, the soft violet of her court sash catching the light. She had changed into formal attire at Damon's request—a high-collared emerald coatdress with black piping and silver clasps that gleamed like tiny swords. Her long dark hair was pinned in a modest braid-crown, elegant but unadorned.
She was only ten.
But everything about her screamed one thing… REGAL.
The double doors opened, and in walked the Crown Prince.
Killian of House Ashford was only thirteen, yet he moved with a poise that outstripped men twice his age. Tall for his years, his golden hair curled slightly at the ends, and his eyes—clear and glacier-blue—held a keen weight of discipline and knowledge. He wore the ceremonial deep blue of the Imperial House, with the Sun of Ashford stitched in gold across his breast.
Two aides followed, dressed in the subdued colors of civil service, while Damon and Baron Hugo stood to receive him.
Vivica turned, posture straightening as she'd been taught.
Killian's gaze found her almost instantly.
There was a flicker—brief, private—in those royal eyes. Surprise, interest... something softer. But when he bowed his head respectfully, his voice remained polished, neutral.
"Lady Vivica Devonshire. An honor."
Vivica bowed slightly, her tone crisp. "Your Highness."
Damon gestured them all to the table. "Shall we begin?"
They gathered around the map, the table groaning beneath documents, troop reports, and sealed letters from frontier outposts.
One of the aides began to speak first—a thin man with sharp cheekbones and ink-stained fingers.
"Your Grace, Your Highness," he said, pointing to the northeastern border. "There have been fresh reports from Dalen Province—Bandit Lords growing bolder, targeting grain shipments meant for the imperial granaries. The local magistrates claim they lack the manpower to respond effectively."
The second aide added, "Meanwhile, the border tensions with Corven remain unresolved. Their envoy insists on discussing mineral trade rights, but it's clear they are testing our weakness in the Dalen corridor."
Damon's jaw tightened as he leaned over the map. "We send men east, we leave the north vulnerable. Send men north, we risk starvation by winter."
Killian nodded, fingers steepled. "And the Council is divided. The Western Dukes push for grain tariffs, while the Southern Earls want military action. If I take sides now, I shatter a fragile alliance I've only just inherited from my father."
The room paused in heavy contemplation.
Then—quiet, certain—Vivica spoke.
"You don't need to choose a side, Your Highness."
All eyes turned.
Her gaze was on the map, brows slightly drawn in thought. "The problem isn't simply lack of troops or food… it's logistics. The eastern provinces are grain-rich, but under-defended. The north is heavily fortified but agriculturally barren. You're looking at two separate issues, but they're one system."
She looked up, eyes sharp and sure. "Form a rotating grain convoy system, sanctioned under Crown Seal, with guarded waypoints at every major crossroad between Dalen and the north. Assign Dalen's local militias to protect the routes with Imperial oversight. In return, offer the Eastern Earls increased mining tariffs—but only for a season. Let them taste profit now and dependence later."
Silence.
Baron Hugo blinked.
Damon turned his head slowly toward her, expression unreadable.
One of the aides muttered, "That… that would force the Eastern Earls to uphold stability or lose their profits."
"And redirect grain flow without exhausting any one army," added the other aide, awe creeping into his voice.
Killian stared at Vivica. The flicker returned. This time, it lingered longer—something halfway between admiration and something deeper.
"Lady Vivica," he said softly, "how long have you studied imperial logistics?"
She looked at him squarely. "I read the War Treatise of Roderic the Second last autumn. The rest was common sense."
Damon smothered a smirk.
Killian's mouth twitched, almost smiling. "Your mind is dangerous. That is a compliment."
Vivica bowed her head once. "Thank you, Your Highness."
The aides scrambled to write her proposal into immediate draft.
Damon remained silent, studying his daughter with a look that carried something weightier than pride. Baron Hugo whispered to him, "She's YOUR daughter for sure, Your Grace. But sharper."
Killian, too, was silent for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he spoke. "I believe the Empire will benefit greatly from House Devonshire's counsel in the years to come."
And just for a moment—as he glanced at Vivica again—his regal mask slipped.
Not enough to be seen by the others.
But she saw it.
And she turned away before the flicker in her own eyes could answer back.
**
Night fell over the Imperial Capital like a velvet curtain, heavy and sumptuous, threaded with starlight.
Above the amber glow of the city, the Devonshire Townhouse stood proud and resplendent—a monument of legacy carved in alabaster and obsidian.
Moonlight poured across its balconies, cloaking the wrought-iron railings and marble columns in a silver sheen. The wind carried whispers of celebration from the boulevards below: music, laughter, the faint toll of distant bells—perhaps for a noble's wedding, or perhaps just another dream woven into Ashford's ever-turning night.
In the Hyacinth Chamber, time seemed to pause.
It was a room steeped in memory—once the private sanctum of Duchess Vivian Devonshire, designed by the most revered artisan in the Empire. Every silk-draped canopy, every carved molding was a love letter in architecture.
Even now, it bore her essence: elegant, enduring, untouchable.
Vivica stood alone on the balcony, her emerald night robe dancing against the wind, pale hands resting on the cold stone railing. Her expression, as always, was carved in alabaster—stoic, still. But her gaze was lifted skyward, fixed on the canopy of stars that spilled like shattered diamonds across the heavens.
From the snowy mountains she called home to the lush warmth of the Imperial heartland, the journey had been long—but she had watched it all, absorbing everything in silence.
Below her, Ashford shimmered, rooftops gilded with lamplight and bonfires. The capital breathed in golden rhythm.
Then, a knock at the chamber door. Soft. Measured.
She did not turn.
"Come in," she said, her voice steady as winter frost.
The door opened, and Damon entered, casting a long shadow that flickered across the velvet rug.
The candlelight softened him, made the iron edges of his presence flicker like something almost human.
He wore black evening attire, now slightly disheveled, as if the weight of his dukedom had momentarily slipped away.
His raven hair, tousled by the breeze, made him look less like the imperious Duke of the North and more like a father fumbling to remember how to be one.
He halted just inside, not daring to cross onto the balcony. Not without permission.
"You handled yourself well today," he said at last, his voice low, but weighted. "What you said to the Crown Prince… it redirected an entire council strategy. You may have averted a factional crisis before it ever bloomed."
Vivica didn't look at him. "It was an obvious solution. Anyone could have arrived at it."
"No." Damon's voice was quieter now. "Not anyone. And not at ten."
Still, she didn't flinch, didn't shift. The night air moved around her, tousling her long dark hair like ink in water.
A silence bloomed between them—deep and cavernous.
Then, finally, she inclined her head. Barely. The movement was minute. Controlled. A gesture of acknowledgment, not affection.
And yet it struck Damon like a blade. His chest hollowed and ached all at once.
He lingered a moment longer, as though trying to memorize her—the strength of her silence, the echo of a woman now gone in the lines of her daughter's face.
"Rest well, daughter," he said softly.
"Goodnight… Your Grace," she replied without turning.
The words struck harder than any war wound he had borne.
Damon turned. Walked to the door. And paused—just once—in the threshold. Candlelight crowned his silhouette, casting him like a portrait painted in grief.
Then he left.
But—
Outside, in the grand corridor of the Devonshire townhouse, Damon halted and pressed his hand to the wall, as though it could hold him up where his pride no longer could. His other hand gripped the brocade near his heart, tight, trembling.
When…
When will you open your heart to me, Vivica?
Am I still just "Your Grace" to you… even now? Even after all this time?
I'm your father…
He closed his eyes.
And in the darkness behind his lids, a memory bloomed—of a different balcony, a younger night, and Vivian's laughter, rich and melodic as she leaned against the chair, her cheeks flushed from wine and laughter after reading one of her ridiculous comedy romances aloud.
It was a rare sight Damon had once witnessed.
Vivian hardly smiled, let alone laughed.
And that laugh... it was something else entirely.
Is this what I'm paying for?
For choosing my ignorance? For dishonoring her? For letting stupidity and lust dictate my path… and silence carve the distance between me and my child?
His palm flattened over his chest. The pain there was old—but never dulled. His heart was a battlefield, not of blades and blood, but of silence, penance, and the cold war of a father's love.
And then the whisper came. Quiet. Hoarse.
"Vivian… I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm really, really sorry…"
But apologies did not echo through death. And regret could not raise the dead.
So Damon stood there—a war hero undone not by steel, but by the silence of the one he loved most.
Few minutes passed before he moved again.
He drew a slow breath. Straightened his back. Refastened his pride.
And walked down the corridor alone, the shadows swallowing him whole.