Chapter 4 : Shards of Morning
The first light of dawn slipped through the curtains, painting golden streaks across the stone floor. The manor was hushed, caught in that fragile breath between night and morning.
Aaron Erveldote pushed open the door to his sister's chambers, expecting silence, stillness, the usual emptiness she carried like a second skin.
Instead, he froze.
There she was.
Freya, curled in the center of the grand bed, her fingers still lightly clinging to the edge of their father's cloak—abandoned in the chair beside her.
The Duke was gone.
But his presence lingered.
Aaron stared.
She looked so small like that. So fragile. Her hair, tangled with sleep, glowed like spun silver under the rising sun. Her brow furrowed, and her lips moved in some quiet, haunted dream.
"Tch…" Aaron clicked his tongue and stepped closer, arms crossed. "Seriously… always playing the helpless card."
He hated the unease in his chest. The way her face—twisted in that vulnerable expression—echoed something deep from years ago. A girl who used to follow him around the corridors, always asking him to play. A girl who used to laugh.
But that girl was gone, wasn't she?
"Wake up," he muttered, his voice low, harsh.
Freya whimpered in her sleep. A tremble ran through her limbs.
He hesitated.
"…Freya?"
Her eyes snapped open. Wild. Confused.
Her breath caught when she saw him.
"A-Aaron…?" her voice was hoarse, lost somewhere between dream and waking.
He cleared his throat, gaze flicking away. "You're awake. Finally."
She sat up slowly, rubbing her temples. "Where… where did he go?"
"Him?" Aaron sneered. "Father left hours ago. Probably had better things to do."
Freya looked down. Her hands still held the edge of that cloak.
Aaron saw it.
His jaw clenched. "You really don't remember anything, huh?"
Freya didn't answer. She just looked at him. Not with fear—but confusion. Like he was a puzzle she didn't know how to start solving.
"I'm not faking," she said softly. "Even if you think I am."
He didn't respond. Just stared for a moment too long.
And then, without another word, he turned away and walked to the door.
"Get dressed," he said, voice sharper than necessary. "The Grand Duke's arriving today. You're expected to be present."
Freya blinked. "Grand Duke…?"
Aaron glanced over his shoulder. "Skyler Bifrons Rivellion."
Then he left, the door clicking shut behind him.
Freya stared at the doorway, heart thudding like a warning.
She didn't know who the Grand Duke was.
But the way Aaron said his name—
Like it was a storm waiting just beyond the horizon.
The air was thick with lavender and hush as the maids moved around Freya like shadows, their fingers nimble, faces blank. Her skin prickled under their touch—tight laces, cool brushes, the rustle of silk laid over her shoulders like the weight of expectation.
Freya sat quietly before the tall mirror, her orchid eyes watching a stranger bloom within the glass.
Platinum-blonde hair twisted into soft curls, pinned with silver combs shaped like falling leaves. A pale lilac gown hugged her frame, delicate and regal, cinched at the waist with a ribbon the color of dusk. She looked… ethereal.
She looked nothing like herself.
"Hold still, my lady," one of the maids whispered, adjusting a pearl at her collarbone. Another gently dusted shimmer along her cheeks.
Freya didn't speak. Not because she didn't want to—but because she didn't know who this girl was supposed to be. Her memories were a void, and everything felt like she was reading from a script she hadn't been handed.
"You are to greet the Grand Duke today," Mina, her personal maid, said as she fixed the final pin into Freya's hair. "And His Majesty the Emperor will accompany him."
Freya's eyes widened. "The Emperor?"
Mina nodded once, then hesitated, her voice dropping to something quieter. "They're coming here. The Duke said they should arrive within the hour."
A knock on the door made them both turn.
Aaron stood there, dressed in formal navy and black, the Erveldote crest glittering faintly on his chest. His jaw was sharp as ever, but today… there was something unreadable in his eyes.
He looked at her for a long second.
"You're ready," he said, not quite a question.
Freya gave a small nod. "I think so."
His gaze flicked to Mina. "Make sure she doesn't trip over her own feet."
Then, to Freya—"And try not to look like you're about to faint. You're a noble, not some frightened servant."
With that, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing like a warning.
Freya stared at the door after him. Then back to her reflection.
She didn't know who the Grand Duke was.
She didn't know what kind of Emperor would visit a forgotten northern duchy.
But she knew one thing for certain:
This wasn't a casual visit.
This was the beginning of something she couldn't name yet.
And it was already too late to run.
A bell tolled once in the distance—low, somber, and drawn like breath held too long.
The manor stirred.
Servants lined up along the grand hall, heads bowed, hands pressed to their fronts. Tension coiled through the walls like ivy clinging to stone. Even the chandeliers seemed to glitter more sharply, catching the nervous flicker of torchlight.
Freya stood beside her father at the top of the steps, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The Duke, silent as a marble statue, hadn't spoken to her since that morning. His presence was cold but commanding, like a sword sheathed in frost.
Aaron stood just behind them, arms crossed, eyes sharp as broken glass.
Then—they arrived.
The gates opened with a groan of iron, and two black carriages rolled into the courtyard, drawn by midnight horses clad in gold-trimmed harnesses. The first bore the imperial crest: a sun split by a sword. The second, silver and sleek, was marked with a seal of twisted flame and moonlight—the sigil of the Grand Duke.
The doors opened.
First emerged His Majesty—the Emperor of Eradale, Eldritch Bifrons Rivellion. Cloaked in dark violet and storm-gray, his steps were soundless against the stone. His hair, the shade of fine ash, was swept back beneath a golden crown; his eyes, deep and unreadable, scanned the line of nobles like a hawk watching mice.
And beside him…
A boy stepped down.
Seventeen. Tall. Straight-backed. His coat was pure black, edged with iridescent threads that shimmered violet and silver when the light touched them. His light blond hair framed a pale face that looked carved of ice.
But it was his eyes—those haunting, iris-colored eyes—that froze Freya where she stood.
He was young, yes.
But not soft.
This was not a boy made of sunshine and laughter.
This was a boy born in winter.
Skyler Bifrons Rivellion. The Grand Duke of Noctgrave.
He glanced up at the staircase—and stopped.
His gaze locked on Freya.
Not in recognition, not in curiosity.
In silence.
Like he'd been expecting her.
Freya's breath hitched.
The Emperor stepped forward, voice calm but cold. "Duke Erveldote. We thank you for your hospitality."
The Duke bowed his head. "Your Majesty. It is an honor."
His gaze flicked to Skyler. "Grand Duke."
Skyler offered a short, effortless nod. "Duke."
Then—his eyes were on Freya again.
The Duke turned to her. "Freya. Greet His Majesty."
Freya took a shaky step forward, lips parting. "Your Majesty, I… welcome you to our home."
Her voice sounded small in her own ears.
Then she turned to Skyler.
"And… to you, Grand Duke."
Skyler tilted his head, watching her like a riddle he intended to solve with a blade.
"I've heard much about you," he said softly, his tone unreadable.
Freya's fingers curled into her dress.
She hadn't heard anything about him.
But somehow, her heart already knew:
This boy was going to ruin her peace.
Whatever little peace she had left.