By evening, the library had dimmed with the light.
Ilya hadn't moved in hours. The red journal lay open beside her, a few loose notes now tucked beneath her fingers—passages she kept returning to. Alura's voice echoed with such clarity it almost felt like she'd spoken aloud.
We are not just rebuilding stone here. We are rebuilding memory.
She could feel it- the memory in the walls. The flicker of candlelight danced across the velvet chairs. She hadn't intended to spend the whole day in the same spot, but time had slipped strangely here—warm, quiet, almost sacred. She realized this place already felt more like home than the place she had grown up, and that thought scared her like a splash of ice water.
A soft knock at the library door broke the spell.
Ilya sat up straighter.
The door opened partway, and a tall woman in a sharply pressed navy gown stepped inside. Her hair was pinned high in a silver comb, and a ring of keys jingled faintly at her waist.
"My lady." She dipped her head. "I am Therin. I oversee the domestic staff of Velwynd Keep."
Ilya nodded, standing quickly. "Oh. Hello. I didn't—" She paused. "Was I supposed to report somewhere?"
"No, my lady. Lord Elias said you were not to be disturbed. I waited until sundown to see if I might introduce myself."
There was something old-world about the way she spoke. Precise. Courteous. Not cold, but... tempered.
"Do you mind if I sit?" Therin gestured to the chair across from her.
Ilya blinked. "Of course."
Therin settled down, smoothing her skirts, and placed a leather folio on the table between them.
"I have served Velwynd for nearly three decades," she said. "Under the late Archduchess, and now, by Lord Elias's command, under you."
The word you landed heavily.
Ilya folded her hands in her lap. "I've never managed a keep before."
"Few are born knowing how, my lady. But it is expected you will learn."
Therin opened the folio. Inside were charts, seasonal calendars, and records inked in precise, beautiful script.
"The role of a Duchess, especially here in Velwynd, is not ceremonial. This is not a southern court, where wives are meant to be silent ornaments."
She flipped a page and began listing off the core duties.
"First, you are to oversee the welcoming and hosting of dignitaries and guests. That includes the seasonal feasts and winter delegation from the southern coast, as well as the Crown's emissary should he arrive."
Ilya nodded slowly.
"Second, you are responsible for the aesthetic upkeep of the keep—choosing seasonal decor, ordering local art or fabric commissions, managing the design of the public spaces and great hall."
A beat.
"The Archduke despises clutter. But he honors symbolism. You'll find his tastes lean toward restraint."
Another page turned.
"Third—household finances. You do not manage the royal treasury, but you do oversee the budget of the keep: servant wages, tradesman contracts, renovations, gift commissions, and seasonal allowances. If you wish to implement a personal project, it will go through your office."
"Lastly," she said, meeting Ilya's eyes, "you review all personal requests for audience with the Archduke. It is expected that you will know which voices are worth his time—and which ones are not."
That part made Ilya's pulse quicken. "So I... filter them?"
"You are the first door," Therin said simply. "And some doors must remain closed."
There was no menace in her tone. Only truth.
Ilya looked down at the pages.
Hosting. Decorating. Managing budgets. Screening nobles. All things she had never been allowed to touch in her father's house—and now they were hers.
A throne without a crown.
Therin closed the folio.
"Lord Elias has given no deadline. But he does not expect slowness, either. I'll assign a clerk to walk you through the finances. We have a small staff for household management, and the archivist will assist you in keeping guest records."
Ilya gave a small nod. "Thank you."
Therin stood, pausing before she left.
"The last Archduchess used to say this keep was a beast with many heads. Feed the wrong one, and it devours the rest." Her expression softened slightly. "But fed wisely… it guards you like no other."
She bowed again and left without another word.
Ilya sat in the silence that followed, staring at the candlelit folio.
Not a prisoner. Not a pawn.
She had been given responsibility.
And with it—something dangerously close to power.