The chair beside her remained untouched.
Elysia sat in the breakfast room, hands delicately poised around a cup of warm tea—but her eyes glanced, just once, toward the empty seat to her right. The one Alric had occupied yesterday. This morning, however, he was nowhere to be seen.
Noticing her fleeting glance, Baron Fitzroy—already halfway through his modest meal—lifted his gaze with impeccable timing.
"His Grace departed before sunrise," he said, matter-of-fact but not unkind. "He is overseeing the deployment for this year's Monster Culling. The Northern walls require reinforcement."
Elysia merely nodded. She kept her expression composed, but something shifted in her eyes.
To the Baron's trained perception, however, her mask wavered just slightly. Her face was neutral, but her faint pout and downturned gaze reminded him—oddly—of a child denied a promised treat. He didn't comment, of course.
Breakfast proceeded quietly.
Once the meal concluded, Elysia was accompanied by Clara to the administrative wing. They walked side by side beneath tall archways and crystal sconces glowing gently with ambient magic.
She half-expected to find her desk buried in parchment. Two days away from official work surely would've left a backlog. But when they entered her office, there was only a single folder placed neatly at the center of the desk.
Elysia frowned. "That's it?"
Clara, already gliding toward the opposite shelf, answered smoothly. "Most of the official work is managed by the administrative officers appointed under your name, Your Grace. Your duties primarily involve reviewing, correcting, and approving their submissions."
Elysia tilted her head. "How many officers do I have, again?"
"Twelve," Clara replied. "All appointed based on their qualifications. His Grace personally assembled the structure under the late Duke's original framework."
Elysia sat down slowly, absorbing that. "So, Alric refined everything his father created."
"Yes," Clara said, her tone momentarily reverent. "Duke Wyatt Nolan Arzest established a legacy of precision. His Grace perfected it."
Elysia smiled faintly. "Of course he did."
By noon, she had completed her duties and decided to visit the officers working under her supervision. They greeted her warmly—some standing straighter than necessary, others beaming with genuine surprise at her presence. She spoke with them briefly about their departments: education reform, trade traffic, economic development.
It was strange, how at ease they were. Not stiff like bureaucrats. Not nervous, like commoners afraid of nobles.
This isn't like those lifeless office cubicles from my old world, she thought. It's real. Alive.
Returning to her room just after, she was greeted by the faint clink of glasses and quiet voices. A maid stepped forward and poured a golden lemonade into two tall glasses—one for her, and one handed respectfully to Clara, who had just taken her seat.
Elysia took a long sip, then sighed as she settled into the velvet-cushioned armchair. The citrus stung sweetly on her tongue.
"Clara," she said, her voice soft but firm, "please give the maids three hours off. We won't need them until after lunch."
Clara gave a crisp nod. "As you wish."
After issuing the order, Clara sat beside her, hands folded neatly on her lap, just about to strike up a conversation—
When a sharp, deliberate knock echoed against the chamber door.
Elysia's spine straightened slightly.
No footsteps. No aura. No warning.
Only two people she knew could mask their presence that well.
"Please open it," Elysia said, setting her glass down.
Clara stood, crossed the room without hesitation, and pulled the door open with composed elegance.
Alric stepped inside.
He was dressed in a deep navy shirt—plain, unadorned—and black trousers. The fabric bore no embroidery, no ornamentation, and yet his posture alone made the attire feel regal. His hair was damp at the edges, freshly combed; he had clearly bathed before coming here. Not a single scent clung to him—not of cologne or even grass.
Elysia's heart thudded, but she schooled her expression.
Clara dipped into a respectful curtsey. "Your Grace."
Alric gave a small nod, then turned toward Elysia with that measured calm of his.
"I shall give you privacy," Clara said, and with another quiet glance at Elysia, she took her leave, closing the door behind her.
Alric approached and chose the armchair across from her—not the cushioned daybed, not the sofa, but the seat that placed them eye-to-eye, equals in both height and dignity.
He sat, silent for a moment. The room stilled.
"You didn't attend breakfast, Your Grace" Elysia said, her tone light but laced with something quietly accusatory.
"I didn't want to disturb you," Alric replied evenly. "I was checking over the supplies—horses, gear, the warp gate setup. Just wanted everything ready for tomorrow. The knights have the night to rest; we leave a couple of hours before dawn."
"You could've left a message."
"I considered it." A pause. "I didn't want to speak too soon… not if it might unsettle you."
The tension in her shoulders eased ever so slightly.
"I think," she murmured, fingers tracing the rim of her glass, "I'd rather not be left wondering."
Alric inclined his head.
"Then I'll make certain you never have to again."
----------
Elysia forced down the fluttering in her chest—the kind that made her feel like a girl on the verge of confessing, not a woman who had once vowed her life to the man before her. Her features composed themselves into a blank mask, each breath steady, measured. Calm. But beneath that facade, her heart drummed with a rhythm far too loud for a room so still.
She caught the shift in Alric's posture, the way his lips parted just slightly as he prepared to speak.
But before the first word could pass between them, she moved.
Quiet as a sigh, she rose and stepped forward, the soft brush of her skirt against the carpet the only sound. Then she sat beside him—not at the far end of the long divan, nor so close as to seem impulsive. Just near enough that his warmth brushed her arm, and she swore she could feel the echo of his heartbeat through the stillness.
And that simple, steady rhythm of his breath nearly undid the calm she'd fought so hard to keep.
Alric's eyes widened faintly. A subtle reaction, but she saw it. The flicker of surprise. The hesitation that followed.
She tilted her head, expression unreadable, but her words carried a trace of teasing heat.
"Why that look? Is it strange… having me sit this close, even if I don't remember why it used to feel natural?"
"…No," he said softly, his voice threading through the stillness between them. "It's not strange. Only… unfamiliar again. And I'm trying not to want too much, too soon."
His gaze lingered on her for a breath longer, as if trying to memorize the lines of her face all over again—the same face he had woken beside, day after day, yet now it felt distant. Fragile. Like something precious glimpsed through frost-glass.
The corner of his mouth lifted—a faint curve, a quiet ache veiled in restraint. Not quite a smile, not entirely sorrow. It hovered in that delicate space between memory and mourning.
Elysia didn't speak, but she didn't pull away either. The air between them held warmth now—an unspoken thread stretched taut across time lost and time remembered.
She reached into the sling bag beside her and slowly brought out the diary. "There's something you might want to see," she murmured, handing it over and flipping it open to the pages marked with strange script.
"I found these scattered between entries. Not mine. But I had a feeling they were yours."
Alric took the book gently, as if it might crumble under his fingers. He glanced at the page, and a quiet recognition passed through his expression.
"I wondered if you'd notice these," he said, brushing a gloved thumb lightly across the edge of the page. "This script—it's Cerulian. A forgotten tongue. You learned it two years ago, when we found the sealed texts in the northern ruins."
Elysia tilted her head, brows drawing in faint confusion. "I don't remember any of that. Or this language."
Alric closed the diary with care, his fingers lingering on the worn leather. "Then let me tell you, in a way that doesn't need translating."
The quiet hum of the room felt heavier, as if the very air bore witness to the truths about to be spoken. Elysia shifted ever so slightly, drawing the diary closer between them, her heart thudding softly beneath her composed exterior.
He met her eyes again—earnest, unwavering. "What I wrote in there wasn't knowledge. It wasn't research. It was… pieces of us. Pieces of what we built. And the truths that might have frightened you then, but can't be hidden now."
Alric's gaze lingered on the worn pages, his voice low, steady, but with that familiar undertone of reverence whenever he spoke of their shared history.
"First—as I once explained to you, that House Arzest hails from Lady Raphthra. The Dragon of Despair, whose title masked a soul of boundless compassion. She was not despair itself, but its answer."
Elysia's breath slowed, the magnitude of that revelation settling anew. She thought she had imagined the ancient weight that seemed to hang from Alric's bloodline—but now she knew it was real.
"Then, the marriage ritual."
Alric's voice softened, and though he kept his words measured, Elysia could feel the depth of emotion beneath them.
"It is more than ceremony. It forges the dragon's legacy into the one who weds into our house. It reshaped you — made you stronger, more radiant. I watched the change, and loved you all the more for it."
She instinctively touched a lock of hair, heart beating faster at the thought that his blood had woven into hers—that she had chosen that bond, even if memory failed her.
"My Father bore the Curse of Knowledge. I bear the Wall of Redemption—though what redemption I must find, I have yet to understand."
His violet eyes flicked briefly to hers, as if seeking solace in them.
"And you, Elysia… you became what you are because you chose me. Even if you do not remember that choice."
Her throat tightened. His restraint was so gentle, so constant—and it made her ache with the wish that she could give him the certainty he deserved.
How could she not remember a love that felt so right, so woven into her bones?
Alric turned a page with care. "Next, I had written of House Fitzroy. It was my great-aunt's house. She bore no heirs, and out of love for her, my great-grandfather wove a plan that the Fitzroy name would continue, bound to us not by chains, but by shared purpose."
The diary's next lines brought the barest flicker of warmth to his voice.
"Edmund, found as a child grieving an Eldir who raised him. My father took him in. He is my brother in all but name."
Elysia nodded faintly. She could feel it now—Edmund's quiet presence always felt more kin than servant.
"And Giselle…" Alric's voice dipped, respectful, fond. "Her parents gave their lives for my mother. And so, she was made family—growing beside us as our sister."
A pause hung between them. And in that pause, Elysia leaned forward to turn the page—just as Alric, unthinking, did the same.
Their faces stopped less than a hand's width apart, caught in the shared gravity of the moment.
For a heartbeat, they stared, breath mingling, hearts racing. Her cheeks flushed, a soft bloom of rose spreading with swift heat.
Elysia's fingers, slightly trembling, flipped the page and slid the diary back to center. She leaned away, averting her eyes, the air between them charged, electric.
Alric said nothing, but the longing in his stillness spoke volumes.
"The caverns where we wed hold a sealed door," he resumed, voice steadying. "No key, no spell, no alchemy of ours can open it. Yet my father's records warn it must be opened within the next five years—though no one knows what awaits beyond it, or why time runs short."
A shiver danced down her spine. What lies beyond that door? Why so soon?
Alric's hand hovered briefly over a familiar entry. "You translated the Elven script—the one that lured Vivienne away. Wrote it here in Cerulian. The letter forged as if from Lucian, calling her to Derrit Gorge."
Elysia clenched her fists. Those cursed Elves. But she knew they were not at fault. Something entirely different was.
His lips quirked faintly as he touched another note.
"And here—you wrote of my appearance."
Heat rose to her ears, spreading down her neck like a rush of sunlight.
"And my mannerisms. My faults, my strengths. How, despite my stubbornness, I could not withstand your soft words when you wished something of me."
She covered her face with one hand, groaning softly. "You're not supposed to know I wrote that."
Alric only smiled gently.
"You documented every scar, every mark, every wound I bear. Down to the beasts that dealt them."
Her breath hitched. Because you are mine to know.
His voice dipped, intimate now, a thread of heat beneath the calm. His voice dipped, velvet-soft, intimate now, the weight of memory heavy beneath his words.
His voice softened, reverent. "And our nights… not just passion, but the quiet promise of forever, written in touch and breath. The way we belonged only to each other, in those hours."
Elysia froze, heart thundering, unable to lift her gaze.
And then came the last mystery—those unfamiliar markings.
She pointed. "This… this writing. What is it?"
Alric's eyes softened, but the restraint returned.
"When the time is right, you will know. And I will be there. Not because I would hide it from you… but because I would shield you from truths that can wait until you are ready to claim them. It will find you when it must."
----------
A sharp knock broke the fragile quiet that lingered between them. Elysia blinked, startled by how quickly the spell of the moment shattered. Clara entered with her usual grace, bowing lightly.
"Your Graces, lunch has been prepared."
Reluctantly, they both rose—neither quite ready to leave the fragile closeness they'd shared. The air between them felt heavier now, threaded with unspoken words and the warmth of what might have been.
In the hallway, Baron Fitzroy awaited, punctual as ever, his posture immaculate. At his side stood a knight, polished armor gleaming faintly in the soft light.
"The squadron is ready, Your Grace," the knight reported. "Preparations complete for departure at first light."
Alric's voice held steady command, but gentleness, too. "Make sure every man eats well tonight. Let them have their families beside them, even for a short while. A good meal. A good rest. I'll not have exhaustion steal lives tomorrow. Assemble two hours before dawn. We ride then."
The knight bowed low and departed swiftly.
Elysia watched Alric as he spoke—so composed, so certain—and the weight of what his coming absence meant settled on her, quiet but heavy. She hadn't realized how much she would miss him until the thought of him leaving became real.
Lunch passed mostly in silence, the kind where words felt too clumsy for what the heart wanted to say.
Afterward, Elysia retreated to her study, the orderly calm of the room failing to soothe the growing ache inside her. She busied herself with parchment and notes, sorting through the scattered remnants of her research, determined to find something—anything—that might guide her toward saving what mattered most.
Alric, in turn, walked the grounds, inspecting the cargo, the horses, every last detail of the expedition with the quiet diligence that marked everything he did.
The day drifted into evening, the house still, as if holding its breath for the dawn to come.
And when night fell, Elysia found herself curled around her pillow, the ache of missing him sharper than she cared to admit—even to herself.
# - #