Night settled over Vanhart manor not with silence, but with restraint.
The snow outside softened into light flurries, the wind hushed beneath stone and timber. Lamps flickered along the hallway where Kel walked, casting narrow bands of light across dark wood and ancient archways.
Each torch he passed made the shadows shift—stretching, condensing—as if the very walls were adjusting to his presence.
Kel's steps were unhurried, yet his posture carried purpose.
He had expected a disturbance.
Not from the Count.
Not from Sera.
From him.
When the knock came on his door—a servant, nervous, bowing low—it had not surprised him.
"Young master Kel… Viscount Malloren requests your presence. In Lady Lysenne's chambers."
He stood.
He said nothing.
He simply left the room, cloak loose around his shoulders, hair falling slightly across his brow, eyes dimmed by the hour but alert.
At the door of Lysenne's chamber, he paused only a heartbeat.
Malloren does not summon without cause.
Kel pushed the door open.
The first thing he noticed was the warmth.
Her room was soft-lit, air heated by coal braziers. Velvet curtains drawn tight. A lullaby of crackling wood.
Viscount Malloren sat beside the bed, a bowl in hand, feeding his daughter.
There was no nobility here.
Only a father kneeling.
Only hands that remembered how to hold a spoon between wounds.
Lysenne sat upright, her hair unbound and falling freely down her shoulders, blanket across her lap. Her posture was poised—trained—but the immediate embarrassment colouring her cheeks at Kel's entrance betrayed her.
Her father looked over his shoulder.
His gaze was steady.
Controlled.
But less hostile than earlier.
"Thank you for coming," he said.
Kel nodded.
Malloren set down the bowl and cloth, then stood—slowly, as if relinquishing a role.
"What do you want," the Viscount asked, eyes locked on Kel, "in return for saving my daughter?"
The question landed softly, but it struck hard.
Lysenne's gaze lifted, faintly alarmed.
Kel remained still.
"And do not pretend," Malloren continued, voice low, "that there will be no price. You are the son of a Duke. One does not risk one's life casually unless the return is beyond coin."
Kel's eyes did not show offense.
Nor pride.
He spoke with the same calm that had set the wager.
"I do not intend," he replied softly, "to ask you for anything in return for helping your daughter."
Lysenne's fingers twitched over her blanket.
Malloren's jaw tightened faintly.
"You expect me to believe," he pressed, "that you—one who moves with quiet calculation—would make such a vow with no intention to gain from it?"
Kel met his gaze.
His eyes held neither aggression nor submission.
Only clarity.
"Yes," he said.
Malloren's expression hardened.
"Then why say it at all?" he asked. "Why involve yourself? You could have stayed silent. Let the matter pass. Secure what you're already building here."
Kel's posture did not change.
But something in his voice deepened slightly.
"I said once," he answered, "that if there is someone worth saving… I am willing to wager my life."
Silence.
Lysenne, who had been listening quietly, suddenly turned her face away.
Her cheeks red.
Kel continued, gaze unbroken.
"Your daughter," he said, voice quiet but unwavering, "did not deserve what was taken from her. Not in malice. Not by choice. What she lost came not from her sin, nor from Sera's intention—but from a decision made beyond either of them."
He looked at Lysenne.
Not directly into her eyes.
Not yet.
Simply acknowledging her existence in full.
"And if I can return to her the choice she once had," he said, "then I must."
Malloren stared at him.
Lysenne swallowed.
Kel's eyes turned back to the Viscount.
"If a life cannot be spent where it matters," Kel said softly, "then what use is survival?"
The words fell like snow—light, but impossible to ignore.
Malloren's expression trembled.
Just briefly.
As if an old wound had shifted beneath scar tissue.
"You speak," he said slowly, "like someone who has already bargained life away."
Kel did not immediately answer.
Inside him, something stirred.
I did.
Sometime between the twentieth restart… and the moment I opened my eyes as him.
Malloren stepped closer.
His voice lowered.
"You would die for this?"
Kel did not blink.
"Yes."
He added before silence could warp it:
"But that is not my plan."
For the first time, Malloren almost smiled.
It was small.
Tired.
Sharp.
"You speak like a gambler who already knows the cards."
Kel's lips moved faintly.
"I prefer to say I've seen the table before," he replied.
Malloren exhaled slowly.
His palm pressed against the edge of the bed lightly.
Lysenne kept her eyes lowered, but her hands had tightened around the blanket, knuckles faint pink.
Her heartbeat quickened though she kept still.
There was no romantic pretense.
Just the shock—
—that someone would put himself between her and the impossible.
Again.
"They will not accept this easily," Malloren said at last, something older moving beneath his tone. "The court. Other nobles."
Kel looked toward the window briefly, where frost kissed the glass like quiet breath.
"I am not asking them to," he said. "Power listens to results. Not requests."
Malloren studied him for a long moment.
Then—
"Very well."
One slow nod.
"If you succeed," he said softly, "you will have the debt of House Malloren."
Kel did not accept.
"I do not need your debt," he replied.
Malloren paused.
Kel added—
"But I will need your voice. When the time comes."
The Viscount understood.
Political.
Calculated.
Necessary.
He did not oppose.
Instead, he extended his hand halfway.
"Then we speak again in seven days."
Kel nodded once.
Malloren looked at his daughter.
Her cheeks still warmed, even as she maintained composure.
"Rest," he said gently to her. "Tomorrow marks the first step."
Lysenne nodded.
Her eyes lifted for the briefest moment toward Kel.
He inclined his head—
—and turned to leave.
Malloren moved to stand beside his daughter again, picking up the bowl.
Before Kel reached the door, Malloren spoke once more.
"Kel von Rosenfeld."
Kel paused.
Malloren's voice was low.
"Do not die."
Kel's eyes lowered—
just slightly.
"As I said earlier," he replied, "I intend to live."
He stepped into the hallway without another word.
The door closed softly.
Inside the room, Lysenne held the blanket tight.
Her father resumed feeding her, neither of them speaking for several moments.
Outside, Kel walked back toward his room.
He did not hurry.
Sairen's whisper brushed his mind like snow over water.
The more you touch their lives, the more threads you gather.
I know.
And yet, you do not regret it.
Kel's eyes softened.
No. Regret is for those who hesitate before choosing.
He reached his door.
Opened it.
Paused.
"Seven days," he whispered.
To heal what was claimed irreversible.
To move a piece on the board no one believed still playable.
He closed his door.
Snow fell.
In the depths of the manor, somewhere far beneath where noble feet tread—
old water stirred.