Two days after the summons, the conflict, and my father's ice-cold decree, a simple note arrived from Sir Damien Ashford, requesting my presence at the Duke's office to "formalize arrangements." The language was neutral; the tone was that of a military aide setting a meeting. There was no seal this time.
I dressed with deliberate care again, choosing a gown of deep forest green wool, practical yet rich enough to denote my station. The star-iron charm was a constant presence beneath. My reflection showed a composed face, lips set in a line of quiet determination. The girl who had trembled at a tea invitation was buried. The woman who would walk into the wolf's den was ready.
The same flint-eyed knight stood guard. He gave a sharper nod this time, recognition in his gaze. He opened the door without a word.
