The villa had started to feel less like a prison and more like a chessboard.
Gerffron woke before dawn, the black rose on his nightstand now fully bloomed, its petals glossy as fresh blood under the faint moonlight that slipped through the heavy curtains. He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling's intricate gold-leaf patterns, letting the weight of the past week settle into his bones. Seven days. Only seven days since he had opened his emerald eyes to wedding vows and a wife who looked at him like he was both prize and punishment. Seven days of smiles that never reached his eyes, of bows measured to the exact degree, of midnight runs through rose-scented shadows.
Seven days of Styrmir's voice growing stronger through iron bars.
He sat up slowly, the silk sheets whispering against his pale skin. The gold wedding band on his left hand caught the light, heavy as a shackle. In his old life back in India, he had never worn jewelry except the thin black thread his mother tied around his wrist during every festival. Now this ring was his entire identity—Gerffron Wadee, Duke's Consort, house-husband, decorative tool. He twisted it once, feeling the metal bite into his skin. A reminder. Chains could be beautiful. Chains could also be broken.
Selfi arrived at the usual hour, tray balanced perfectly, her light-yellow dress crisp as always. "Good morning, Your Grace. Her Grace requests your presence at breakfast in the east solar today. She says the view of the rose gardens will be… inspiring."
Gerffron's stomach tightened. Gorgina rarely joined him for meals unless she wanted something. Or wanted to test him. He accepted the tray—fresh fruit, warm bread, that spiced tea that reminded him faintly of masala chai if you squinted—and forced himself to eat every bite. This new body still felt half-starved no matter how much he fed it. Maybe the original Gerffron had spent weeks refusing food before the terrace jump. Maybe souls carried hunger across worlds.
"Thank you, Selfi. Tell her I'll be there."
The maid hesitated at the door, the first crack in her perfect professionalism all week. "Your Grace… the patrols in the gardens have been doubled. Lady Elowen gave the order last night after you retired." Her eyes flicked to the window, then back to him.
He met her gaze steadily and said nothing.
After she left, he dressed with deliberate care: deep emerald tunic today, the chiffon shoulders flowing like liquid silk, breeches that allowed movement, and soft leather boots perfect for silent steps. He slipped the small dagger into the hidden sheath inside his left boot—another gift from Selfi, wrapped in a plain cloth with no note. Smart woman. She knew without being told.
Before heading to breakfast he spent ten minutes in front of the full-length mirror practicing something the old Deepak had never shown anyone. Martial arts. Not fancy forms or flashy kicks—he had never had money for classes. But after the computer-lab night, after waking up in the hostel with bruises in places no one should ever touch, he had started teaching himself. YouTube videos at 3 a.m., shadow-boxing in empty corridors, learning how to break a wrist grip, how to use momentum against someone bigger. His body back then had been taller, darker, stronger. This one was smaller, paler, and fragile-looking.
But bodies could be trained. Souls remembered.
He moved through the simple sequence he had pieced together—low stance, elbow strike, wrist lock, pivot. The chiffon flowed with him like a weapon. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breathing stayed controlled. When he finished, the mirror showed a boy who still looked breakable… but whose emerald eyes burned with something new. Something dangerous.
Good.
The east solar was bathed in morning light, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the exact section of garden where the hidden gate waited. Gorgina sat at the small round table already, burgundy hair braided with gold threads, wearing a riding jacket over her gown like she might bolt for the border at any second. A sword rested against her chair—always. She looked up when he entered, golden-amber eyes scanning him from head to toe the way a general inspects new armor.
"Gerffron," she said, voice low and rough from early-morning orders. "You're wearing the silk I sent. It suits you."
He bowed the perfect thirty-degree consort bow. "Thank you, Your Grace. The color reminds me of the forests back...home."
Home. The word slipped out before he could catch it. Not India—never say India—but the Cliff estate. She noticed. Of course, she noticed.
"Sit." She poured tea for him herself, an act so intimate it made his skin prickle. "Tell me about those forests. Your letters to your family were… sparse. I read them all."
He froze for half a second. Had she read his letters? The ones the original Gerffron had written before the wedding? He took the cup, letting the heat seep into his fingers while his mind raced.
"They were quiet places," he said carefully, choosing words that could mean anything. "Tall trees, hidden paths. Good for thinking. Good for… surviving."
Gorgina's lips curved—not quite a smile, but close. "Surviving. An interesting choice of words for a duke's consort." She leaned forward, elbows on the table, completely unladylike and somehow regal for it. "You've changed in a week, little husband. The reports from your family painted you as a trembling mouse. Yet here you are, quoting survival like a soldier."
He met her gaze without flinching. "Mice learn quickly when the cat keeps circling."
A real laugh this time—short, surprised, warm enough to make his stomach twist in ways he didn't want to examine. She reached across the table and brushed her thumb along his wrist, right over the pulse point. The touch was electric. Familiar in the worst way. Birsha had grabbed his wrist exactly like that once, right before dragging him into the empty classroom.
"You're not trembling now," she murmured. "I like that."
The moment stretched. Gerffron felt every inch of the silk against his skin, every beat of his heart, every rose-scented breeze drifting through the open windows. Part of him wanted to pull away. Part of him—the part that had died under a truck—wanted to see how far this new game would go. Because this was a game. He could feel it in the way her amber eyes darkened.
Then she pulled back, all business again. "The winter ball is in eighteen days. The Crown Prince Teivel has confirmed attendance. He will expect… entertainment. You will dance with me. You will smile at his jokes. And you will not speak unless spoken to. Understood?"
"Perfectly, Your Grace."
She stood, sword sliding into place at her hip with a soft click. "Good. I have border drills. Try not to wander into restricted areas today. My mother is in a mood."
She left without a goodbye, cape swirling. Gerffron stayed seated until her footsteps faded, then let out a long breath. The wrist she had touched still burned. He rubbed it absently, staring at the garden below. Restricted areas. She knew. They both knew. And yet she hadn't locked him in his rooms. Not yet.
The rest of the morning passed in a haze of lessons. Madam Vesper drilled him on winter-ball protocol—how to accept a dance from royalty, how to refuse without offence, how to hold a fan (even though he was male) so the jewels caught the light just so.
Lunch was solitary again. He ate quickly, then slipped into the library under the pretense of choosing a book for the evening. Instead he spent forty minutes copying diagrams from an old military tactics manual—patrol patterns, blind spots, weak points in the outer wall. He hid the pages inside his ledger, now thick enough that he had started a second volume disguised as a poetry collection.
By late afternoon, Lady Elowen found him in the rose garden.
She appeared between two hedges like a ghost in crimson silk, riding crop tapping her palm. "Still admiring the thorns, consort?"
Gerffron rose and bowed. "They have their own beauty, my lady."
Her eyes narrowed. "Beauty that draws blood if you're careless." She stepped closer, voice dropping to a hiss. "I know you've been feeding something in the old fountain section. The stable boy saw footprints. The kitchen reported missing supplies. If you think my daughter's sudden interest will protect you—"
"I think nothing of the sort," he interrupted softly—first time he had ever cut her off. "I simply enjoy the night air. And the roses."
Lady Elowen's face twisted. For a split second he saw real hatred there—the same hatred Birsha had worn the day he got the scholarship letter. "You little—"
"Mother." Gorgina's voice cut through the garden like a blade. She stood at the entrance, arms crossed, golden eyes cold. "I believe the consort is allowed to walk his own gardens. Unless you have evidence of wrongdoing?"
Lady Elowen recovered instantly, all honey again. "Of course not, darling. Merely… concern for his safety."
Gorgina's gaze flicked to Gerffron. Something unreadable passed between them. "Leave him be."
The older woman swept away without another word. Gorgina remained, studying him. "You're making enemies quickly, little husband."
"Only those who were never friends to begin with."
Another almost-smile. She stepped closer, close enough that he could see the faint scar along her jawline—something the original Gerffron had never noticed. "Walk with me."
They walked the main paths in silence for a while. Then she spoke again. "Teivel will try to provoke you at the ball. He enjoys breaking pretty things. Don't let him."
"I won't."
She stopped under an arch of black roses and turned to face him fully. "You're not what I bought, Gerffron Cliff. The terrified boy on the terrace… he's gone. I find myself curious about who replaced him."
Her hand rose, hovering near his cheek but not quite touching. The air between them crackled. Gerffron's heart hammered—fear and something sharper, something he refused to name. This was the woman who had threatened to chop him into sixty-nine pieces. This was also the woman whose hug had felt like coming home to a nightmare he couldn't escape.
"I replaced him with someone who wants to live," he said quietly.
Gorgina's eyes darkened. For one heartbeat he thought she might kiss him. Instead she dropped her hand and stepped back. "Then live carefully. The ball is not the only danger coming."
She left him standing among the black roses, pulse racing, mind spinning. The resemblance to Birsha was getting harder to dismiss. The way she moved, the way she tested him, the way her voice softened at the edges when she thought he wasn't looking—it was all too familiar. But reincarnation? Impossible. Or was it? He had died and woken up married. Anything was possible now.
That night he waited until the clock struck one before slipping out.
The hidden gate opened silently. He carried a small bundle—bread, cheese, a clean linen strip, and a tiny vial of pain-easing tincture he had bribed a kitchen maid for with one of his gold cufflinks. The barred window was dark.
"Styrmir?"
A rustle. Then the boy's face appeared—pale, gaunt, but eyes bright with something new. Storm-gray, sharp as winter lightning. Even in the dim light Gerffron could see the change. The weeks of food had filled out his cheeks slightly. The exercises had straightened his posture.
"You came." The voice was still hoarse but steady. "I thought maybe Lady Elowen scared you off."
Gerffron passed the bundle through. Their fingers brushed—cold skin against warm. A spark jumped between them, unexpected and electric. He pulled back quickly.
"She tried. But I'm harder to scare these days."
Styrmir ate slowly, savoring every bite like it might be his last. Between swallows he talked—real talk, not just whispers.
"I have been here ever since I can remember. Heck, I don't even know my crime to be sentenced in a dungeon like this. Whenever I tried to ask, they'd..." He let the sentence hang in the air. For more than ten years, he'd been stuck here. He stopped counting days after the first few winters."
Gerffron listened, chest aching. He knew that kind of darkness. The computer lab had lasted one night, and it had nearly broken him. More than ten years…
"I'm getting you out," he said again, fiercer this time. "Words are there that the winter ball shall be held in early winter. Everyone will be distracted, and the roads might be deserted. By that time, I'll be able to map the patrols. There should be an old servant tunnel behind the east stable that leads to the road. If you can walk—"
"I can." Styrmir's gray eyes met his through the bars. "Teach me the exercises again. The leg ones. I want to be ready."
So Gerffron did. He described each movement in detail, demonstrating with his own body on the mossy ground outside. Styrmir copied from inside, slow and pained but determined. Their voices wove together in the dark—soft instructions, quiet corrections, the occasional huff of pained laughter when a muscle protested. Time stretched. The air grew colder. Neither of them wanted to stop.
At one point Styrmir's hand reached through the bars and gripped Gerffron's wrist—the same wrist Gorgina had touched hours earlier. This touch felt different. Warmer. Anchoring.
"Thank you," Styrmir whispered. "No one's ever… no one's ever seen me before. Not really."
Gerffron swallowed hard. "I see you. And I'm not leaving you here."
The moon had moved halfway across the sky when he finally stood to leave. Styrmir pressed something into his palm through the bars—a small, smooth pebble etched with a crude S and another with G.
"So you remember who you're fighting for."
Gerffron closed his fingers around it. "I won't forget."
He made it back to his rooms without incident, but his heart was still racing when he locked the door. He added three new pages to the ledger—Gorgina's warning about Teivel, Lady Elowen's doubled patrols, the exact timing of the stable guards. Then he sat at the window and turned the pebble over and over in his palm.
Silk and steel. That was what his life had become. Beautiful chains on the outside, hidden blades on the inside. Gorgina's interest was growing—dangerous, intoxicating, terrifying. Lady Elowen's hatred was sharpening into something lethal. And Styrmir… Styrmir was becoming the reason he woke up every morning with purpose instead of dread.
He touched the gold ring on his finger, then the dagger in his boot. Two kinds of power. Two kinds of survival.
Tomorrow he would start looking the servant tunnel. Tomorrow he would copy more maps. Tomorrow he would keep playing the perfect consort while sharpening every thorn he could reach.
Because the boy behind the bars had waited ten years.
And Gerffron Wadee—formerly Deepak Sehwal, the boy who had died apologizing—refused to let anyone wait one day longer than necessary.
He slipped the pebble under his pillow and finally slept.
Outside, the black roses swayed in the night wind, thorns glinting like promises.
Inside, the threads of silk and steel tightened.
And somewhere in the dark, a storm was beginning to gather.