The days after the pre-winter ball settled over the Wadee villa like a thin layer of frost.
Gerffron moved through them with the same careful precision he had cultivated over the past months. Breakfast at the usual hour. Etiquette drills with Madam Vesper that now felt almost routine. One more small tea at Lady Rozana's residence where he smiled at the right moments, listened more than he spoke, and returned home each evening with another tiny thread added to the growing web in his mind. Count Remal had sent a short note inviting him for private tea "whenever the north wing grows too cold." Baron Acquikth had passed him once in the corridor during a visit and murmured only three words: "The gate waits."
He had not gone yet.
The two pebbles from Styrmir never left their hidden pocket. Sometimes at night he would take them out and hold them until they warmed in his palm, tracing the crude S and G with his thumb. The image of white silk, a gold collar, and laughter in the shadows refused to fade. Styrmir was out there — dressed like a prize, waiting to be auctioned as the crown jewel of the Crown Prince's new slave market. And Gorgina… Gorgina had stood in those same shadows, letting Teivel's hand rest on her waist like it belonged there.
Gerffron had not confronted her. He was not ready. Not yet.
On the sixth night after the ball, Gorgina returned from the eastern border.
She arrived after midnight, riding through the gates on a black horse lathered with sweat. Gerffron was still awake, standing at the window of his room with a glass of spiced wine he had not touched. He watched her dismount, cape swirling around her like dark wings, burgundy hair loose and wild from the ride. Even from a distance she looked every inch the Duke — powerful, untouchable, dangerous.
She came to his room without announcement.
The door opened without a knock. Gorgina stood in the doorway still in her riding leathers, golden-amber eyes reflecting the firelight. She looked tired. Not weak — never weak — but tired in a way he had not seen before.
"You're still awake," she said, voice rough from the cold.
Gerffron turned from the window. "I find sleep difficult these days."
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. For a long moment she simply looked at him — the emerald robe, the mousy brown hair falling over one eye, the blood-red rose still pinned to his chest even at this hour.
"You did well at the pavilion," she said finally. "Teivel commented on how… composed you were."
Gerffron kept his face neutral. "I aim to be useful, Your Grace."
Something flickered in her eyes. She crossed the room slowly until she stood only an arm's length away. The scent of horse, leather, and cold night air clung to her.
"You've changed since the wedding," she murmured. "The boy who stood on that balcony shaking… he's gone. In his place is someone who watches everything. Someone who smiles while he calculates." She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, the touch surprisingly gentle. "I find I don't hate it."
Gerffron's pulse jumped, but he didn't move. The resemblance to Birsha in that moment was almost painful — the same way she used to circle him before delivering the final blow. But there was something else now. Something new. A hunger that felt personal rather than cruel.
Gorgina's hand lingered. "The winter ball is coming. Teivel will be there. He… enjoys testing boundaries. Stay close to me that night."
The words carried weight. A warning. A claim. Perhaps both.
She stepped back before he could reply. "Sleep. You look like you haven't in days."
She left as suddenly as she had come, the door clicking shut behind her. Gerffron stood frozen for a long time after her footsteps faded. The place where her fingers had touched his forehead still burned.
The next afternoon, he accepted Count Remal's invitation.
It was not a full tea party — just the two of them in the Count's private study overlooking the now-bare gardens. A fire crackled in the hearth. Two glasses of mulled wine steamed gently on the table. No servants. No Lady Elowen. Just quiet.
Count Remal waited until they were both seated before speaking.
"I heard you attended the pre-winter gathering at the Crown Prince's pavilion," he said carefully. "How was it?"
Gerffron took a slow sip of wine. "Illuminating."
Remal studied him for a long moment. "You have the look of a man who saw something he wasn't meant to see." He leaned forward slightly. "The Crown Prince's new… venture. The one he calls a 'private collection.' Many of us have heard whispers. Few dare speak them aloud."
Gerffron's fingers tightened around his glass. "A boy," he said quietly. "Rare blood, they said."
Count Remal's face grew grave. "There are rumors the boy was taken from the Wadee dungeons. Some say he was meant to stay hidden forever." He paused. "If you are asking questions about such things, Gerffron… you must be very, very careful. Teivel does not like when people interfere with his toys."
They spoke for nearly two hours. Not plans. Not schemes. Gerffron himself didn't know how they had gotten so close, yet since his face might've played its part of betrayal for his internal storm, he might as well go ahead with it. They conversed with just careful, circling conversation about power, about the dangers of the Crown Prince, about how some consorts had quietly helped people disappear in the past. Remal gave him nothing concrete — but he gave him something more valuable.
Validation that he was not imagining the darkness.
When Gerffron rose to leave, Count Remal pressed a small silver ring into his palm — plain, unremarkable.
"If you ever need to send a message that cannot be traced… wear this to my next gathering. I will know."
"Why are you helping me so much?" He couldn't help but ask.
Count Remal stared at the fire for a long time and then spoke; "I...I don't want you become a doll like me. You have the fire in your eyes Gerffron even if you try your best to hide it. As a fellow house-husband, I am simply helping you to not to become a doll like me."
Gerffron slipped the ring onto his little finger. Another thread. Another crack. Before he left, he threw a sentence behind his shoulders-a valuable advice his mother of past life had given him, when he was still Deepak, crying because he fought with Birsha; "Your fire never dies down. It remains within you, waits for you to either enlarge it with fuel or extinguish it completely."
That night, he sat at his desk and wrote in his hidden ledger for the first time in weeks. Not just observations anymore. The first faint outlines of something that could one day become a plan.
He was still writing when a soft knock came at the door.
Selfi entered carrying a fresh blood-red rose. "Her Grace asked me to bring this to you."
Gerffron accepted the flower. The thorns were sharper than usual.
As Selfi turned to leave, he spoke for the first time in days.
"Selfi."
She paused.
He looked at her steadily. "How long have you been reporting everything I do to the Duke?"
The maid's face remained perfectly blank. "Since the day she married you, Your Grace."
Gerffron nodded once. "I thought so."
He said nothing more.
When the door closed, he placed the new rose beside the two pebbles on his desk. The three objects sat together like silent witnesses — past, present, and the blood price of the future.
Outside, the first snow of the season began to fall softly over the Wadee gardens.
Gerffron touched the silver ring on his little finger, then the dagger hidden in his boot.
The frost had come.
But embers, once lit, were very difficult to put out.