Duke Dickson Lucamor was one of the top-ranked dukes in Decreash. At a tender age his parents died, leaving him to fend for himself.
Dickson quickly rose in favor due to his sharp mind and laudable knowledge in political affairs.
Ragaleon had watched Dickson serve his father for two years before Harris Von Clegane passed away.
When he saw how committed Dickson was to the realms, he made him the head of the states' affairs, which was a huge responsibility.
Dickson is 29 years old, four years older than Ragaleon; he became one of Ragaleon's loyal dukes and found favor in his sight.
Dickson was a busy traveler due to his station, which was overseeing the states' affairs; he was usually away on one trip or the other but always returned to meet his wife, Berth, at home.
Beth was already accustomed to his endless journeys; she was mostly by herself in the big house alone. She whiles away her time, knitting and sewing different dresses.
Today, Marymanda had informed Berth that her husband would be returning at night, and she had made preparations to welcome him.
Again, this huge house she lived in would feel like a home, not some kind of cage.
By the time it was twilight, the dining table was set with different assorted foods.
The food was prepared by Marymanda herself; Berth took more time working on herself. She oiled her skin, then let down her dark hair, allowing her hair to flow down her shoulders.
She wore a blue cotton nightgown; the material was smooth and comfy, and the edges had white laces.
She was now seated in her room; the chamber was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of a brush gliding through silk hair strands.
Oil lamps burned low in their sconces, their golden light flickering across the stone walls and spilling gently over Berth, who was seated before the mirror.
Shadows danced behind her, swaying with the flames.
She sat still, her blue nightgown pooling at her feet.
Her hand moved slowly, almost absently, guiding the brush through her long hair again and again, each stroke smoother, slower, and more deliberate than the last.
In the mirror, her reflection stared back at her, pale, thoughtful, and distant. There was something weary in her gaze, as if she saw beyond her own face.
The brush paused for a moment midway, caught in a tangle. Her fingers reached up, gently freeing the knot, before she began again, steady, patient, endless.
Then she heard it…a voice.
The brush slowed in her hand. For a moment, she thought she had imagined that deep, familiar voice drifting through the quiet hall beyond her chamber door.
But then she heard it again, clearer this time: her husband's voice, calm and steady, acknowledging the greeting of the house help, Marymanda.
Her heart gave a small, startled flutter. He was back.
She set the brush down gently upon the dressing table. The faintest smile threatened to form upon her lips, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty.
Rising from the stool, she smoothed the folds of her gown, her fingers trembling slightly.
Beyond the door came the sound of footsteps, firm and sure, echoing through the corridor.
He was closer now.
The door creaked open, and she quickly raised her gaze, and there he stood—tall, travel-worn, the faint chill of the night clinging to his coat.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke; the distance of his absence hung between them. Then her lips curved into a gentle smile.
"Welcome home," she said softly.
He returned the smile, weary but warm, as he stepped fully into the glow of the chamber.
She moved toward him, unhurried, her steps soundless on the rug. Her hands reached for his coat, brushing lightly against his arm as she helped him slip it off.
"You must be tired," she said, her voice low, almost tender. "Dinner is ready."
He nodded, his eyes following her as she placed the coat aside.
She lingered only a moment longer, then turned toward the doorway. "Freshen up," she added gently.
"I'll be waiting."
She said before disappearing into the shadows.
Downstairs, the dining hall was quiet, lit by a single candelabrum at the center of the long table.
She took her seat, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup absentmindedly as she listened for his footsteps.
The house felt alive again with the warmth of the lamps, and somewhere in her chest, a calm she hadn't felt in a long while.
The faint creak of the floorboards reached her ears; she lifted her head just as he stepped into the dining hall.
He had changed into his nightgown—a simple white robe that draped loosely around his frame, yet did little to hide the muscles beneath it.
The soft glow of the candles danced over him, tracing the lines of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest…
For a moment, she forgot to breathe.
Her eyes lingered just a moment too long before she composed herself and lowered her gaze quickly, her fingers tightening around the edge of the tablecloth.
He said nothing at first; he made his way towards the table, the quiet confidence of his steps echoing softly through the hall.
The scent of his cologne clung faintly in the air around him, comforting and familiar.
"You waited," he murmured, drawing out the chair opposite her, across the table.
She nodded, still avoiding his gaze.
"I said I would."
The soft steps of Marymanda broke the silence as she entered, her head bowed slightly in respect.
She moved with quiet precision, placing more dishes one after another on the table.
The warm aroma of roasted meat and herbs filled the air. The candlelight shimmered over the polished cutlery.
Dickson sat back slightly, his eyes not on the food but on her.
There was something different about her tonight, a stillness, a grace that seemed unspoken yet commanding.
The calm way she sat, the soft tilt of her head, the measured way her fingers moved as she adjusted the napkin on her lap, everything—everything about her seemed effortlessly composed, almost feline in her quiet allure.
His gaze lingered longer than he intended, tracing her profile as though trying to memorize every detail he had missed during his absence.
Berth knew he was staring; she could feel it like a soft weight pressing against her thoughts, but she did not look up.
Instead, she kept her attention on Marymanda, who now leaned forward to serve her portion.
After serving couples their meal, the househelp retreated into the dimness; her duty was done.
Only then did Berth lift her fork, her lashes still lowered.
For a while, the only sounds were the faint clatter of cutlery and the whisper of the night breeze seeping through the tall windows, until,
"So…"
Berth paused, almost hesitantly; she set her fork down and lifted her gaze.
"How was your journey?" she asked at last, her tone even, almost courteous, the tone one might use with a guest rather than a husband.
Dickson looked up, surprised. It wasn't the question itself that startled him, but the fact that she had asked it. It was the first time in months she had spoken to him without the weight of silence between them.
"It was long," he replied slowly, studying her face. "But… it feels good to be home."
She gave a small nod, her expression unreadable.
"That's good," she murmured, then reached for her wine, her eyes dropping back to the table as though the conversation had already run its course.
He kept looking at her, the way her lashes lowered, the stillness of her posture, and the faint restraint in her every movement. She was here beside him, yet far away.
He could sense the wall between them, invisible yet solid.
The silence returned, softer this time, almost resigned.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked, her voice quiet but steady.
He froze mid-motion, the wine cup halfway to his lips. For a moment, he said nothing, just stared at the dark liquid as though it held the right words.
Then he set it down gently, the soft clink of the cup echoing in the silence between them.
"You don't have to do this," he said finally, his tone calm, almost weary. "Force yourself to care."
Her jaw tightened. She looked away, a faint sigh escaping her lips as she dropped her cutlery onto the table. The sound was sharp.
"At least I try," she said, her voice breaking through the stillness, low at first, then rising with emotion she hadn't meant to show.
"You just sit there like some statue. You showed up after several days of embarking on a journey, and you don't even bother to ask how I have been or ask if I might need anything…."
She paused, a bit breathless; she was surprised by her own outburst.
There was a flicker of something in her eyes now, a desperate kind of hurt. The kind that comes from loneliness left to fester too long.
He stared at her, startled. It wasn't often she raised her voice, and never before at him.
He opened his mouth to speak but stopped, unsure of what to say.
When Berth saw that she had allowed her emotions to get the best of her, she felt a certain sense of embarrassment.
"I apologize for my lack of manners; I shouldn't have raised my voice."
She said, wiping her mouth with a napkin as she rose to her feet, the chair grazing the floor as it was pushed backwards.
Dickson looked up at her, his gaze steady but unreadable, then his eyes trailed to the plate before her. Most of the food remained untouched.
"You are yet to finish your food," he said, his tone calm but carrying a quiet authority.
"I am full," she said, forcing the words out quickly, her eyes darting away. It wasn't true, but she needed to leave before her voice betrayed her further.
He didn't argue. He only leaned back in his chair as he studied her. He could tell she was angry, not just about dinner, not even about him, but about everything that had quietly built up between them.
"I will be in the room if you need anything," she said finally, her tone clipped, polite, and final.
She turned away before he could answer.
The soft rustle of her gown trailed behind her as she left the hall, her steps fading into the corridors.
He sat there for a long while after, staring at her half-eaten meal, before sighing; he settled the fork in his hand on the table; he had just lost all his appetite.
Dinner was ruined.