Reichardt had been silent for days, but lately, silence itself had begun to feel haunted. The calm mask of a duke—composed, rational, measured—was slowly cracking beneath the weight of emotions that were not his own. Emotions that pulsed with a voice, a memory, a longing that didn't belong to Reichardt Razalo.
When he caught sight of Ahce across the courtyard that morning, standing in the golden wash of the sun, the ache inside his chest surged—sharp and familiar, almost unbearable. Her name slipped past his lips in a whisper that wasn't his own.
Ahce.
He froze. It was Richard's voice, echoing faintly within his mind.
That night, unable to bear it anymore, Reichardt went to her chambers. She was reviewing reports from her investigators, her usual sharp composure barely hiding the exhaustion beneath her eyes. When she noticed him, she looked up in surprise.
"Reichardt?"
