The Lionhart estate library was quiet except for the faint rustle of parchment and the soft hum of candlelight. Duchess Janette sat at the great oak desk, her delicate hands gliding across a thick volume on household accounts. Ink stains marred her fingertips, a testament to hours of labor, though her posture remained perfect, as if decorum could mask the fatigue dragging at her slender frame.
Stacks of ledgers rose around her like fortifications, the tools of her daily war—not with steel and battle, but with orders, numbers, and ceaseless responsibility.
A shadow fell across the page before she even realized he was there.
"Are the estate's records planning a rebellion?" Killian's voice, deep and dry, startled her from her focus.
Janette blinked, flustered, closing the book halfway. "Killian? I did not hear you come in."
"That is because you were drowning yourself in ink." He moved closer, pulling out the chair beside hers. His sudden presence made her heart jolt; it was rare he lingered in her private hours.
"I am… merely ensuring all the accounts are balanced," she said, eyes dropping back to the book to hide the faint warmth coloring her cheeks.
Killian leaned over, scanning the dense lines of script. "You read this for leisure?"
Janette gave a soft laugh, though her voice trembled slightly. "Leisure is hardly the word. If I do not, who else will? A duchess's role is not only to smile at banquets, Killian. You are never here during the day—you would be surprised how easily chaos slips in."
His gaze lingered on her profile, noting the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the reddened tips of her fingers, and the way she straightened a crooked stack of papers as if perfection could stave off exhaustion.
"You take too much upon yourself," he said quietly.
Her lips curved in a polite smile, though it did not reach her eyes. "Someone must."
He tilted his head. "And what am I to do, then? Train and fight while you bury yourself alive in parchment?"
Janette swallowed, masking a flutter of nervousness with a small, dry smile. "You are the Duke. The empire calls for you. I cannot wield a sword, but I can wield a quill. Between us, the household runs."
For a moment, silence stretched. Then, with a flicker of dry humor, Killian murmured, "If you wear yourself to bone, there will be no duchess left to rule with her quill."
Her breath caught at the remark—not quite flirtation, yet something softer than his usual severity. She risked glancing at him and found his eyes fixed on her. Flustered, she lowered her gaze, heart tapping uneasily.
"You exaggerate," she said quietly. "I am hardly wasting away."
"You think I do not see?" His tone deepened. "You rise before the servants, work longer than the stewards, and yet here you sit after nightfall, alone with ledgers. Is that the life you wished for?"
Her lips parted, startled by his perception. He notices?
To distract herself, she busied her hands with closing the book. "It is easier not to think when I am occupied."
Killian leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. "Then I will give you something better to occupy you. Come with me tomorrow. Watch me practice."
Her head snapped up. "Practice?"
"With the sword." A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. "Surely the duchess deserves to see where her husband spends the hours she claims he is absent."
The teasing edge in his voice disarmed her. For once, his words did not sound like duty but invitation. Against her own instinct, she smiled softly. "If it would not trouble you…"
"It would trouble me more if you refused."
Janette bit her lip, glancing down to hide the heat rising in her chest. For the briefest moment, she let herself savor it—this fragile thread of closeness.
The following morning dawned crisp, the air alive with the clang of steel. The training grounds hummed with energy, though for once, Janette stood amidst the staff, her presence a jewel among armor and dust.
"Steady your stance; the sand must be evenly raked," she directed a young servant, observing the careful spreading of fresh layers. Another she guided toward water pitchers and cloths for the knights, her voice carrying calm authority, soft yet impossible to ignore.
The staff exchanged surprised glances. Rarely did they see their Duchess amongst them, issuing commands with precision and dignity.
From across the yard, Killian watched her. She wore no jewels, no gown of state—just a simple, elegant dress that fluttered faintly in the breeze—but the way she moved, commanding without harshness, struck him differently than any courtly beauty in the salons.
"Your duchess seems better suited to command than half the men here," a knight muttered under his breath.
Killian pressed his lips into a faint line—pride, perhaps, though quickly masked.
He stepped closer. "Do you intend to run the grounds as well as the estate?"
Janette turned, caught mid-instruction, a shy smile curving her mouth. "If someone must, then yes."
"Careful," he teased. "The men might prefer your orders over mine."
"Then you should not make me sound so capable," she countered lightly.
Their brief exchange drew amused glances from the staff—rare was the day they saw banter pass so easily between their Duke and Duchess.
Janette moved to inspect the training swords, polishing one until the blade gleamed. Killian noticed her diligence and chuckled softly. "You're at it again, aren't you?"
"I merely wish it perfect for you," she replied, brushing her hand along the handle.
"It is already perfect," he said simply, stepping back to begin his routine. "Sit. Let the servants handle the minor tasks. You are here to watch."
Reluctantly, she seated herself on a bench, folding her hands. For the first time, she allowed herself to simply observe.
Killian's sword sliced through the morning air, each movement fluid, precise, and yet powerful. The sunlight caught his every turn, highlighting strength she rarely saw at home, a disciplined grace that left her breath catching.
"You're staring," Killian remarked suddenly, eyes flicking toward her.
"I am… observing your form," she answered, cheeks warming.
"Careful, Lady Janette. Watch too long and you might think you could take me on."
"I would never claim that," she said lightly, lips twitching.
He smirked faintly, returning to his routine, though every now and then his movements seemed intentionally precise, as if to keep her eyes on him without overt effort.
"Well, well," came a smooth, sharp voice. "The great war hero, showing off for his wife?"
The staff froze; few dared speak so boldly to the Duke.
Zachary Lionhart, black-haired and smirking, strode forward, sword loose at his side. "Or should I say, idol of every love-struck lady in the capital?"
Killian's jaw tightened. "If you seek a spar, you need not dress it in mockery."
"Oh, where's the fun in that?" Zachary replied lightly, eyes flicking toward Janette. "Some truths deserve to be spoken aloud. Not every blade stays sharp forever."
Janette's pulse quickened. She instinctively rose, uncertain how to intervene.
Killian stepped in front of her. "Stay back, Janette."
The spar began, steel ringing like thunder. The brothers' movements were mirrored and opposed—Killian's calculated strength met Zachary's prideful speed. Sparks flew, dust swirled, and servants watched, torn between awe and fear.
Blades nearly collided at Janette's feet. Each strike, parry, and thrust carried years of rivalry, unspoken grievances, and the weight of unacknowledged feelings. Zachary's eyes flicked toward her once, sharp and daring; Killian's retaliatory strikes seemed more forceful with her presence as witness.
The duel escalated rapidly. Every clang of steel seemed louder, sharper, more dangerous. Servants whispered that it was no longer a mere sparring match but a contest with the potential for real injury.
Finally, Janette could bear it no longer. She snatched a spare sword from the rack, stepping firmly between them.
"Enough!" Her voice rang through the yard like a bell.
Both brothers froze, blades poised mid-strike.
"This is not a battlefield. I will not allow this yard to become one. The match is over. Neither wins."
Zachary lowered his blade, smirking faintly, but his eyes lingered on her. Killian sheathed his sword, dark gaze flicking briefly to Janette, unreadable, before turning away.
That evening, the three found themselves at the dinner table—a gathering Janette had arranged to restore civility. The hall glowed with candlelight; silverware gleamed; servants hovered discreetly.
"Tell us, Zachary," Janette ventured, carefully steering conversation, "do you still resist the notion of marriage?"
Zachary chuckled. "Marriage? A tedious trap, unless…" His eyes flicked toward her. "…one could find the right woman."
Janette forced a smile. "…I meant your own prospects, not—" she faltered, the words catching in her throat as his gaze lingered.
Zachary leaned back slightly, swirling his wine in a slow, deliberate motion. "And what of yours, Lady Janette? A duchess bound to the empire's most famed general. Tell me, is married life all the bards claim?"
Her fork paused mid-air, heat rising to her cheeks. Before she could stumble through a reply, Killian's calm, measured voice interjected.
"There are plenty of noble daughters who would suit you. Duke Hilden's child, for instance."
Zachary's smirk faltered, but only briefly. His dark eyes sharpened as they returned to Janette. "None could compare," he said, voice low, smooth, but carrying an unmistakable edge. "No one in this empire surpasses her."
The words struck the hall silent. Servants froze, some staring wide-eyed, others turning quickly to avoid witnessing what felt like an unspoken scandal.
Janette's pulse thundered in her ears. She forced a polite, quick smile. "You flatter me too much. But I am already married—to the best man the empire could offer." She glanced at Killian, her voice softer than intended. "Is that not enough?"
Killian's eyes flicked to her briefly—too briefly—but the subtle shift in his expression was enough to convey both acknowledgment and restraint. His tone, when he finally spoke, was clipped and firm.
"Then look elsewhere. My wife is not yours to covet."
For a long moment, the silence felt heavier than any spoken argument. Zachary leaned back, masking frustration with another carefully measured smirk, though his eyes never left Janette.
Janette lowered her gaze, fingertips brushing the edge of her plate. The warmth in her chest from the morning's teasing exchanges had faded, replaced by a complicated knot of unease. She pushed her food around the plate, the meal tasting faintly like ash despite the rich aroma of roast and spices.
Killian reached for his water but paused mid-movement. She quietly offered her own glass, and for an instant, their eyes met—hers anxious, his calculating.
"I'll have the servants fetch more," he said softly, dismissing her gesture without malice but with an almost guilty hesitation.
Her heart sank, though she forced her composure. Zachary's low, teasing chuckle broke the tension, though it only intensified the weight in her chest.
"How gallant," he drawled. "The great Duke refuses even his wife's water. A war hero, yes, but perhaps not the best husband."
Knives scraped softly against porcelain, and servants stiffened once again, careful not to make a sound. Killian's gaze lifted, cold and sharp, yet he said nothing, returning to his meal in silence.
Janette lowered her eyes, a faint tremor in her hand as she lifted her fork. She swallowed hard, wishing the evening would pass without further disruption, yet knowing the storm between the brothers had not abated. Zachary's presence at every glance reminded her of it—an unspoken contest with Killian and, by extension, with her own position in their lives.
Small talk resumed—politics, estate matters, trivialities—but the underlying tension remained. Every pause, every glance, every inflection carried weight. Even the servants moved as if on eggshells, conscious of the silent war playing out in their midst.
When dessert arrived, Janette attempted to inject lightness into the conversation. "Zachary, surely even a man of your skill has weaknesses. Would you care to reveal one, or shall we all assume you are flawless?"
Zachary chuckled, leaning forward, his dark eyes gleaming. "Weaknesses? Perhaps. But I save them for more… meaningful occasions." He let the words hang in the air, a subtle nudge directed toward her without overstepping.
Killian's gaze, though brief, caught hers. Janette felt the unspoken understanding between them: caution, restraint, and care—all expressed in moments too small to outsiders notice.
The rest of dinner passed with the uneasy rhythm of politeness layered over the undercurrent of rivalry. When the final plates were cleared, Janette rose, carefully smoothing her dress.
"Shall we retire for the evening?" she asked softly, addressing both brothers.
Killian inclined his head, brief and formal. Zachary gave a slow, deliberate nod, the faint smirk lingering but tempered by the evening's events.
As they left the table, Janette's thoughts were a whirlwind. The day had been filled with minor triumphs—Killian's subtle concern, the sparring that revealed hidden tensions, Zachary's teasing—but the weight of their interactions pressed heavily. She had glimpsed the depth of feelings, rivalry, and restraint that governed their lives, and the realization left her both uneasy and strangely exhilarated.
In her chambers later that night, she sank into a chair, exhausted yet reflective. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across the room, and she let herself linger on fleeting thoughts—Killian's teasing, Zachary's daring, and her own small victories in navigating these complicated dynamics.
The estate outside was silent. The walls, sturdy and unyielding, seemed to watch over her, yet even they could not shelter her from the storm of emotions she had witnessed.
For the first time in days, she allowed herself a private smile, fragile but genuine. Small moments, she realized, were enough to carry her forward—hope in the midst of rivalry, light amid tension, and the quiet knowledge that even in restraint, care could be shown.