The castle gates opened with a groan that echoed through the courtyard. The carriage rolled in, its wheels polished to a shine, the crest of House Viremont gleaming in the midday sun. Servants lined up in stiff rows, heads bowed, hands clasped.
Lady Viremont stepped out first, her heels clicking against the stone like judgment. Her gown was a cascade of emerald silk, her hair pinned in a crown of pearls. Her husband followed, silent as ever, his eyes scanning the castle with mild disapproval.
"Where is the Duke?" she asked, not bothering to greet anyone.
Francis stepped forward, bowing. "His Grace is… currently unavailable."
Lady Viremont's eyes narrowed. "Unavailable? On the eve of his engagement?"
"He's attending to personal matters in town," Francis replied smoothly. "He'll return shortly."
She sniffed. "He'd better."
Her gaze swept the courtyard, landing on the maids carrying bolts of fabric. She strode toward them, her voice sharp. "These are the dresses?"
"Yes, my lady," one of the seamstresses said, trembling slightly. "They were tailored to your specifications."
Lady Viremont snatched a sleeve between two fingers. "This stitching is uneven. And this lace—cheap."
Carmine stepped forward, her hands folded. "We followed the design exactly, my lady."
Lady Viremont turned slowly. "And who are you?"
"Carmine," she said. "I oversaw the final fittings."
Lady Viremont's eyes narrowed. "Then you're responsible for this mess."
Carmine opened her mouth to speak, but the slap came first — sharp, sudden, echoing through the courtyard.
Carmine staggered back, her cheek blooming red.
Francis stepped forward. "Lady Viremont—"
"She should be grateful I didn't dismiss her entirely," she snapped. "Where is Elaine? I want to see the rest of the dresses."
"She's in her chambers," Francis said. "Resting."
Lady Viremont turned on her heel. "Then I'll wake her."
In the dressing wing, Elaine's little cousins had arrived hours earlier — two girls and a boy, all under ten, all dressed in miniature finery. They had been told to behave. They had not.
The red dress — the one Elaine had taken from Carmine — lay draped over a chaise, forgotten in the chaos of preparations. The children found it within minutes.
"Ooh, this one's shiny," said the youngest girl, tugging at the sleeve.
"Is it for the queen?" asked the boy.
"No," said the eldest. "It's for Aunt Elaine. But she never wears red."
They giggled, pulling the dress between them, wrapping it around their shoulders like a cape, dragging it through the halls as they played knights and dragons.
By the time they returned it, the hem was torn, the bodice stretched, and one sleeve missing entirely.
They folded it neatly, placed it back on the chaise, and ran off.
No one saw.
Back in town, Colden wandered the cobbled streets with his coat drawn tight. The sky was overcast, the air heavy with the scent of rain. He passed the bakery, the bookshop, the flower stall — all familiar, all quiet.
He stopped outside the inn.
Inside, Marco was wiping down the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from the kitchen heat.
Colden stepped in.
Marco looked up, surprised. "You're back."
"I had to see you," Colden said.
Marco blinked. "Is everything alright?"
Colden hesitated. "No. But it will be."
He stepped closer, voice low. "I've been running from a lot of things. My name. My duty. My heart."
Marco didn't speak.
Colden reached into his coat, pulled out a single dandelion, and placed it on the counter.
"I don't know what tomorrow holds," he said. "But I know where my heart is."
Marco stared at the flower, then at Colden.
And smiled.