The silence in the "Miniature Throne Room"—as the servants called Duke Leonard's office—weighed tons. The walls, lined with books on history and politics, had witnessed decisions that declared wars and drew borders, but they had never witnessed a moment like this.
Lilian sat on the velvet chair opposite her father's desk. She did not sit with the shrunken posture of a guilty daughter as the "Old Lilian" used to; instead, she sat with the poise of a statue, her hands clasped calmly in her lap, her green eyes staring into the void, as if seeing something no one else could see.
Across from her, Duke Leonard, the "Old Lion," looked for the first time as though the years had crashed down upon him all at once. The wrinkles around his eyes seemed deeper, and his broad shoulders, which had borne the Kingdom's shield for decades, were weighed down by something heavier than iron: regret.
To his right, Cayden, the eldest brother, paced back and forth like a caged animal. His knuckles turned white then red from the intensity of his grip on his sword hilt, his bloodshot eyes refusing to look at his sister, as if he feared that looking at her would cause his rigid military wall to crumble.
To his left was Cillian, leaning against the bookshelf. He had taken off his glasses to wipe his eyes slowly—a rare gesture that betrayed his internal turmoil more than any scream could.
"Alistair Cloud..." The Duke repeated the name for the tenth time, as if trying to taste the poison before swallowing it. His voice was hoarse, rough, and carried a tremor no one had ever heard before. "You are not speaking of a nobleman from the South, or a wealthy merchant... You are speaking of the Executioner of the North. Of the man who killed your uncle, and who is said to hang the heads of traitors on his castle walls."
Lilian lifted her gaze slowly, her eyes meeting her father's. It wasn't a look of defiance, but one of terrifying emptiness.
"I know who he is, Father. And I know his castle is cold, and his name inspires terror. But I also know he possesses power. Power that this family currently lacks."
"Power?!" Cayden exploded, stopping his pacing to slam his hand on the wooden desk with a force that made the inkwell shudder. "What power are you talking about? We are Everberg! We are the Sword of the Kingdom! Do you think we are so weak that you need to sell yourself to our enemy to protect us? Do you think that I... that I am incapable of protecting you?"
The corner of Cayden's mouth twitched, and his shouting suddenly turned into a broken, painful whisper: "Lilian... are you doing this because I mocked you? Because I said you were a disgrace? Are you trying to punish me by going to the one place I cannot follow you?"
Lilian looked at her eldest brother. In the body's memories, Cayden was always the one who mocked her dresses, her tears, and her love for the Crown Prince. But now, she saw in his eyes the terror of a brother realizing too late that he had pushed his sister to the edge.
"Cayden..." she said, her voice as calm as ice. "You never protected me from the Court's mockery. You never protected me from the looks of disdain. Your sword was always raised against the King's enemies, but it was never once raised to defend your sister's dignity. So no, I am not doing this to punish you. Revenge is an emotion, and I no longer have a surplus of emotions to waste on you."
Cayden took a step back as if she had slapped him. He leaned his back against the wall, covering his face with his hand to hide features twisted in pain.
Here Cillian intervened, his voice calm but trembling: "Lilian, let's put emotions aside. Let's analyze this logically, as you like. Alistair Cloud is not a solution; he is a trap. He agrees to this marriage not out of love for you, but to humiliate us. He will make you a hostage in his icy palace. He will isolate you from us. You will die slowly there, from the cold and loneliness."
Cillian approached her, crouching before her chair. He held her cold hands and looked into her eyes pleadingly: "Don't do this out of spite for the Crown Prince. Eric is not worth ruining your life just to prove a point. If you are angry with us, scream in our faces, smash this office, curse the family history... but do not leave with that monster. Please... I apologize. I apologize for leaving you to face the world alone while I was buried in my books."
The scene was surreal. The three men who had ruled her life with an iron fist, who had always made her feel redundant, were now falling before her like autumn leaves. Duke Leonard rose from behind his desk and walked with a heavy slowness until he stood before her.
He did not kneel—Dukes do not kneel—but he bent down, placed his rough hands on her shoulders, and looked deeply into her eyes. Lilian saw tears gathering in his old gray eyes.
"My daughter..." The word came out strange from his mouth, as if rusty from lack of use. "I know I was a failed father. I saw your mother's weakness in you, so I hated that weakness and tried to kill it with harshness. I thought if I made you hard, your heart wouldn't break as mine did when she died. But I was wrong. I broke you with my own hands."
He squeezed her shoulders, his voice trembling with terrifying sincerity: "Don't go to him. I will annul this agreement. I will declare war if I have to. I will stand before the King and tell him my daughter is not for sale. I will fix everything... just don't look at me with those dead eyes. Go back to being the Lilian who cries and screams... anything is better than this coldness."
For a moment, "Anna" felt Lilian's real heart beating in her chest. A childish desire to throw herself into her father's arms and cry, to say she was scared, that she had made a grave mistake in the Duke's chamber, and that she just wanted to be a child again.
But "Anna" was stronger. She knew that regret does not change reality. She knew that this "sudden love" was merely a reaction to imminent loss, and that it would not protect her from the guillotine awaiting her at the end of the novel if she remained weak.
Lilian gently disentangled her hands from Cillian, slowly removed her father's hands from her shoulders, and stood up. By standing, she seemed to become taller than all of them.
"You are too late..." she said in a faint voice, but it echoed through the room like a death sentence. "Your apologies are beautiful, poetic, and fit for a scene in a tragic play. But reality is not a play. I am no longer that girl who can be fixed with a kind word or a promise of protection."
She walked toward the window and looked down at the carriage bearing the "Wolf" crest waiting in the courtyard below.
"You don't understand... I am not marrying Alistair because I hate you, or because I hate the Crown Prince. I am marrying him because I need power that bows to no one. You are afraid for me because of the monster? Do not worry. The monster does not eat the hand that feeds it."
She turned to face them one last time, painting a sad, cold smile on her lips: "The matter is settled. Duke Alistair is waiting, the King is waiting, and Destiny is waiting. Prepare yourselves, for tonight we will hold a ball no one will forget. Tonight, you will witness the birth of the Duchess of the North."
She left them behind in the office, drowning in a silence resembling death, and went out to face her fate.