The morning after the wedding, he brought her to Ravenrow.

A magician from the Magic Tower summoned a gleaming teleportation circle. With one step, Sovia vanished, and the winter-choked cliffs of Ravenrow welcomed them in its gray embrace.

The Ravenrow castle, called Night Tulip, loomed—a stark, monolithic place with spires that pierced the sky. She found it beautiful in its own way. Lonely. Noble.

At first, she tried.

She offered to learn the household records, to understand the land and its people. He declined with a smile.

“You don’t need to do anything, Mer. Just rest. Just be here.”

She tried to paint. To walk the halls. To write letters.

But every attempt faded beneath his quiet worship, his constant gaze, his uncanny silence. The servants obeyed him like clockwork. She was the duchess, but not in command. She was beloved—but never asked what she wanted.

A doll on a high shelf.

Wine became her companion. A crutch, then a necessity.

She often stood by the window, staring at the cliffs beyond, not speaking for hours.

And one day, a year later, her vision blurred and her thoughts swayed, she missed a step on the grand stairwell.

She tumbled.

And the world went dark.

---

She woke with her throat burning.

The velvet canopy above her was unfamiliar. The sheets beneath her were soft but cold, smelling faintly of lilac and something metallic. Her limbs were heavy, as if she'd been buried and dug back out. When she shifted, pain throbbed at the base of her skull.

The room was empty.

Her hand found the brass bell on the nightstand, and she gave it a weak ring. The sound echoed like a question.

Moments later, a servant appeared—an older woman with downcast eyes and perfect posture.

“How may I assist you, madam?” she asked, calm and unreadable.

“I need water,” Mer rasped. “Very thirsty.”

“At once, madam.”

As the servant left, Mer tried to rise. Her legs wobbled like glass stilts. She braced herself against the edge of the bed, catching sight of herself in the mirror.

Pale. Lips bloodless. Her golden hair clung in dry waves around her face. The girl in the glass looked like someone returned from the grave.

When the servant returned, Mer drank the water as if starved for it. The chill ran down her throat like clarity.

“Lord Cecil has requested your presence for lunch, if you are feeling better.”

She paused. “Yes… I’ll join him. Help me prepare.”

---

The dining hall was lined with tall windows veiled in sheer curtains, letting in an overcast light. Cecil sat at the head of the table, posture perfect, eyes downcast. He wore his usual dark attire, blue hair tied neatly back. Yet something about him seemed dimmed. Hollowed.

When Mer entered, he looked up—but did not smile.

She took the seat beside him. For a moment, silence.

Then she reached out, brushing her fingers against the back of his hand.

He flinched, withdrawing.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, brows furrowed.

“I—I’m not used to being touched by you,” he said quietly.

She blinked. “What is this? A new play?” She gave him a crooked smile and leaned in.

And then she kissed him.

His breath caught, startled—but he didn’t pull away. His lips met hers, hesitantly, as if uncertain whether this was real. Around them, the servants politely turned their eyes elsewhere.

When she pulled back, she whispered, “Good boy,” and planted a kiss on his forehead.

She took his hand, kissing his fingers one by one. He watched her—eyes wide, expression unreadable.

“…Are you alright?” he finally asked.

Mer tilted her head, golden locks brushing her shoulder. “I feel sluggish. But I’m fine. Why?”

“You… you fell down the stairs,” he said. “You hit your head. Hard.”

“What?” she frowned. “What stairs?”

“The grand stairwell. Here, in the castle.” His voice was tense, too careful.

She touched the back of her head, finding a tender lump. But no pain anywhere else. No bandages. No bruises. Just the strange emptiness of forgetting.

“The doctor said you may experience hallucinations,” Cecil added, eyes searching hers. “You should rest.”

Mer only smiled.

She touched his cheek, then kissed it. “Don’t worry. I’ll be just fine.”

She looked down at her meal—perfectly plated roast duck and vegetables—but made no move to eat.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Cecil asked gently.

“No,” she said softly. “I’m full.” Her smile was eerie in its calmness. “Just tired.”

She rose, gracefully. “Excuse me. I’ll go back to the room.”

As she left, Cecil noticed something. Her wine glass sat untouched.

He stared at it long after she disappeared down the hall.

---

The Second Night

The moonlight filtered in pale through the Night Tulip’s long corridors, throwing silver over stone and carpet alike. In the master chamber, Mer sat on the edge of the bed, legs swinging slowly, a candle flickering beside her.

“What’s taking him so long?”

She rose, barefoot and quiet, her silk robe whispering against the floor.

Raising her hand, she murmured a soft incantation—words that once would’ve faltered on her tongue now slid out like breath. A soft orb of golden light flared to life beside her, hovering obediently like a firefly.

The hallway dimmed in comparison.

She found the door to his office unlocked. Inside, the fire in the hearth still burned low, casting Cecil’s silhouette in a wash of flame.

He turned sharply. “Mer? Why are you still awake?”

“I’m waiting for you,” she said, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.

Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest. He hesitated before returning the gesture, his arms careful, uncertain.

But when she tilted her head up and kissed him, something inside him gave way.

The kiss deepened quickly—too quickly. Her fingers slid into his hair, pulling him closer, her body rising to meet his with a heat and hunger he hadn’t felt in her since their wedding night. She wrapped herself around him, breathless, needing.

He tried to pull away, but her legs tightened around him, holding him in place.

“Cecil,” she whispered, “I want you…”

His breath caught. For a heartbeat, he searched her eyes—still unsure. Still scared.

Then, he kissed her again.

He lifted her in his arms, carried her to the long sofa near the hearth, and laid her down gently. She smiled up at him, tugging at his robe with eager hands. His mouth found her skin, grazing her collarbone with the rough edge of his stubble.

She giggled. “That tickles…”

Something in him snapped.

His movements turned hungrier, desperate. He bared her, kissed down her body with reverent urgency, unfastened his belt with shaking hands. When he pressed into her—tight, warm, aching—he let out a sound that echoed with something buried too long.

She held his face close, moaning softly as her back arched. The fire roared behind them. Loose parchment scattered from his desk, swept up by the draft and their movement.

Her hands threaded through his hair, her kisses raining over his jaw, his cheeks, his mouth.

When she unraveled beneath him, breathless and trembling, she cried out his name like a vow.

Moments later, he followed—groaning low, face buried in the hollow of her neck. Her legs still held him close, even as they both shook.

Then, her voice broke the silence.

A whisper, barely audible.

“I love you…”

Cecil froze.

His breath still ragged. His heart pounding like war drums.

He didn’t respond.

His arms caged her on either side, but his hands had balled into fists, gripping the cushions as if trying to ground himself. As if afraid he might shatter.

She kissed his cheek again, unaware of the tension vibrating through him.

And he stayed there, suspended between desire and dread.