On the days that followed, Rowan barely saw the Duke except during dinners. Even then, they exchanged no more than greetings and goodbyes. He seemed so busy—with the dark circles below his even darker eyes prominent—she had not had the chance to ask what he had been up to.
But she could not deny, a large part of her was glad for the lack of attention.
Being around him set her nerves on edge. It would had been easier for her if he was to lose his temper instead of being all smiles while he watched her swallow mouth after mouth of torturous device from across the table.
The Duke is definitely a sadist, Rowan decided as she peeked into the next wooden door down the hallway. Another empty room.
During the day she spent her time roaming each wings, peeking into every unlocked doors. Two wings and over twenty rooms later, she came to the conclusion that the Duke really had too much time on his hands.
The rooms in the Keep ranged from closet small to ballroom large, each different in shapes of rectangle and octagonal but all were either empty or filled to the brim with wooden carvings. Some were animals, some were giant insects and some not polished enough to take forms. They appeared so life-like, with each strands of fur so carefully carved, she thought of them as taxidermy at first. But she should have known life does not exist within the walls of Noxsidus.
Over the course of roaming, the numbers of servants she had met could be listed with fingers on both hands and they were all Nyphilles—their dark hair and blood red eyes not hidden behind any form of disguise. It made her seemed like a fool with layers after layers of gold that suffocated her skin.
The only other living creature within miles of the Keep was probably Alfredo—who happened to treat her as if she was a being of no life magick.
How the dizzying number of rooms were kept clean puzzled her at first but not for long.
Feather dusters, mops, pails—all carved out of wood, were soundlessly cleaning the East Wing on their own. The feather dusters bent at their middle, seemingly intending to sink into a mock curtsy as they filed out after the mops and pails that left droplets of murky water in their wake.
She watched as they marched into the next room and slammed the door behind them with their handles. If the Duke noticed, he did not seem to mind the numerous dark stains that dotted his lush carpets.
By the turn of the week, Rowan realized none of the rumours of the Duke being a soul-reaping monster were true.
Cornelius Darkwoods was just one of the many among aristocrats who withered his days between the walls of his castle. He would either be found reading in his study or carving another statue out of wood in the South Wing. Considering the amount of dead trees in Noxsidus, she doubted he would run out of supplies anytime soon.
Strange maybe, but there was nothing near intriguing about the way he spent his days. To Rowan, he appeared to be an overgrown boy with the status of Magus. Bored with life but too old in age for adventures.
Though among these hallways, one caught her attention. The West Wing. From afar, it seemed to be the only one with walls that crawled entirely with charred wood. The rest of the Keep would appear to have been refurbished in comparison.
But Walter, with his usual timeliness, had caught up with her for dinner before she could venture further that day. “You should not concern yourself with the West Wing, my lady. It is most ancient and its crumbling walls quite unsafe,” he had said, before purposefully leading her away. Sometimes, it made her wonder if the watch he carried with him was a part of him in actuality.
The Duke’s peculiarity did not end with his wooden obsession.
Though they were husband and wife in name, never once had he stayed overnight in her bedchamber. Instead, it was her nemesis of a wolf who had stayed.
She had faintly felt the Duke’s presence by her bed when dawn drew near since the second night of her arrival. With her eyelids slightly parted, she had seen him leave at daybreak. His steps so light, it was as if he was afraid to wake her. Little did he know she had never been a deep sleeper—if she sleeps at all.
She was wary at first. Her hand never left the hilt of the dagger hidden under her feather pillow, afraid that he would end her in her sleep. She stayed awake, waited with hammering heart for him to make his move.
Yet, it never came.
Once, he had caressed her face. She thought he was finally going to choke the breath out of her but he only tucked her deeper into the velvet quilt and left. The thought of being assaulted crossed her mind each time he reached out to her. But in the end, he did nothing and watched her as she sleeps.
He was unlike any of the men she had encountered in her life. He kept his distance in the day and never stay too long at night. For someone who had relentlessly pressed for the princess’s marriage, he was too courteous, laid back even. It was as if he knew who she was but did not expose her only because he had something planned…something crueller than executing her.
Her mind finally caved when it by the seventh dawn of his visit.
Was she not used to the darkness, the thick layer of mist and non-existence sun would have made it impossible to tell the time without a pocket watch.
Her handmaiden gave a weak protest when she sent her away earlier than usual. But Rowan knew she was more than glad for the dismissal. In the first place, she was sent with Rowan only because it would be odd for a princess to be without an escort.
Unlike Anastasia, she did not need help with her dress or her make. She could lace up her corsets with a single hand and braid her wild mane into her wig with her eyes closed. Marie was just for decoration, if not a leash the King tried to put on her.
She was glad that Alfredo had chosen that day to roam the woods. The creature may had stayed with her due to the Duke’s orders but it clearly did not grow to her with time. Day in, day out, it made giving her the cold shoulders and glaring daggers at her its daily entertainment.
If she was to confront the Duke in front of it, her survival rate would be close to none. She alone against a Magus and a wolf the size of a bear? Just the thought of it made her shudder.
In the darkness, she slipped into a nightgown that seemed easiest to move in, took off her satin gloves and climbed into the poster bed. Though she had yet to try her abilities on a Magus, she had no choice. If she could take away his magick the way she could from the Fulgels, she would have the upper hand.
Somehow.
Blade of light spilled in as the doors creaked open at the exact hour it did every day. It cut through the darkness, freezing her blood every inch it grew wider.
The Duke’s expression mirrored hers as he stood in the doorway, a hand stilled in the air. Instead of turning away, he closed the doors and plopped down beside her in three quick strides. With what little interactions they had, she had not realized how fast his legs could eat up the distance until now.
“Did I wake you?” he asked, clearly surprised.
Is this really the beast of Noxsidus? The Duke sounded like a child caught in the mid of his mischiefs, afraid of the reprimands that would soon follow. He looked so vulnerable, so open, his air of a feared Duke non-existence that she was caught off guards—her struggle of battle to death forgotten.
“Would you stay for the night, Your Grace?” she found herself asking instead. Regret was not far from the last of her words. The unsureness of her own voice surprised even herself.
“You should not look at me like that, little one.” The Duke shook his head and sighed, lips parted and closed. There was something he wanted to say, she could see that in his face. But in the end, he only shook his head. “I did not mean to startle you. My apology.”
The Duke was up and off before she could stop him. In quick strides that matched his arrival, he was by the doors again only moments after she blinked. Only two words remained in his absence.
“Sleep well.”
The doors shut with a soft click.
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