Snow fell sideways in fine, sharp grains, carried by the wind like scattered salt across the frozen air. The Viaduct of Thorns stretched before them, a bridge of pale silverstone that shimmered faintly beneath its layer of frost. Along its sides ran thick black lines—obsidian veins forged long ago to keep it strong even in the coldest storm. The bridge groaned now and then, a deep sound that echoed under the caravan's slow and careful steps.
The travelers rode close together. Cloaks were pulled tight around their shoulders. Horses let out nervous breaths that turned to white clouds in the cold. The wind hissed against the mountains that towered on either side, their sharp ridges half hidden beneath heavy snow.
Ahead of them, carved into the side of the mountain like a monument from another age, rose the Gate of the Stag. It was more than a gate. It was a warning, a threshold, and a promise of the strange land beyond. The arch stood tall and broad, made from thick panels of ironwood darkened with age and magic. Symbols in an old script ran along the beams, and steel edges gleamed black as if soaked in ash.
Two towers stood beside it, their shapes narrow and rising, holding lanterns that burned not with fire, but with a cold, blue flame that flickered like something alive. Snow had gathered in every crevice, covering the carved shapes of wolves, warriors, and ancient kings that lined the gate's surface.
Vivianne had seen many cities in her life, from the soft gold of the southern plains to the crowded markets of the desert coast. But nothing had ever looked like this. Her breath caught as she looked up. The towers behind the gate—tall, sharp, and elegant—rose like frozen spires of a dream. There was something beautiful in the way the city did not fight the cold but embraced it.
"This place..." she whispered, not even realizing the words had left her lips. "It's like a kingdom carved from winter."
In front of the group, Red urged his horse forward. His cloak, deep crimson and edged with fur, trailed behind him like a flag. He didn't slow, not even when shapes began to move along the top of the gate.
Figures emerged—guards dressed in ash-gray armor, smooth and thick, the kind made for snow and ice. Their faces were hidden behind metal masks shaped like the snarling faces of wolves. The wind caught the edges of their cloaks, making them flap like wings.
One of the guards raised a hand in salute. Then they bowed to Red in silence. Not a word was spoken.
With a heavy sound of shifting wood and grinding stone, the Gate of the Stag began to open. The hinges creaked like the groan of something waking from a long sleep.
As the gate opened, the city of Vardengrad came into view. It sat inside the mountain valley, a place where the snow never truly melted. The streets ran narrow and high, carved from ice and stone, lined with arches and sharp balconies. Buildings rose up in tight clusters, each one a tower or a hall with narrow windows, domed roofs, and pointed tips. Bridges crossed from cliff to cliff, connecting parts of the city that seemed to hang in the air.
Towers spiraled upward, chasing the pale light of the gray sky. Stairs, carved into the very rock, twisted and stretched from ledge to ledge. Lanterns flickered behind windows made of polished blue glass. The lights were soft, like stars trapped behind frost.
It was cold. But not lifeless. And as the travelers passed under the great arch, stepping into the land known only by whispers and warnings, something shifted in the air. Like the city itself had noticed them.
Down the winding streets of Vardengrad, figures began to gather. Shadows moved behind windows. Footsteps echoed along balconies and stone steps. One by one, the people of the Grand Duchy of Borgia came out of their homes—not in fear, but in silent welcome.
They lined the streets, cloaked in thick wool and heavy furs, standing beneath lanterns that glowed like moonlight. Some looked like ordinary men and women, tall and proud with pale skin and silver eyes.
Others were not so easily described—beastkin with fur-covered arms and ears like wolves; demon-blooded with curling horns, glowing eyes, or skin that shimmered like obsidian or frost. Some had claws, some had fangs, but none of them seemed threatening. They only watched.
Eyes—so many eyes—followed the carriage as it passed. Golden, violet, ice-blue, and burning red eyes. They glowed faintly in the dim light, marking the bloodlines that once warred but now shared this frozen land.
And then, from those cold lips and glowing throats, came the sound—a low, rising hum, like wind howling through the mountains, yet gentle. A song of welcome. Old words in an old tongue. Not for the convoy. Not for the soldiers. But for the woman at its heart.
Vivianne felt it. Every note. Every gaze. Every breath of this strange place pressing against her skin. Her heart stuttered as she clutched the front of her cloak tighter, eyes wide.
"They're welcoming you," said Roxanne, her voice close to her ear, warm against the cold.
Vivianne turned, just slightly, feeling her wife's hand resting lightly on her waist. Her tall frame cast a long shadow across the snow, and her body was engulfed in a warm embrace inside the carriage.
Roxanne had changed over the course of the journey. The wind had chiseled her sharper. The road had made her fiercer. But it wasn't just the winter. Something deeper had settled in her chest. Something old. Something territorial.
Spending nearly a month on the road from the lowlands of Rothschild County to the deep north had forged a new bond between them, one Roxanne had not expected. She had protected Vivianne through snowstorms, sickness, and sleepless nights.
And somewhere between the frozen rivers and mountain passes, her possessiveness had grown. Not out of fear. But love and instinct. She never knew that she could be this possessive over a female omega.
She drew Vivianne closer now, fingers brushing her lower back. "Borgia is your house now," Roxanne said with quiet pride. Her eyes, sharp and storm-dark, swept over the gathered people, then down to the woman in her arms. "And you are their grand duchess now."
Vivianne couldn't answer. Not with words. She didn't have the voice for it yet. Her throat felt tight, and her chest was full. But she nodded and took Roxanne's hand.
The carriage slowed as it crossed through the final archway, its wheels creaking softly over frost-glazed stone. Ahead, the great gates of the Borgia Estate stood open, the snow-slick courtyard bathed in pale light from enchanted lanterns. Shadows danced along the walls, tall and sharp, cast by the flicker of cold-blue flames.
The castle loomed above—half fortress, half palace—carved into the mountain like it had always been there. Spires of stone twisted toward the sky, their pointed tips veiled in mist. Banners bearing the Borgia crest, a silver stag entwined in thorns, fluttered in the wind.
The moment the carriage came to a full stop, silence fell across the courtyard. Not the silence of emptiness, but one thick with expectation.
Then the door opened, and Roxanne de Borgia stepped out first. She wore a long black cloak lined with storm-gray fur, her tall figure still and proud as the wind caught the edge of her hood. Snowflakes clung to her dark lashes, but her eyes were sharp and unwavering. She stood for a moment at the base of the carriage, her hand extended behind her.
From within, Vivianne emerged, her smaller form carefully stepping down into the light. She wore a heavy traveling cloak in deep navy, the fabric soft with velvet and lined with winter silk. Her beautiful silver hair was tied back loosely, a few strands blowing across her cheeks. Though her boots touched Borgia stone for the first time, her hand remained firmly in Roxanne's.
The crowd gathered in the courtyard—servants, retainers, guards, and nobles—stood in quiet reverence. Some bore human faces. Others did not. Horns, fur, glowing eyes, scales, and even faint wings folded beneath cloaks. They were the mixed-blood people of Borgia—descendants of humans, demons, beasts, or all at once.
They had come not just to witness a return; they had come to welcome their new grand duchess. Vivianne's breath caught as she looked around. Every face turned to them. Some eyes were bright with emotion. Others are curious. A few glowed faintly with power.
As Vivianne stepped forward with Roxanne by her side, the gathered crowd parted like snow before flame. The hush in the air was not of fear, but of reverence. Cloaks were lowered, heads bowed. No horns blared. No titles were shouted. Only quiet voices, soft with awe, echoed through the frost-lined courtyard:
"Welcome, Your Grace… the Grand Duchess." The words were spoken not just out of duty, but in true wonder.
The people of Borgia, a mixed blood of human, demonkin, and beastborn—the one who's forgotten and hated in the empire, but the one whose power is also sacred and feared—looked upon Vivianne with wide eyes. Not for her title, but for what she is.
A human, yes. But not an ordinary one. Her eyes shimmered in hues of deep amethyst, soft yet strange, glowing faintly beneath the lantern light. Purple eyes—a rare mark, known across the empire as a sign of one chosen by the spirits. Not inherited. Not trained. Chosen. Her gaze seemed to carry the stillness of the mountain and the quiet of snowfall.
And her hair, long and silver as winter moonlight, brushed lightly against her cloak. The strands caught the cold breeze, glowing pale against the dusk. That color was not from age or dye. It was proof, a visible trace of the deep spiritual bond that lived in her soul. A sign that the old spirits of water, fire, earth, frost, stone, and wind walked beside her.
Some whispered of the stories already, of how the duchess's presence calmed restless beasts, how the snow had melted around her footsteps once, or how a dying tree had bloomed again when she touched it. But now, she simply stood. Quiet. Composed. Regal in the way only those unaware of their own power often are.
Roxanne turned toward her. For a long breath, she said nothing. She simply looked at the woman who had become her wife, her mate, her omega. At the one who now stood beside her, not as a guest, not as a shadow, but as an equal ruler of Borgia. She leaned in, brushing a strand of silver hair behind Vivianne's ear. Then she lowered her head and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"Welcome home, Vivianne," she whispered.