"You're truly cruel."
Her voice wavered, thick with the taste of bitterness. But even as tears welled in her eyes, he stood still unshaken, like frost that refused to melt.
"If that's how you feel, then you shouldn't have agreed to this marriage in the first place..."
The words broke from her like something long-held finally snapping under pressure.
He should have walked away from the start—instead, he let her play the fool.
A cold, sardonic smile flickered across his face.
"Could I have refused? This marriage benefits us both, doesn't it?"
His words rang hollow, distant, like echoes from a place where warmth no longer lived.
"Benefits?" she gave a small, broken laugh. "And what exactly did I gain, may I ask, Your Grace?
A title without meaning? No power. No affection. Not even basic respect… and you call that a benefit?"
"Wasn't your purpose to protect Her Majesty's throne?" he replied, lips curling into something close to scorn. "I've played my part, loyal and dutiful to your beloved sister. Do I need to do more?"
Her fists clenched tight, fingernails biting into skin.
In the end, all that bound them were politics and pretense.
Nothing more… and nothing less.
She bit her lip, as if trying to hold back the storm rising inside her.
"I just want to know…"
A whisper, barely a breath.
Perhaps this would be the last thing she'd ever ask of him..
"Please, just this once—have you ever cared for me? Even a little?"
He scoffed. "Feelings? Such things are far too extravagant for someone like me, my dear wife."
And just like that, he left without a backward glance, like her presence had been no more than shadow.
Every last hope shattered with her heart.
Splintered.
Broken.
Beyond saving.
"So that's who you are after all, Dorian Valemont..."
"...nothing more than a cold-hearted man."
A tear slipped down, as quiet as the ache growing where her hope used to be.
Rosalind suddenly opened her eyes.
Warm tears clung to her lashes, trailing slowly down her cheeks.
But she wasn't standing in that hall anymore. She was lying in her own bed, the silence so thick it pressed against her ribs.
The shadows on the walls hadn't moved.
She didn't know how long she had been crying—only that her body ached from it.
When at last the tears dried, she stirred. Just a quiet shift beneath the sheets.
Slowly, she sat up, arms wrapping around her own frame, as though she could cradle the last remnants of warmth still lingering from the dream—or from before the dream.
It was just a dream, she told herself. Only a dream.
And yet, it clung to her with claws made of ice.
So cruel it clung like cold.
Every word he had said still echoed in her ears.
Every glance, every wound left behind in that illusion felt all too real.
There had been no light in that world.
Only solitude.
Only helplessness.
And something colder than winter's breath—it had seeped beneath her skin, nested in her bones.
She shivered.
What if...
What if Dorian truly became that man?
What if that future wasn't just a dream, but a warning?
Then she, too, would be left behind. Buried in silence.
Eaten away by darkness, day after day, until there was nothing left of her but a name.
How unbearable that thought was.
And in that moment, Rosalind understood—
The tenderness Dorian had offered her was fleeting.
Fragile.
And if she lost even that last, delicate piece of him…
What would be left of her?
Rosalind had been lying awake for a while, long after the remnants of her dream had faded into silence. Sleep no longer found her, only a lingering heaviness that pressed against her chest. The room felt stifling—too still, too tight, as if it could no longer hold the weight of her thoughts.
The dream had long vanished, but its weight lingered like a shadow she couldn't shake.
At last, she rose, throwing on a thin cloak with quiet resolve. If she could not rest, then at least she would walk. The endless corridors of Everfrost were still veiled in silence. The servants were fast asleep, and the only sound that stirred was the soft echo of her footsteps upon stone, stretching out like ripples through the still air.
Outside, the early morning air filled her lungs like cool spring water. The trees were heavy with dew, their bowed branches still dripping after a long, damp night. Droplets slid from the leaves and landed with gentle taps on the earth, mingling with birdsong in a delicate melody that quietly welcomed the new day.
As she passed the eastern wing of the castle, Rosalind came to a stop. She lifted her gaze toward a high window still shrouded in darkness.
Dorian's room.
Unbidden, the memory of the rose and the hastily scrawled note returned to her. She remembered his eyes last night, so hollow they had chilled her to the bone. In the end, he could sleep peacefully, while she had tossed and turned until exhaustion wore her thin.
She let out a soft laugh, unsure if it was bitter or merely weary. Then she turned and walked on, toward the forest in the west—the one where, as the servants had once whispered, a great garden and a lake lay hidden.
A mist-covered path led her through the thinning trees, which gave way to an open space where a vast lake lay still and silent, like a mirror of glass. The ice had not yet fully melted—silvery streaks stretched across its surface like cuts on skin too long left untouched.
She drew in a deep breath, letting the cold air soothe the burning in her chest, the fire that had been quietly smoldering all night. Her steps were light on the damp grass as she followed the narrow path around the lake, aimless, as though walking were the only thing keeping her tethered to existence.
She didn't know how long she had been walking when a familiar silhouette came into view.
Dorian.
He stood there as if lost in a moment suspended from the world. A white shirt clung to him lightly, with a black coat thrown loosely over his shoulders. His usually neat silver hair was tousled by the breeze, strands catching the morning air. Though he wasn't looking at her, the pale blue of his eyes held a loneliness so deep it mirrored the ice that still lingered on the lake.
Rosalind froze. A part of her wanted to move toward him. But her steps faltered. In the end, she turned away, intending to take a different path.
"Rosi?"
His voice was low and hoarse, like he'd just woken up, perhaps he had been standing there for some time.
She stopped. Then slowly, she turned back.
His gaze met hers, startled for a brief moment, then softening into something gentler. There was something in his eyes that looked like… relief.
"Your Grace," she said softly, her tone calm, but distant.
He stilled for a second, there it was again. She no longer called his name.
"Forgive me, I didn't think anyone else would be here."
"You… you're not disturbing me," he replied.
She simply nodded, saying nothing more, her eyes avoiding his.
"…Have you… been feeling better?"
"Yes," she answered, eyes still on the lake. "Perhaps it was the wine last night. My stomach hasn't quite settled. Still… thank you for your concern."
She said nothing of the rose. Nothing of his note. As if both had evaporated with the morning mist, leaving no trace behind.
Rosalind, who once spoke his name with such quiet sincerity—now looked at him as if he were a stranger.
Dorian remained silent. He had never been good with gentle words, but the coldness in her eyes stung. Not because of her, but because of himself.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
There were words. Regrets. Apologies.
But he had spent too long pretending not to care. Now the silence was the only thing that obeyed him.
"If you're feeling well enough... would you stay with me a little longer?"
No words came. Only a small nod that spoke volumes.
She didn't wish to stay, not truly. But since they had already met here, she couldn't bring herself to walk away like a coward.
So near she could feel his breath, yet he might as well have been a star fading out of reach.
In the east, the sky began to pale with the coming dawn. Sunlight broke gently across the lake, scattering across the surface like a hundred shards of mirrored glass.
"I'm sorry... I was wrong, Rosi."
His voice was low and steady.
He hadn't expected an apology to ease the distance between them, but still—something heavy lifted from within.
At least he had said it... to her.
Rosalind looked up, startled, her gaze meeting his—a gaze of deep, quiet blue, unexpectedly soft.
Dorian Valemont… had apologized to her.
Her breath caught slightly, as though her heart had skipped a beat.
He turned to face her fully, and a faint smile played at the corner of his lips. The way she looked at him now, it was as though she were seeing something she never thought possible.
Perhaps even he, had he heard himself say such words, would've thought he'd gone mad.
But it didn't matter. Because he knew, if he didn't take that step forward, he would never reach her heart.
"Don't look at me like that."
He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
The gentle gesture made Rosalind flinch, stepping back instinctively.
But in that moment, his hands caught hers, firm, unwavering.
As if afraid... she might vanish.