By the time the first light of dawn broke over the capital, the entire kingdom had already heard the news.
Lord Auren de Noir and Lady Seraphine Meranth were to be wed.
The announcement struck the realm like thunder. Even the King — who prided himself on knowing every secret whispered within his walls — had not expected Auren to move so swiftly.
Within hours, rumors spread across noble courts and taverns alike. Some called it a desperate alliance, others a masterstroke of strategy.
But Auren cared for neither praise nor judgment. The decision was made.
The wedding would take place at Noir Castle, two and a half months from now.
It was barely enough time to return to the Noir Estate and prepare — but he would make it work.
After a brief and formal farewell to the King, Auren departed the capital at first light. His carriage rolled beyond the city gates, followed by his knights, the banners of House Noir trailing behind like torn shadows in the wind.
He had no time to waste.
For what was coming… would not wait for him.
Return to Noir
The journey back to Noir Estate was quieter than the one that had taken him to the capital.
No songs from his knights, no idle talk — only the rhythm of hooves and the weight of Auren's thoughts.
When the black banners of House Noir appeared through the fog, the sun was already setting.
The estate looked the same as when he had left, yet something in the air felt different — colder, heavier, as though the light no longer reached it.
His children were waiting in the courtyard.
Darien stood tall beside Isolde and Valen, their faces brightening at the sight of their father's return.
But Auren's expression was distant — sharp as drawn steel.
He dismounted and spoke without ceremony.
"Prepare the estate. In fifteen days, a wedding will be held — mine, with Lady Seraphine Meranth."
Silence fell.
Isolde's lips parted in disbelief; Darien's brow furrowed, struggling to contain his anger; and Valen — though still young — felt an unfamiliar pain strike deep inside his chest.
"Fifteen days?" Isolde finally asked, her voice barely steady.
Auren cut her off.
"There is no time for questions. Every servant, every knight, every hand will work for this. The future of our House depends on it."
He turned toward the manor, his cloak brushing the stone as he walked.
"Do not disappoint me."
And with that, the great doors of the Noir estate closed behind him — leaving only silence, and the cold wind that carried his words away.
Valen could not believe what he had heard.
His father's remarriage — announced without warning — felt like a betrayal carved into stone. For days he spoke little, wandering the halls of Noir Castle in silence.
Darien tried to reason with him.
"Father doesn't do this for himself, Valen. You know him better than that. The estate needs strength — gold, soldiers, allies."
Isolde added softly,
"And if this is the price to keep our people safe, then… perhaps it's one we must accept."
But Valen said nothing.
He understood their words, but he could not feel them. The thought of another woman taking their mother's place made the air taste bitter.
Fifteen days passed.
The castle was dressed in banners and roses, but beneath the surface, the halls felt hollow. The servants worked quietly, afraid to speak too loudly, and even the knights' laughter had vanished.
Then, one morning, Lady Seraphine Meranth arrived.
A column of white carriages rolled through the main gates, their wheels gleaming in the pale light. All of Noir gathered in the courtyard — nobles, knights, servants, and the Lord's children.
Seraphine stepped down from her carriage with the elegance of a queen.
Her silver hair shimmered like frost, and her eyes — sharp, almost colorless — swept over the crowd without warmth.
Even in mourning black, she looked untouchable, distant from everything she saw.
Auren came forward to greet her.
"Welcome to Noir Castle, Lady Seraphine."
"It is colder than I expected," she replied calmly, her voice smooth as glass.
Behind him, Valen's jaw tightened. Darien placed a hand on his shoulder, a quiet reminder to stay composed.
Isolde, ever graceful, bowed her head in respect.
The drums of welcome rolled once, echoing across the courtyard.
But the sound that followed was not joy — it was silence.
An uneasy silence, like the moment before a storm.
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