Chapter 1 — The Betrothal Decided
Spring had arrived in the County of Montclair. At least, that was what everyone said. The maids hurried in endless circles, carrying piles of tasks in their arms. Mornings were always frantic. They opened the windows of my bedroom, allowing the sweet scent of flowers to flood the air. I inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to steady myself.
What had just happened?
It had to be a nightmare. But… it had felt so real. Who was the man I had been crying for? A strange sensation stirred within me at the thought, as if I would see him… again.
Suddenly, a shiver ran through my body. It was not an ordinary chill, the kind that fades once you warm yourself. No. This cold began in my chest, deep and piercing, as though it could freeze my heart.
For a second, I remembered something from that supposed dream. I sat at the edge of the bed, staring at my hands. They looked so… small. I rotated my wrists a few times, as if expecting them to grow by magic. Then I rose and walked toward the large mirror at the center of the room.
My body froze.
Eight years old? Was I truly that small?
I looked at my long brown hair cascading over my shoulders and my intense emerald-green eyes—eyes capable of holding anyone's gaze. Yet, for some reason, everything felt… wrong.
"This can't be real…" I murmured.
But a voice deep within my soul insisted: this is real. As though it were something I already knew, even if it felt impossible. This was no ordinary dream. Dreams shift in shape and logic. This felt far too solid to be imagination.
The door opened without warning.
"Miss Arianna, Count Edwin awaits you," the maid announced.
She looked at me as if I were an intruder, a misplaced creature who did not belong. I nodded and followed her silently through the palace corridors.
The cold marble beneath my feet did not bother me. It felt almost… familiar. I knew where to turn before looking. I knew which floorboards creaked faintly. I knew where the echo changed its tone. As if I had walked those halls countless times. More times than I should have.
A persistent sense that something was wrong followed me.
At last, I arrived at the main hall. Count Edwin—my father—stood there, impeccable and distant as always. Not even the faintest hint of a smile touched his face. He turned toward me and studied me for a moment, as though weighing something in his mind.
"Arianna," he said flatly, without affection. "Your sister has been excelling in her lessons. Lily has devoted herself to extracurricular pursuits and has charmed many nobles at imperial events and balls with her etiquette. I believe she will soon find a suitor worthy of her. Why not take her as an example and begin your own preparations?"
My jaw tightened. Lily. Always Lily.
My older sister was everything expected of a noble daughter: gentle, graceful, perfect for brightly lit ballrooms. The count's golden goose.
I remained silent for a moment, then lifted my chin.
"Perhaps Lily should also be informed about the affairs of the county. Besides, don't you think it's too early for me to be thinking about marriage?"
The silence that followed was heavy.
"County matters are not appropriate for someone your age."
"Then perhaps I am not as childish as you believe."
The words left my mouth before I could stop them. His eyes studied me—not with anger, but with curiosity. That unsettled me more than any reprimand.
"Your tongue will still become a problem, Arianna."
"Or it may prove useful. More useful than Lily."
I do not know why I said that. It came naturally, without thought. But deep down, I understood.
They were not shaping me to shine in ballrooms like my sister. They were preparing me for something greater… or more dangerous. It was not as though the count did not crave more power. His daughters were merely pieces in his game.
That night, after our long conversation, I dreamed again.
Snow. White. Silent. Endless.
A strange presence stood beside me—almost unsettling. I could not see his face, but I heard a familiar voice, low and weary, like a slow sigh:
"Ari."
I woke abruptly, tears streaming down my face. Just like the night before… and the one before that. Every day, that voice seemed to call me toward a deep abyss. That nickname irritated me… but it also… hurt.
The years passed quickly.
Each day in that house felt like a quiet hell. I tried to escape once or twice. But it was as if my fate had already been written, because whenever I was close, something would happen. And my beloved sister was often the cause. She followed me like a spy, searching for mistakes to report.
And so my life went on.
At ten, I began overhearing conversations behind closed doors.
At twelve, I understood agreements and disputes better than many adults.
At fourteen, I heard the name Blackmoor spoken carefully for the first time.
Each time I heard it, I felt cold—and an inexplicable tightness in my chest.
Lily blossomed. She received praise, invitations, flowers. Marriage proposals arrived. But none of it satisfied our father's thirst for power. He wanted more and more, and even the golden goose seemed exhausted from trying to meet his endless expectations.
As for me, I received assessing glances, books, maps, and silence. The nobles saw me more as a political piece than a lady.
The complete opposite of my sister.
In the spring of my sixteenth birthday, Count Edwin summoned me once again to the main hall—the same hall from eight years ago, where we had first spoken about my future. A conversation that had sealed my fate, declaring that I would only be free once he obtained what he desired most: power.
And I already knew what it meant when he used that formal, decisive tone.
"It is time, Arianna."
My heart did not race. There was no surprise. I had expected this. I was "in the bloom of youth."
Only that strange sensation haunted me… as if I had lived this moment before.
"Your betrothal has been decided, my daughter. After considering the best options and receiving several proposals, we have found the ideal match for you."
I drew a slow breath. "To whom?"
He held my gaze.
"To the Duke of the North. Isken Arkwyn Blackmoor."
The name echoed inside me. My stomach twisted.
Blackmoor.
The merciless Duke of the North. The man people feared with a single glance.
And for the first time since I awoke at eight years old… I understood.
The cold was not about winter.
It was about him.