Snow hissed along the windowsills of Ashcombe Hall, a slow, restless whisper that barely masked the tension building inside. Outside, everything looked peaceful, blanketed in white. But inside the courtyard, stillness didn’t stand a chance. Boots dragged across the stone. Metal caught what little light the morning gave. Breath fogged in the cold, curling around stiff shoulders and clenched jaws.
Word of the duel had moved faster than any decree. Nobles packed the terraces, pretending indifference but craning for a better view. Velvet hoods half-hid faces too proud to admit curiosity. Some leaned so far over the balustrade they might’ve fallen in. Even the gardeners had given up the act—shears in hand, eyes fixed on the courtyard where the real pruning would happen.
Vivian stood at the ce
