*Clack. Clack.*
Her slow, deliberate steps echoed throughout the grand hall, plunging the lively banquet into icy silence.
The guests, who had been conversing animatedly only moments before, and even the man seated at the head of the table, turned stern, cutting glances toward her.
But ignoring them all, Juliet smiled—cheeky, defiant.
"Sorry. I'm late."
All eyes fixed on her dazzling appearance. Some whispered, pointing at the old scars visible on her exposed back—the ones she always took such care to conceal.
But now, it didn't matter anymore.
She glanced quickly around the hall and did not see the woman who lived in the infamous eastern tower.
*She probably decided not to come. Apparently, she's too protective of her place.*
Juliet's chest suddenly felt lighter.
The smile on her lips was forced, brittle—but she tried her best to look cheerful.
She brushed off contempt and ridicule with ease, laughing carelessly at caustic jokes laced with double meanings.
Winning the guests' shallow sympathy turned out to be simple: she did not refuse wine or invitations to dance.
"I never thought you were so lively," someone remarked.
"If I'd known earlier, the evenings would have been far more entertaining," another added.
She could clearly hear the laughter and gossip swirling behind her back.
But she didn't care.
The Duke remained silent.
He didn't say a word. Didn't look at her. But Juliet felt—bone-deep certainty—that if she met his gaze, he could kill her with the cold shadow in his eyes alone.
She kept thinking about what she would say to him after the ball.
*How to start the conversation? How to break the ice?*
While Juliet was lost in thought, someone suggested she make a toast.
She hesitated. She had never done this before. But those around her encouraged her enthusiastically.
"Just make a wish when His Grace sets down his glass."
"It's not difficult at all."
And so their eyes met for the first time since the beginning of the evening.
He—maintaining his icy, unreadable expression—silently handed her a silver goblet filled with wine.
Juliet took it hesitantly.
And froze.
The inside of the cup, where it touched the scarlet liquid, had turned ***black***.
For a moment, everything went dark.
She looked up in confusion—and was met with a cold, implacable gaze.
*Oh.*
*Now it's clear.*
*Could there be a clearer message?*
*He wants me dead.*
She lowered her head in shock, and a single tear fell into the cup, rippling the poisoned wine.
Just moments ago, she had been wondering what to say to him...
*Now it seemed stupid.*
She could have dropped the cup on purpose. Or simply fled the hall.
But... she didn't want to.
She raised her head.
At that moment, it felt as though only the two of them remained in the noisy, crowded hall.
Deep down, she had still hoped to talk to him.
*Not to reproach. Not to demand. Not to blame him for the loss of the child. Just to ask him to let her go.*
*But it seemed he had other plans.*
*"Even if I die, let it happen here."*
No matter how hard she tried to understand his anger, it felt excessive—suffocating, absolute.
*And yet... shouldn't she be angry?*
But the anger did not come.
The thought of dying right now suddenly didn't seem so terrible.
She was tired.
*Tired of the constant accusations, the harsh words, the endless pain. Staying with him was unbearable. But leaving seemed just as much torture.*
After all, it was this man who had pulled her from the abyss once upon a time.
*Maybe dying at his hands wouldn't be so terrible.*
Having made her decision, Juliet smiled faintly and raised the goblet.
"Thank you for everything, Your Grace."
Whether it was a toast or a farewell no longer mattered.
Looking into his eyes, she slowly raised the cup to her lips.
The sweet, scarlet liquid slid down her throat.
*I hope it won't hurt too much.*
This was her last thought.
The silver cup fell from her weakened fingers, clattering against the marble floor.
Everything blurred. At the last moment, she saw the Duke rushing toward her—his face twisted in terror.
---
## — A Gift from the Past —
"Miss Juliet."
In the quiet of the drawing room, Juliet raised her head abruptly.
"Sir Milan?"
"Are you free?"
Milan, the vice-commander of the Duke's knights, stood before her. He smiled awkwardly.
Ever since they had returned from the ruins of the abandoned temple, the entire household had been wary of her.
The knights had overheard the conversation between her and the Duke—but they could not understand it.
"Of course. Come in."
"I came to give you something."
Looking around the empty reception room, Milan withdrew a small package from his pocket.
"I hope you will accept this."
Juliet took the parcel, wrapped in thin paper and tied with rough twine.
"It was meant to be a gift for your last birthday."
"Birthday?" she repeated, puzzled.
"His Grace asked me what he should give you. I suggested this." Milan grinned sheepishly. "But he refused."
"And now you think I should have it?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"See for yourself."
Under his watchful gaze, Juliet hesitantly unwrapped the paper.
Inside was a small canvas—palm-sized, clearly repainted from an older sketch for preservation.
A portrait of a boy.
Juliet's eyes widened.
"Gods..."
She recognized him instantly.
*Seven years old? Eight? It was difficult to pinpoint the exact age.*
Snow-white cheeks still soft with childish plumpness. Sharply defined features that promised future beauty. Even as a child, his appearance was strikingly expressive.
And yet—the stubbornly furrowed brows, the defiant scowl—created an achingly familiar impression, as though time had no power to erase this character.
In the portrait, the child glared as though genuinely furious with the artist. His gaze was full of challenge.
"It was found when they cleared out old furniture from the mansion," Milan explained with some excitement. He said the portrait, capturing Lennox's childhood, was a true rarity.
Juliet knew this. In both her lives, she had never seen this painting.
"Can... can I keep it?" she asked quietly.
"Even if I gave it to His Grace, he'd only tell me to throw it away," Milan shrugged.
Juliet nodded silently, continuing to gaze at the portrait.
Suddenly, as if remembering something, she asked:
"Sir Milan... may I ask you a question?"
"Of course, my lady."
"Has your family served the ducal house for long?"
"Since the very beginning," he replied proudly. "We have been loyal to the House of Carlisle for many generations."
Lennox Carlisle was known for choosing people not by birth, but by ability. Few northern nobles remained in his inner circle. His chief secretary, Elliot, was a commoner. Hadin, his most trusted advisor, came from a family of immigrants.
Against this backdrop, Milan—second-in-command of the Duke's knights—was one of the few "pure-blooded" northerners. And rightfully so. Most of the ancient families had either supported the wrong heir, proved weak, and were eventually relegated to minor roles—or disappeared altogether.
"I often visited the estate with my father when I was a boy," Milan added.
"So... you remember His Grace's childhood?"
"Of course. I saw the young Duke many times," Milan replied with a nostalgic smile. "I was even his fencing partner. Ah, those were glorious times... we beat each other about equally."
Juliet smiled faintly. Milan was four years older than Lennox—meaning when they trained together, the Duke had been about nine and Milan twelve. Her imagination easily conjured the scene: two boys with wooden swords dueling on the training grounds.
But that wasn't what interested her.
"Sir Milan... do you remember the servants who worked on the estate back then?"
"Not all of them. But those who served for a long time, yes."
Juliet carefully led him toward the main topic.
"Do you remember... a couple named Fran?"
"Sorry?"
She decided to approach the matter from a different angle. If finding Dahlia in the present was impossible, it was worth trying to dig into her past. Starting with her parents.
"They say Madame Fran was His Grace's nurse. And her husband was a trusted servant."
"Ah! Yes, I remember now." Milan nodded—but his face immediately hardened. "That couple took advantage of the chaos to escape... taking with them a family heirloom. A tiara. Just think..."
Milan clenched his jaw, barely containing his anger.
*A tiara.*
Encrusted with precious stones, it was an ancient Carlisle heirloom. Lennox had searched for it for years without success.
In her past life, Juliet had never seen this legendary tiara. She only knew that Dahlia—the daughter of the escaped Frans—had once appeared, and the treasure had supposedly been returned.
Realizing he had said too much, Milan quickly changed his tone.
"Forgive me... please do not mention to His Grace that I spoke of this."
"Of course. And if possible, I'd appreciate it if you also... didn't mention our conversation."
"If the Duke finds out, he probably won't like it," Milan said with a slight, half-joking grin. Though there was truth beneath the jest.
"Do you want to know anything else?"
"Do you... know where the Frans are now?"
"His Grace has been searching for them for years. I don't know how it ended. Perhaps the Wolves—or Hadin—know more."
*Plausible.* But Juliet understood perfectly well: Hadin, devoted to the Duke to his last breath, would tell her nothing. If she even spoke to him, he would immediately report it to Lennox.
"And... do you remember their daughter?"
"Sorry?"
"The Frans had a daughter. They say she was a little younger than the Duke... a girl."
"Dahlia Fran. She grew up close to His Grace. Almost like a sister, or a childhood friend..."
Juliet suddenly stopped short.
Milan looked at her with a strange, uncertain expression.
"I beg your pardon..." He quickly averted his gaze, trying to collect himself. "So... the Frans had a daughter?"
"Yes. A girl. She grew up alongside His Grace. Like brother and sister..."
"But..."
Juliet didn't have time to finish.
Milan, still hesitating, finally said:
"Miss... the Frans had **no children**."
---