## Madame Cronac's Burden
Leonie had always been different.
As a child watering the trees in Flogne village, she heard them speak—not in words, but in whispers that only she could understand. When she came of age, they marked her arm with the seal of Arbor's Oracle. The hot brand burned, but Arbor's ancient voice welcomed her: *"You have found your mate."*
She became the bridge between human and tree, relaying the forest's wisdom to nobles, kings, and priests who traveled to the hidden village seeking answers to matters of state and succession.
Then came Evan. Ten years of ordinary, beautiful life—a family, a daughter, love. Leonie had believed those days would continue until her last breath.
Until Arbor's leaves began to wither.
The yellowing tips, the browning branches—signs that catastrophe was coming to the continent. When Queen Sylvia arrived at the village, dressed like a warrior rather than a queen, Leonie felt the weight of her mission crush against her chest.
"Arbor says war is coming," Leonie had reported, lowering her head before the Queen's icy blue gaze.
Sylvia had simply nodded, as though even divine prophecy was merely another detail to manage.
The moment those words left her lips, Leonie felt Arbor's anguish spike. The tree was dying. And by morning, Flogne Village burned.
*If only I hadn't spoken.*
For over a decade, Leonie had carried that guilt. She'd lost everything—her husband, her village, her purpose as an oracle. But she'd survived, and that survival came with a single, fierce determination:
*Claudel must live. And this grandchild must thrive.*
Now, preparing to meet her daughter for the first time since her supposed death, Madame Cronac straightened before the mirror.
"I failed once," she whispered. "This time, I won't."
She thought of all the good things she would tell Claudel, all the ways she would support her through the pregnancy. A knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
"Madame, the guests arrive in ten minutes."
"I'll be ready soon."
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## Madame Marcel's Mission
Meanwhile, in the castle's sewing studio, chaos had transformed into focused artistry.
After the fall festival, Madame Marcel had publicly declared herself responsible for the Duchess's beautiful gown. Word spread, and now maidens flooded the studio, eager to learn from her. She'd selected the most promising, teaching them the mechanical sewing machines Kaian had provided.
The machines were expensive enough to purchase houses—and prone to breaking needles when operated incorrectly. Yet Kaian maintained them all without complaint. Because the Duke of Temnes wanted his wife to wear beautiful dresses.
"Madame Marcel, please look at this," one assistant called.
The lace she showed was delicate, precious stones strung along the weave until it shimmered like angel-work.
"Your skills have improved rapidly. Pass!"
The girl's face lit with joy. Madame Marcel had learned long ago that praise cost nothing but meant everything.
A shipment of fabric had arrived from the capital—bolts and bolts of the finest material. "We'll need to replicate all of this," Madame Marcel announced.
Her assistant's face went pale at the scope of work.
Madame Marcel had never been this busy. Born talented, trained at the Royal College of Art in sculpture, she'd discovered more beauty in the movement of a dress's hem than in any static stone. Yet when she'd applied to be Rowen Castle's seamstress, she hadn't expected this level of dedication.
The Duke had rejected every applicant before her—all powerful people from the capital, all turned away. When Madame Marcel had passed his rigorous, almost cruel examination, she'd felt genuinely proud.
*The Duchess must be someone extraordinary,* she'd thought then.
Now, standing in Claudel's bedroom with Hannah greeting her, she understood.
Claudel sat by the window, working on simple needlework. When she saw Madame Marcel, she stood immediately.
"You're here. Sit with me."
The Duchess gestured to the chair beside her, then placed something on the table—a small, crumpled piece of cloth.
"You tried very hard," Claudel said shyly, her smile embarrassed and genuine. "Though I don't think it's very good."
Madame Marcel's heart clenched. The Duchess was absolutely lovely—not just beautiful, but genuinely kind.
"Madam, how are you feeling?" Madame Marcel asked, noting the slight flush in Claudel's cheeks, the way her hand instinctively moved to her stomach.
"Very well. I'm excited about the new fabrics. I have so many ideas."
Behind the scenes, two women worked tirelessly for Claudel's sake. One, haunted by the price of prophecy, seeking redemption through protection. The other, devoted to creating beauty for a woman who deserved it.
Neither knew the other's true identity or the weight they carried.
But both served the same purpose: ensuring that Claudel—and the child she carried—would be treasured, protected, and celebrated.
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