## Part One: Antjone's Despair
"I was far prettier!" Antjone's voice cracked with furious disbelief.
She'd been present when the crocodile attacked Claudel—close enough to witness the horror. Close enough to see the creature dragging her like a broken toy, Claudel's maid kicking desperately, Kaian driving his blade into the beast's skull. When he'd pried open the crocodile's mouth, her leg had emerged mangled, shaking like discarded meat.
It was terrible. Terrifying.
But the immature girl had immediately calculated: *There's no way Kaian would keep a broken woman at his side.*
As time passed, she'd been certain he would either lock Claudel away in some forgotten chamber or eventually send her to a monastery—a matter of honor for the Duke of Temnes. An injured wife from an enemy family married by royal order? Externally, he'd have to handle it delicately.
It never occurred to Antjone that Kaian treated Claudel poorly because of his connection to her—his elderly relative through his aunt.
The cold, sword-like Lord was distant to everyone. Antjone believed she received special treatment simply because he treated her slightly differently.
---
When Claudel had contracted Herzol, circumstances shifted.
Young ladies began gathering around Antjone again, drawn by curiosity about castle happenings. Their friendship was likely false, but it gave the eighteen-year-old courage to speak boldly.
"Surely you didn't really steal that ring?" they'd asked.
"How could I?" Antjone had replied.
"But wasn't it the maid who brought it to you?"
Several had tilted their heads as she'd nervously extracted the box from under her skirts.
"Kaian was supposed to give it to me!"
Her companions had rallied around her with sympathy. *Just wait until the festival,* they'd assured her. *See how ugly a crippled woman looks.* They'd disparaged Claudel's appearance until Antjone felt like she might reclaim her position as the territory's beauty.
---
Today, standing at the festival square, Antjone's breath caught.
When Claudel appeared as the Lord's wife, Antjone felt as though lightning had struck her.
In that moment, all the words used to praise women—pretty, beautiful, lovely—simply disappeared.
Claudel moved slowly, escorted by the butler, her dress's V-neckline revealing elegant collarbones. The sheer chiffon skirt rippled from her corseted waist like seafoam. She walked with light, graceful steps that suggested she'd never been injured at all.
A Goddess had descended. A fairy queen had emerged to witness the human festival.
The space around her seemed isolated, separate from the rest of the world.
Her face bore minimal decoration. Small enough to rest in an adult's palm, her golden eyes gleamed mysteriously in the sunlight. Sharp nose. Lips painted lightly red.
Her hands, placed delicately on the butler's arm, were impossibly small. Even beneath the festive gown, her waist was unmistakably slender.
Everyone who saw her bowed their heads in silence.
Even Antjone found herself closing her mouth and lowering her head—until she suddenly came to her senses. By then, the eyes of the other maidens had changed.
They looked at Antjone with contempt. *Liar.*
---
The festival dance was Kaian's first as a married lord.
He'd taken the lordship, gone to war, and only now returned with a wife. For two years, the festival had opened with only his speech, no dance.
When Claudel finished her dance with perfect grace, when Kaian embraced her and kissed her lightly, the square erupted in cheers.
Antjone wept alone, watching them.
*Kaian, you're being deceived,* she thought desperately. *Otherwise, you wouldn't do this.*
That woman must have enchanted him. Or perhaps Herzol had somehow damaged his mind.
She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
That's when she heard drunk men talking nearby.
"No matter how pretty she is, our Lord would never keep a Vermont woman!"
"Did you hear them dancing earlier?"
"You don't know. The Lord clearly said at the banquet after the first night—once the marriage period ends, that Vermont woman will be sent away."
"Really?"
"Of course!"
The drunk speaker was Burbrook. But when others suggested this gossip might displease the Lord, they quickly excused themselves, leaving him alone.
"I'm telling the truth!" Burbrook called after them. "I heard him promise!"
Antjone's eyes gleamed as she sat across from him.
"Can you tell me that story again?"
Burbrook blinked at the young lady. "Hmm? A young lady?"
"The Lord isn't the type to make empty promises, is he?" Antjone asked sweetly, refilling his glass.
"Exactly! That's what I said!"
"I'd love to hear that story," Antjone smiled. "Please?"
Burbrook opened his mouth with obvious pleasure.
"Well, on the second day of the banquet..."
---
## Part Two: Kaian's Care
Kaian slipped from bed, leaving Claudel sleeping deeply.
After roughly dressing and only half-buttoning his clothes, he made his way to the castle kitchen.
The midnight castle was eerily silent. The fall festival was the territory's largest annual celebration, drawing everyone—noble and commoner alike—to enjoy Rowen's abundance. All castle servants and maids attended, leaving only minimal staff to guard the gates by lottery.
Kaian would normally return at dawn with his drunken companions.
But tonight was nice. An empty castle. Just him and Claudel.
He made his way through the spacious kitchen to the machine room beyond. Several generations of Temnes lords had housed a brilliant inventor who'd filled the castle with ingenious devices. Kaian's bedroom had a retractable ceiling to view stars, and hot water could be drawn directly from the bedroom's bathing chamber thanks to a complicated system of pipes.
"I shouldn't have to visit the kitchen for this," Kaian muttered, examining the wood stove beneath the overhead water tank.
The fire had gone out.
He used flint to relight it, then stuffed the stove with enough wood to sustain heat through the night. After retrieving three apples, bread, cheese, and ham from the storage room, he returned to the bedroom.
The hot water was already flowing into the bathtub.
Kaian climbed back into bed.
"Claudel."
"Yes?" came the drowsy reply.
"Wake up."
He deliberately shook her awake.
"...I can't get up," she mumbled, barely conscious.
"You're hungry. What do you want to eat?"
"...I can't eat."
He kissed her closed eyes and spoke to her as though she weren't half-asleep. "You'll collapse if you starve."
Claudel was the type to insist on eating properly rather than eating little. One afternoon when lunch had been delayed, he'd found her sullen and clearly famished. Now he ate lunch ten minutes early to prevent such episodes.
"Wake up," he commanded more firmly.
Claudel emerged from the blanket with messy hair, barely holding herself up on her arms. She smiled at him.
"I want an apple."
Kaian had brought them specifically because he'd seen her enjoying freshly harvested apples at the village festival square earlier, though they were still slightly sour.
He took his knife and began peeling one carefully.
As the skin spiraled down in a long ribbon with a soft crunching sound, Claudel watched with sudden alertness.
"That's beautiful."
"It's nothing."
"I want to try."
When she reached for the knife, he pulled his hand away.
"It's dangerous."
She tried to grab his wrist, opening the blanket as she did.
"Get dressed first," he instructed.
"I'll try after I get dressed."
His wife was still too innocent to understand the deeper intentions behind waking her, feeding her, caring for her in the quiet hours of the night—intentions she would one day comprehend.
For now, it was enough to watch her reach for the apple like a child, her eyes bright despite her exhaustion.
---