## — Prologue —
In the suffocating stillness of the office, Duke Vines set his teacup upon the saucer without so much as a whisper of porcelain against porcelain.
The silence itself seemed to hold its breath.
Marin flinched. Her shoulders jerked upward before she could stop them, and she cursed herself inwardly for the reaction. Across from her, the Duke sat motionless, his expression carved from marble, his eyes hidden beneath a band of black silk.
*He can't see you. Stop acting like a startled rabbit.*
She forced an awkward smile onto her lips and raised her own cup with trembling fingers. The subtle fragrance of the tea—something floral, expensive, utterly wasted on her frayed nerves—brushed against her nose.
This was her first private tea with the master of the house. In the three months she had worked here, Duke Vines had never once summoned her for anything beyond her duties. And now, without warning or explanation, she found herself seated across from the most powerful nobleman in the northern territories, with absolutely no idea why.
"How is life in the duchy?"
His voice was low, measured—each word placed with the precision of a man who never spoke carelessly.
"Thanks to Your Grace's care, my life here has been calm and comfortable." Marin dipped her head in a small bow, though he could not see it. "I am truly grateful."
"Do you like living here?"
The question hung in the air, weighted with something she couldn't quite name.
"Yes." She nodded vigorously, then caught herself. *He can't see you nodding, you fool.* "Yes, I like it very much, Your Grace."
A warm bed every night. Three meals a day without fail. A salary generous enough to make her weep with relief when she'd first received it.
*The Duke's mansion is the best place in the entire world.*
"Then let's get engaged."
The words dropped into the silence like a stone into still water.
Marin's cup froze halfway to her lips.
"I—*what?*" Her voice cracked. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but did I hear you correctly?"
"Are you hard of hearing?" Duke Vines asked, his tone dry as autumn leaves.
"No, that's not—I mean, I don't *think* so, but—" She set her cup down too quickly, tea sloshing against the rim. Her eyes had gone wide, her pulse thundering in her ears.
*Surely I misheard. Surely.*
"Let's get engaged," he repeated, as though commenting on the weather.
"Y-yes, you said... *hic*—!"
Marin slapped a hand over her mouth, horror flooding her cheeks with heat. She stared at the Duke, searching for any crack in his composure, any sign that this was some elaborate jest.
His face remained utterly impassive. Whether he was politely ignoring her hiccup or simply hadn't noticed, she couldn't tell.
*What does getting engaged have to do with whether I like living in the mansion?*
A terrible thought crept into her mind.
*Is this... pressure? A threat?*
Her instincts screamed at her—a primal alarm ringing through every nerve.
*Dangerous. This is dangerous.*
Slowly, carefully, Marin pushed her chair back from the table. The legs scraped softly against the floor as she rose.
"Your Grace, it seems I may indeed have hearing problems. Perhaps I should consult a physician at once. If you'll excuse me—"
"Sit down."
Two words. Spoken without heat, without force.
She sat.
Her body obeyed before her mind could protest, dropping back into the chair like a trained hound responding to its master's command.
*Gods above, what is wrong with me?*
Duke Vines had lost his sight three years ago in a demon attack—everyone in the duchy knew the story. Since then, his other senses had sharpened to an almost unnatural degree. The slightest sound could set him on edge. A door closing too loudly, a servant's footsteps too heavy, a voice raised above a murmur—all of it grated against him like steel on stone.
Marin had learned quickly to make herself small. To speak softly. To move like a ghost through the halls whenever he was near.
They said he had been different before the attack. Warmer, perhaps. More human.
But she had never known that man. She only knew this one—cold, silent, and impossible to read.
"Perhaps," the Duke said, "we should return to the matter at hand."
"Yes, Your Grace." The words came out clipped, automatic. She sounded like a soldier awaiting orders.
"Your answers are very brief." His long fingers traced the edge of his cup, the movement almost idle. "Do you understand what I'm asking of you?"
"Yes."
*Marriage. He's asking me to marry him. The Duke of Vines wants to marry his maid.*
*This is insane.*
"Better short," he murmured. "And as natural as possible."
Was that... amusement in his voice? His hand drifted up to cover his mouth, and for just a moment, Marin thought she glimpsed the ghost of a smile playing at his lips.
But she was too rattled to be certain of anything.
"Yes, Your Grace."
*Come what may.*
She twisted her fingers together in her lap, fighting to keep her breathing steady.
Silence reclaimed the room.
The Duke seemed content to let it stretch, and Marin—utterly at a loss for his intentions—did not dare break it. She sat rigid in her chair, her heart hammering against her ribs, waiting for whatever blow would fall next.
"What do you need?"
The question caught her off guard.
"I'm sorry?"
"Lady Marin Schwentz."
The name struck her like a physical blow.
All the blood drained from her face. Her breath seized in her throat. Even her trembling fingers went still, frozen mid-twist.
"Didn't you think," Duke Vines continued, his voice soft as silk and twice as deadly, "that I would discover the truth? A noblewoman, hiding her origins, taking work as a common servant in my household?"
"I—how did you—*hic*—"
The hiccup escaped before she could stop it. Marin pressed both hands to her mouth, her eyes burning with the threat of tears.
*He knows. He knows everything.*
Duke Vines leaned back in his chair, the movement unhurried, almost lazy. When he spoke again, his scarlet lips curved around each word with terrible precision:
"Did you truly believe you could deceive the Vines family so easily?"
Marin shook her head frantically, though he couldn't see it. Her thoughts spiraled into chaos—prison, interrogation, execution. The images flashed through her mind in vivid, horrible detail.
*This is it. This is how I die.*
She looked at him—truly looked—searching his impassive face for any hint of mercy, any crack in that frozen mask.
There was nothing.
"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out in a rush. "I was wrong. I lied. I needed the money, I was desperate, I never meant to—"
"You broke into my household for money?"
"It wasn't breaking in—it was *employment*." The correction slipped out before she could stop it, her voice small but stubborn. "I applied. I was hired. I *worked*."
Even facing death, she couldn't let that stand.
Duke Vines tilted his head, angling his ear toward her as though trying to catch something in her tone.
"You stayed by my side... for money?"
"I wasn't *by your side*. I was assisting you. There's a difference."
"The whispering. The way you lower your voice whenever you're near me. That was also for money?"
"I speak quietly because loud sounds distress you." A thread of indignation crept into her voice despite her fear. "That's called *consideration*, Your Grace."
For a single, fleeting instant, the corner of the Duke's mouth twitched upward.
But Marin was too busy defending herself to notice.
"So." He steepled his fingers before him. "Everything you've done—every quiet word, every careful step, every moment of service—all of it was for money?"
"...Yes."
There was no point in lying now.
"Then tell me." He leaned forward slightly, and despite the silk covering his eyes, Marin felt the weight of his attention like a physical force. "How much do you need?"
"What?"
"I've already proposed once. Must I repeat myself a third time?" A note of dry irritation entered his voice. "We will be engaged. Name your price."
"*Wha—*" Her voice shot up before she could catch it.
"Briefly."
The Duke's brow creased in displeasure, and Marin immediately dropped her volume.
"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I don't understand." She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart ricochet against her palm. "I thought—I assumed you were angry about the deception. About my hidden status. And now you're speaking of *engagement?*"
"You said you love this mansion." His tone was matter-of-fact, almost bored. "Congratulations. As my fiancée, you may continue living in the place you love."
"Actually..." Marin hesitated, her gaze flicking nervously to his face. "I'm not entirely certain that's such a good idea anymore."
"No?" Something shifted in his expression—subtle, dangerous. "If you can deceive a Duke so easily, then perhaps you could find work elsewhere. The imperial prison, perhaps, has openings for—"
"*But!*" Marin cut him off, her voice ringing out before she could think better of it. "The Duke's mansion is absolutely the finest place in all the realm! Did I not tell Your Grace before? I wish to be laid to rest in these noble lands! To have my very bones interred in ducal soil!"
She beamed at him—her brightest, most desperate smile—even though he couldn't see it.
*They say you can't strike a smiling face. Please let that be true.*
"No." The Duke's lips curved, and this time there was no mistaking it. He was smiling—a thin, unsettling expression that sent ice down Marin's spine. "I don't believe you've mentioned that before."
"Oh! Well, I meant to." She licked her dry lips and pressed on, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. "I shall serve Your Grace with absolute devotion until my dying day. My bones, my very soul, shall remain loyal to House Vines for all eternity—"
"I don't need your bones." His smile widened, sharp as a blade's edge. "I need a bride."
The room fell silent.
Marin swallowed hard, her throat clicking audibly in the stillness.
"Your Grace," she ventured, her voice barely above a whisper, "do I... by any chance... have the right to refuse?"
*Please say yes. Please, please say yes.*