Only two figures remained on the empty dance floor.
Marin studied the Duke's closed eyelids for a moment, then carefully placed her hand in his. His arm circled her waist with practiced ease—neither hesitant nor possessive, simply *certain*.
The instant she took her first step, he followed. No fumbling, no adjustment. He moved as though he'd been dancing with her for years.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Silence.
"I wanted to see that man kneel before me."
"Do you want more?"
"I've already taken my revenge."
Marin pressed her lips together, barely containing a laugh. "I admit—it was done flawlessly."
A pale smile touched his mouth, barely visible but undeniably *there*.
To the watching nobles, they must have looked like a portrait of devotion: the fearsome Duke of the North, smiling down at his bride as they turned across the polished floor. Couples began drifting onto the dance floor, emboldened by the softened atmosphere.
Marin glanced at the swirling gowns and tailcoats. *The mood's broken now*, she thought with faint disappointment.
But the Duke simply spun her with a deft flick of his wrist and drew her close again, reclaiming her attention entirely.
"Why do you dance so well?" The question escaped before she could stop it, her eyes widening.
He leaned down, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. "Everything I do with my body, I do well."
Heat flooded her earlobes instantly.
"Ah—yes. P-perfect."
Her strangled praise drew a low laugh from him—genuine, unguarded. The sound rippled outward, and the surrounding nobles froze mid-step, their whispers sharp with disbelief.
*The Duke laughed.*
It was all the confirmation they needed: the Duke of the North was utterly besotted with his bride.
---
"Advisor Olive Lyon and the children of the Count's House of Adria!"
The announcement sliced through the music like a blade.
Every head turned toward the entrance. The Duke and Marin stopped. The orchestra fell silent, the last note hanging unfinished in the air.
Marin looked up at the Duke with alarm, but his face had already settled into its familiar mask—expressionless, unreadable.
He stepped forward without a word, and the crowd parted before him like water yielding to stone.
As they approached the entrance hall, the whispers sharpened into clarity.
"Ah, *look* at them. Poor things."
"Still in mourning, clearly."
"The Count and Countess died only recently, didn't they?"
"And yet *he* throws a ball like this? However strained his relationship with his sister was, this is simply too much."
"The rumors were true, then. They were enemies."
Marin's fingers tightened involuntarily around his arm. She had expected the gossip—had steeled herself for it—but hearing it spoken aloud, so casually cruel, ignited something sharp in her chest.
*As if it were about me*, she realized. *As if they were talking about my family.*
She wanted to speak. To intervene. But she couldn't—it wasn't her place—and the helplessness *burned*.
While she wrestled with her thoughts, her grip tightening further, the Duke lowered his head slightly, as though noticing her white-knuckled fingers.
"Don't worry about it," he whispered, so quietly she almost missed it.
"...Yes."
She forced herself to loosen her hold, embarrassed that she had made him comfort *her* when she should have been steadying *him*.
---
At the entrance, they finally came face to face with the Duke's nephews.
Marin drew a sharp breath.
The eldest, **Daya**, stood with the rigid composure of someone far older than her years. Her hair was black as ink, gleaming beneath the chandelier light, and her eyes were the deep green of ancient forest canopy—stern and beautiful and utterly closed off.
Beside her stood **Garnet**, a striking contrast: hair like molten gold cascading over her shoulders, eyes the fresh green of spring roses. Even in mourning black, she blazed with barely contained fury.
The third was **Rubiena**—honey-blonde curls framing a delicate face, light green eyes wide and curious. She looked like a masterfully crafted porcelain doll, fragile and exquisite.
And the youngest, **Perido**, clung to Rubiena's hand with small fingers. His hair was black, his eyes darker still—of all the children, he bore the strongest resemblance to the Duke.
Even draped in mourning, their beauty was undeniable. But it was a beauty shadowed by loss, carved hollow by grief.
Olive, who had been standing slightly apart from the children, stepped forward and bowed.
"Your Grace. I've returned."
"Thank you."
Olive's gaze slid to Marin—to her hand resting on the Duke's forearm—and lingered there for just a moment.
Marin offered an awkward smile and a small nod.
He returned it quickly, and then—
"May I ask what the occasion for this ball is?" Daya's voice cut through the silence. Her green eyes swept across the opulent hall before settling on the Duke's face.
"A ball in honor of my engagement."
"...Engagement?"
Daya stared at him, her expression carved from marble.
"Ha." Garnet's laugh was sharp, brittle. "*Crazy.* An engagement?" She spoke loudly enough for the entire hall to hear.
"Garnet," Daya said, a warning threaded through the single word.
Garnet turned away with a violent jerk of her shoulders, her lips twisting.
The Duke, utterly unmoved by their reactions, gestured toward Marin.
"My fiancée. Lady Marin Shuvents, daughter of the Viscount."
Marin narrowed her eyes at his profile, displeasure flickering across her face.
*You could at least tell your nephews 'thank you for making this journey.'*
Whatever his plan—feigning indifference, maintaining distance—he was overdoing it.
She cursed him silently and turned her attention to the children.
Daya regarded her with an expression that revealed nothing. Garnet's eyes still burned with barely leashed anger.
And then Marin met Rubiena's gaze.
The girl had been studying her with open curiosity, and now she smiled—small and shy, dimples pressing into her cheeks.
The sweetness of it caught Marin off guard. She couldn't help but smile back. Of all the nephews, Rubiena was the only one who had shown her any warmth, and Marin found herself unexpectedly grateful.
Perido remained silent, his small hand locked tight around his sister's, his dark eyes fixed unblinkingly on the Duke's face.
"It's lovely to meet you all. I'm Marin Shuvents," she said warmly, filling the silence the Duke had left. "Thank you for coming—I know it's been a long journey."
Daya's gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat.
"...Daya Adria." Her voice was flat, colorless. "Your engagement... congratulations. We're tired from traveling. May we rest?"
No matter how kind the Duke's bride seemed, Daya couldn't summon the strength to return her warmth. Not here. Not now.
"Of course." The Duke's voice betrayed nothing. "Olive, escort them to the west wing."
"Yes, Your Grace." Olive offered the children a gentle smile. "Young sir, ladies—please follow me."
Daya held the Duke's gaze for one long moment. His eyes remained closed to her, offering nothing.
She turned away, cold as winter stone.
---
*This isn't just a ball. It's an* ***engagement celebration.***
The thought pounded through Daya's mind as she walked, her spine rigid, her steps measured.
*And it's only been weeks since Mother and Father died.*
Did Olive know? Had he known the entire journey and said nothing? Was it truly necessary to hold the ball on the *very day* of their arrival?
If the date had been set in advance, they could have been summoned at another time. What was the Duke thinking? Did he *want* to humiliate them? To trample on the memory of the dead?
Betrayal coiled hot and bitter in her chest.
And the bitterness had nowhere to go—it ricocheted between targets. Toward the Duke. Toward Olive, who had hidden the truth. Toward the friendly bride, who seemed to know nothing at all.
Garnet walked beside her, practically vibrating with fury, her glare still fixed on the Duke's retreating figure.
"Garnet. Let's go."
"No. Wait."
Before Daya could stop her, Garnet wrenched free and stepped forward.
Hands on her hips, chin lifted, she hurled her words at the Duke like stones:
"Your Grace, *Duke*—you never once came to visit us. Oh, wait—" Her voice wavered dangerously. "—you did come. When our parents *died*, right?"
She swallowed hard, steadying herself.
"And now you throw *this* lavish spectacle on the day we arrive? Does that mean you don't consider us family at all?"
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
The Duke's answer came without hesitation:
"...Think as you wish."
Daya stared at him, frozen.
*Silence would have been better.* Silence could have been interpreted a dozen ways. But *this*—
What he said, in this moment, could only mean one thing: ***he did not acknowledge them as his blood.***
"...Thank you for your candor!" Garnet's voice cracked despite her best efforts.
She spun away, grabbed Daya's hand in a crushing grip, and whispered:
"Sorry, Daya. I lost my temper again."
"It's okay." Daya's voice was steady, even as something fractured inside her. "Let's go."
"Yes."
Olive bowed silently to the Duke and moved ahead, his expression carefully neutral.
Daya positioned herself at the rear of their small procession, shielding the younger ones with her body, her back straight despite the weight of a hundred aristocratic stares.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the orchestra resumed behind her—bright and celebratory, utterly indifferent.
Her fists clenched at her sides.
Before her walked the fragile backs of her siblings: Garnet's shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly, Rubiena's small hand clutching Perido's, the youngest boy's steps heavy with exhaustion he was too proud to show.
*We can't trust anyone now.*
The thought settled into her bones like iron.
*Only I can protect them.*