Building Shadows

Run, she thought desperately. Run before he reaches you.

But Jorin kept working, apparently oblivious to the danger walking straight toward him.

Alaric was twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.

And then he was standing right behind Caelan's man, his hand moving to the sword at his hip.

No. Please no.

"You're new," Alaric said, his voice carrying up to her window.

Jorin looked up from the flower bed, showing just the right amount of surprise. Not too much, that would seem guilty. Not too little, that would seem suspicious.

"Yes, my lord. Started three days ago."

Three days ago. Right after their conversation. Smart timing.

"What's your name?"

"Jorin Cray, my lord. From the northern farms."

Alaric circled him slowly, like a predator evaluating prey. "Northern farms. Which ones?"

"The Millbrook estates, my lord. Near Greystone."

Did he know those farms? Seraphina pressed closer to the glass, her breath fogging the window.

"Millbrook." Alaric's voice was thoughtful. "I know that area. Good soil. What crops did you work?"

"Barley mostly, my lord. Some wheat. The master there, Lord Hendrick, he's got a fine operation."

Lord Hendrick. Was that real? Or was Jorin improvising?

"Hendrick's a good man," Alaric said, and Seraphina's heart sank. He knew him. If Jorin was lying...

"Aye, my lord. Fair and honest. Paid well too. But the harvest was poor this year, so he had to let some of us go."

"Poor harvest?" Alaric's hand moved away from his sword. "I heard they had good rains up north."

"They did, my lord. But the blight got the barley fields. Wiped out near half the crop."

Alaric nodded slowly. "Blight's been hitting a lot of estates this year. Bad luck."

Was it working? Was Alaric buying the story?

"So you came south looking for work?"

"Yes, my lord. Heard you might have need of extra hands in the gardens."

"From who?"

"Old Tom at the market, my lord. Said you paid fair wages and treated workers well."

Perfect answer. Give Alaric's ego what it wanted while providing a believable source.

"Tom's not wrong." Alaric's posture relaxed slightly. "You know anything about roses?"

"Some, my lord. Lady Millbrook was particular about her rose garden. Taught me a bit about pruning and feeding."

Brilliant. Using his supposed knowledge from the fictional Lady Millbrook to explain any skills.

"Show me."

An icy fist clenched in Seraphina's chest. This was it. The real test. If Jorin didn't actually know about roses...

But he moved confidently to a nearby bush, pointing out dead blooms and explaining pruning techniques with the kind of casual expertise that came from real experience.

He actually knew what he was doing.

Alaric listened, asked a few more questions, then finally, finally, patted Jorin on the back.

"Good work. See that you keep it up."

"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord."

Alaric turned and walked away, back toward the main house.

From her window, Seraphina saw Jorin's hands shake as he bent back to the roses. Just for a moment. Just long enough to show how close they'd all come to disaster.

He'd been terrified too.

But just before Alaric reached the door, he looked up at her window. Caught her watching.

His face transformed into that devastating smile, the one that had made half the court fall in love with him before their marriage. He raised his hand in a cheerful wave, like a devoted husband greeting his beloved wife.

Perfect performance. Even now, even after everything, he could still look like the ideal man.

She forced herself to smile back, raising her own hand in a delighted wave. Look happy. Look like you were watching him because you adore him, not because you're terrified for Jorin.

The performance came too easily now. Muscle memory from months of pretending.

Even now, she could feel herself smiling back, mask glued on tight. Was this how monsters made their brides, one forced smile at a time?

The sight made her skin crawl.

It worked. Jorin's cover had held. Their communication system was safe.

If he'd been caught, it would've been blood on her hands.

For now.

The first week of charity work passed in a blur of orphanages, food distributions, and carefully orchestrated public appearances.

Seraphina threw herself into the role, visiting the poorest districts of the city, meeting with widows and children, organizing relief efforts. The work was vital cover, exhausting but necessary.

Yet it wasn't enough. She needed more than coordinators; she needed loyalists. People who remembered the D'Lorien name.

The charity coordinators were helpful but limited. They could organize events and manage donations, but they weren't the kind of people who could help her reclaim stolen properties or gather intelligence on her enemies.

For that, she needed something different. Something more personal.

She needed people who remembered the D'Lorien name. Who remembered what House Vessant had taken from her family.

Which meant tomorrow's charity gala was perfect.

The event was being held at the Grand Assembly Hall, with representatives from every major house in attendance. Caelan would be there, she'd seen his name on the guest list. They could talk freely in the crowd, plan their next moves, discuss recruitment.

And maybe, a traitorous part of her mind whispered, just enjoy his company for a few stolen moments.

She pushed that thought away. This was business. Strategy. Nothing more.

Even if the memory of his gentle touch still made her chest tighten in ways she didn't want to examine.

The Grand Assembly Hall blazed with light and color, filled with the cream of society dressed in their finest silks and jewels.

Seraphina moved through the crowd like the perfect duchess, accepting compliments on her charitable work, discussing donation strategies with potential sponsors, playing the role of devoted wife building her husband's reputation.

But her eyes kept scanning the room, looking for a familiar masked figure.

She found him by the refreshment table, talking to Lord Pemberton about grain exports. Even in a crowd of nobles, he stood out, tall, confident, that black mask making him look dangerous and intriguing.

Dangerous. Right. That's exactly what he was.

She made her way over, timing her approach to coincide with Lord Pemberton's departure.

"Duke Vorenthal," she said, offering a polite curtsy. "How lovely to see you here."

"Duchess Vessant." His bow was perfectly proper. "I hear your charitable work has been quite successful."

"You hear correctly. Though I find myself in need of additional assistance."

"Oh? What kind of assistance?"

She moved closer, pretending to examine the selection of pastries. "The kind that requires very particular... qualifications."

"Qualifications can be tricky," he said, following her lead. "What sort of qualifications are we discussing?"

"Loyalty. Discretion. And perhaps a certain nostalgia for the old days."

His visible expression sharpened with interest. "Nostalgia can be valuable. Expensive, but valuable."

"I'm prepared to pay well for the right kind of nostalgia."

"Are you looking for recent nostalgia, or the deeper, more... historical variety?"

Clever. He was asking whether she wanted Caelan's people or something more personal to her family.

"Historical," she said softly. "The kind that remembers old names. Old loyalties."

"Ah." He reached for a glass of wine, his fingers brushing hers as he handed it to her. "That's much more specialized. And dangerous."

The brief contact sent warmth up her arm. Focus, Seraphina.

"I'm aware of the risks."

"Are you? Because historical nostalgia has a way of... complicating things. Drawing attention from people who prefer that particular history stay buried."

"Some histories are worth the risk of resurrection."

He stepped closer, ostensibly to reach for a plate. "And some resurrections require very careful preparation. The wrong approach could be... catastrophic."

Was he warning her? Or testing her resolve?

"I'm not afraid of a little catastrophe," she said. "Some things are worth burning the world down for."

"Careful, Duchess. That kind of talk could be misinterpreted."

"By whom? I'm simply discussing historical preservation with a fellow enthusiast."

"Of course." His mouth curved in what might have been a smile. "How foolish of me to think otherwise."

God, this was dangerous. The way he looked at her, the careful word play, the electricity every time they accidentally touched...

"So," she said, forcing herself back to business. "Can historical nostalgia be... acquired?"

"With the right intermediary, anything can be acquired. Though I'd recommend very thorough vetting of any historical artifacts you might consider collecting."

He'd do it. He'd help her find people connected to her family's past. Former servants, distant relatives, anyone who might remember the D'Lorien name with fondness.

"Vetting is essential," she agreed. "I wouldn't want any... forgeries in my collection."

"Naturally. Though authentic pieces often come with their own complications. Previous attachments. Old grudges. Unfinished business."

"I can handle complications."

"Can you? Because some complications have a way of handling you instead."

There was something in his tone... Warning? Concern? Something deeper?

"Are you worried about me, Duke Vorenthal?"

"I'm worried about anyone who collects dangerous historical artifacts without proper precautions."

"And what precautions would you recommend?"

He moved closer again, close enough that she could smell his soap and something warmer underneath. A traitorous flutter sparked low in her belly. Stop it. She couldn't afford to want comfort from him, not when everything was so dangerous.

"Never collect alone. Always have backup. And be prepared to run if the collection becomes too... volatile."

He was worried. Despite the word play and careful distance, he was genuinely concerned about her safety.

When was the last time someone had worried about her?

"I appreciate the advice," she said softly. "Though I find the most valuable pieces are often the most dangerous ones."

"Dangerous pieces have a tendency to cut the people who handle them," he warned.

"Only if you handle them carelessly," she countered.

"And you think you can handle them carefully?"

"I think I'm more resilient than I look."

His gaze swept over her, taking in the elegant dress, the perfect posture, the duchess mask she wore so well. "You look plenty resilient to me."

The way he said it... Like he could see through all her performances to something real underneath.

"Flattery, Duke Vorenthal?"

"Observation, Duchess Vessant."

Duchess Vessant. Right. That's who she was here. Not Seraphina D'Lorien, not Phinia Ashara. The Duchess of Vessant, married to her family's destroyer.

The reminder stung more than it should have.

"Well," she said, stepping back slightly. "I should let you know when I'm ready to begin my... collection."

"Of course. I'll make some discrete inquiries about availability."

"Thank you. I, "

"Darling!"

The voice cut through their conversation like a blade.

No.

Seraphina turned to see Alaric pushing through the crowd toward them, his smile bright and possessive.

How long had he been looking for her? Had he seen them talking?

"There you are," Alaric said, reaching her side and sliding an arm around her waist. "I've been searching everywhere for you."