Morning light filtered pale gold through the frost-glazed windows, painting the training yard in a muted warmth. Seraphine’s muscles still ached pleasantly from the previous day’s sparring, the faint soreness a reminder of how far she had yet to go.

It was still very early, perhaps too early. Only the birds were awake, their chirping soft against the quiet. The servants had not yet stirred, and Alisea was nowhere in sight to help her dress. Not that she needed the help. She was no child, and the outfit was simple enough. Alisea had laid it out the night before, insisting it would suit her better during her training if the prince happened to drop by. She still needed to look elegant is what Alisea said.

Seraphine stood before the neatly folded garments and recalled their conversation.

“Alisea, it’s fine. I don’t need anything fancy for training.”

“No, Lady Seraphine! If His Highness were to arrive, you must look your best. I would hate for him to mistake you for an ordinary squire. Although–”

The maid’s eyes swept over Seraphine before a bright smile bloomed. “Well, perhaps I worry needlessly. No one could ever mistake your beauty and aura for anything less than noble.”

“But I am sure there are commoners who are good looking too. Isn’t it just a matter of luck and good lineage?”

Alisea tilted her head thoughtfully. “That is true. Plenty of nobles are hideous or plain. I suppose they were simply unlucky.”

Then she shook her head briskly and raised her fists with sudden determination. “Still, my lady, no one should outshine you. Not even the prince.”

Seraphine frowned slightly, remembering how Isolde described the prince as a rough, barbaric man who lusted for battle. “Is the prince handsome? Or do you mean he wears fine clothes?”

Alisea pressed a finger to her chin as if thinking, then grinned. “You will have to wait and see for yourself. Only then will you understand.”

Seraphine stared at her in disbelief. Now her curiosity burned even brighter. She imagined a man scarred from battle, perhaps intimidating, perhaps not even conventionally attractive. Maybe even some wild, hairy brute who barely bothered with a comb, more in love with the clash of steel than with a mirror. The more she wondered, the more ridiculous her imagination became.

“I suppose I will just have to wait and meet him,” she said at last, pouting in defeat. It was like being told not to think of a pink elephant. Utterly impossible.

Seraphine now tugged on her long black gloves and flexed her fingers, feeling an odd surge of determination.

The outfit was far more refined than her previous training garb. She wore a crisp white blouse with a high frilled collar clasped by a small emerald gem, the front adorned with generous ruffles. Over it sat a structured black corset that cinched her waist. Her fitted black pants were high-waisted, and over them she wore a black overskirt. It had a short ruffled layer at the front and a long flowing tail behind, almost like a half-skirt trailing gracefully at her back, adding a hint of elegance to the otherwise practical attire.

She pulled on her tall black boots and fastened the belts snugly around her calves. The fur lining inside kept her feet comfortably warm. Lastly, she threw on a black fur-trimmed cloak that completed the look and felt more fitting for the morning chill.

Seated at her dressing table, she brushed her hair. Her long locks were tied into a high ponytail, with the right bangs falling forward to frame her face while the left side was neatly swept back, revealing the small earring she wore. They were delicate studs, each set with a tiny aquamarine gem that caught the light like a drop of water, complementing both her crystal-blue eyes and the subtle elegance of her attire. Small enough not to hinder her training yet refined enough to lend a graceful touch, it stood out more on her left side where her hair was tucked back, while on the right it peeked through the soft fall of her bangs.

“Man, Seraphine sure is a beauty,” she thought wryly as she studied her reflection. She did not mind inhabiting this body. It could have been worse. The only real issue was how thin it was, a testament to the neglect of the girl who had lived here before her.

“Tsk. Foolish brat,” she muttered under her breath, pressing her palm against the mirror. “She would have been fine if she had only shared her fears or worries with her parents, with Lucien, or even with Alisea. Someone could have helped her. Why carry it all alone and make everyone worry?”

She frowned to herself as she lowered her hand. She sighed, then strode to the door, pushing her bangs back with an irritated swipe.

“Better lash it out on some straw dummies,” she grumbled as she stepped out.

~Lucien’s POV~

Lucien was already outside, leaning against the tree with a wooden practice sword propped lightly on his shoulder. Frost clung faintly to his coat, his hair a little tousled by the wind. When he saw her, his gaze softened for a heartbeat before he masked it.

“You are early,” he said, voice low with a hint of amusement.

He noticed her new attire made her appear far more like a noble than a squire. She looked elegant, beautiful. He longed to close the distance between them, to embrace her, to whisper the compliments that weighed on his tongue. But he restrained himself. She was not his.

Seraphine blinked, she seemed surprised to see him already there. In the distance she might have glimpsed him stretching before she arrived.

“Me? How about you?” she asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her lips curved into a small, hesitant smile before she added with a soft laugh, “Well, I figured if I start now, maybe I will manage not to humiliate myself next time.”

“You did not humiliate yourself yesterday,” he replied, then added after a short pause with a faint smirk, “Not entirely.”

She rolled her eyes and picked up her practice sword, with an amused smile. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Their sparring that morning was lighter, almost playful. The crisp air rang with their laughter and the rhythmic clack of wooden blades. Lucien’s corrections were gentler, more guiding than strict. Sometimes, when she managed a decent parry, their eyes met briefly, and he found himself staring at her in awe before glancing away.

“Hah! An opponent should not look away,” Seraphine teased, thinking she had found an opening to strike.

Lucien grinned and easily dodged her attack. “Never underestimate your opponent,” he said in his calm, factual tone.

~Mina’s POV~

By late morning, the manor was stirring with unusual activity. A servant hurried past carrying a polished tray. Another moved through the hall, brushing pine boughs into neat arrangements. From the kitchens came the warm scent of fresh bread and roasted chestnuts.

“What is going on?” Seraphine asked as she returned her practice sword.

Lucien wiped his gloves on his coat, though there wasn’t a speck of dirt on them. “Perhaps the prince is coming today after all?”

Her stomach fluttered. Not fear exactly, more anxiousness. She hoped he would follow tradition so she had more time for her etiquette lessons. She remembered after yesterday’s training, Alisea and Lucien only taught her the basics.

She smoothed her hair and forced herself to stay calm. There was no time to change her attire without appearing late and rude for welcoming him. She had to look her best. She silently thanked Alisea for preparing something more appropriate than her plain training tunic.

When the carriage finally rolled into the courtyard, it was far less grand than she had imagined. A modest vehicle, two horses, a single rider at its side. No gilded wheels, no knights in procession.

Edmund stood at the entrance beside Isolde, his arm firmly around her waist to support her should she grow weary.

Lucien and Seraphine joined them, Seraphine eyeing the unassuming carriage. For a moment she wondered if they were expecting someone else entirely.

The carriage door opened, and the world seemed to hold its breath. Seraphine almost gasped.

The man, looking in his mid-twenties, who stepped down moved with the unhurried grace of one accustomed to admiration. Every gesture was smooth, precise, as if born of privilege and training. His beauty was a thing that bordered on myth, the kind of vision one might expect of a fae lord or a wandering nymph rather than a mortal man. It was obvious who he was.

His long navy-blue hair was tied in a low ponytail that brushed just below his shoulders, gleaming under the sun. On his right side, strands were swept neatly back to reveal the curve of his ear, adorned with two sleek silver cuffs clinging to the upper cartilage, a subtle defiance softened by elegance. From his lobe hung a single long earring, a delicate silver chain with a subtle ruby bead that mirrored the faint glow of his eyes

Those eyes. They were the real trap. Deep crimson, shimmering with an inner light, as though a ruby had been set into his gaze. Long dark lashes softened them, lending a hint of femininity that only heightened their allure. They could appear languid and teasing one moment, sharp and dangerous the next.

Seraphine found herself staring longer than was proper. Her chest tightened. Her heart thumped too loudly in her ears, as if to remind her once again that she was alive in this strange world. She always had a weakness for characters with red eyes. And now, one is standing in front of her. Absolutely stunning, totally her weakness of admiration.

On his left side, his bangs hovered loosely, partially shadowing one eye, brushing just over his brow, giving him a mysterious, almost dangerous appeal. His features were exquisite, his jawline soft yet defined, his cheekbones catching the light, his soft pink lips refined into symmetry so delicate that men and women alike could lose themselves staring. He was androgynous yet unshakably masculine, the kind of beauty that blurred lines and unsettled the heart.

Seraphine’s first thought slipped from her control.

–Ah, he is so beautiful.

The words nearly escaped aloud, caught only at the last moment as her breath trembled in her throat. For a heartbeat, she could swear she saw roses around him, red and vivid, as if the world itself wished to frame him in splendor.

And then his eyes met hers. Just a second, perhaps less, but it felt eternal. The world around them blurred, Lucien, her parents, the courtyard itself fading until it was only the two of them. It was a fragile illusion, born of her own weakness, but the warmth it sparked in her chest was unmistakable. A flutter, a rush of air she did not know she had been holding, that old familiar flutter, the breathless awareness of a crush.

–This is dangerous.

She warned herself and forced her gaze to shift, to focus on his attire instead of his eyes.

Cassian’s body was slender, the effortless elegance of a born royal tempered by the quiet strength in his shoulders. He wore a long, tailored midnight-blue coat of thick fine wool, chosen as much for warmth as for style. The broad collar and inner lining were trimmed with soft charcoal-gray fur, framing his pale neck and sharp collarbones while shielding him from the Northern cold.

The high collar was fastened by an ornate silver clasp shaped like the royal crest, a single blood-red ruby at its center. Along the seams and edges, silver-white embroidery traced delicate geometric and vine-like patterns that caught the light as he moved, like frost glinting beneath sunlight.

A dark oxblood-red leather belt cinched the coat at the waist, both decorative and practical, from which hung a fine sword sheathed in polished black scabbard reinforced with silver fittings. Beneath the coat he wore a deep steel-gray tunic of soft but resilient, layered fabric, warm yet allowing ease of movement. His fitted black wool trousers were tucked neatly into high black leather boots with silver buckles and a faint charcoal trim at the top. The boots were polished but subdued in shine.

His black leather gloves were lined with dark fur at the cuffs, while the silver earrings in his right ear glinted more brightly against the cooler tones of his outfit.

The contrast of midnight blue, charcoal gray, deep black, and the subtle accents of silver and ruby lent him an otherworldly air. It was the attire of a man both royal and battle-ready, somber as the northern sky yet carrying a quiet brilliance, as though even the winter cold hesitated to touch him.

Seraphine realized that studying his clothes did nothing to calm her. The whole picture was too compelling. Her cheeks warmed, her heart betraying her even as her mind recoiled.

–No. This is nothing. This is only admiration. Like gazing at a painting so beautiful it steals your breath. That is all it is. Nothing more.

She tried to soothe her racing thoughts, offering herself excuses. But guilt pressed against her ribs, heavy and unrelenting. Not only because of Lucien, as she was not oblivious to the way he looked at her sometimes. No, the guilt went deeper. Because she still belonged to someone else. A love she had sworn to, and her loyalty should not waver even for a second. To feel anything, even a fleeting crush, felt like a betrayal of that bond. As if it would sever the last thread that tied her to her true home.

She clenched her hands at her sides, willing her foolish thoughts back into silence. Whatever connection she thought she had felt in that brief glance was nothing but a trick of the moment. She would not let herself believe otherwise.

And yet, as Cassian stepped closer, her heart refused to quiet.