Vartis – Ducal Palace, Dusk
The courtyard echoed with the clatter of hooves and the hiss of gossip as the carriage doors closed behind her. A steward — stiff-backed and tight-lipped — led Fran up the main steps, through the iron double doors, and into the great entrance hall of the palace.
The space was vast. Too vast.
Old marble underfoot, dulled by centuries. Faded murals of forgotten battles. A chandelier overhead that hadn’t been lit in years. Dust danced in the light from high arched windows.
And people.
Dozens of them.
Maids, valets, stewards, guards. Lined along the edges of the hall, not to welcome her — not really — but to see her. To judge.
Her boots made each step louder.
No one bowed.
The Staff
The steward stopped just past the base of the staircase and turned toward the assembled staff.
“This is Her Grace, Frances Serenna Elarion, Duchess of Foher,” he announced with all the enthusiasm of someone announcing a drought.
No one cheered.
A few nodded.
Most said nothing.
Fran stood in the silence, her shoulders straight.
And then came the glances.
Quick and sharp, exchanged like knives behind half-covered mouths.
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The tall footman to the left murmured something to the maid beside him — a short, sharp laugh followed. A kitchen boy behind the pillar snorted. The stablemaster, a leathery-faced man with gloves tucked into his belt, raised one eyebrow and smirked as if he were being forced to call a goat his lady.
“That’s the Duchess?” someone whispered too loudly.
“Looks like she got lost on the way to the herb market.”
“That coat—what is it, peasant wool?”
“I’ve seen better posture on a sack of flour.”
Fran said nothing.
She kept her eyes fixed on the chandelier.
Glimpses of Future Names
Only two faces stood apart from the rest.
A young maid, perhaps seventeen, thin as a reed with red curls and nervous hands, kept stealing glances at her with something close to curiosity.
And a guard, standing just inside the archway — not one of the polished ducal knights, but someone posted there on duty. He was in his thirties, with a straight spine and tired eyes. His gaze was unreadable, but he did not look away when she met it.
She nodded.
He nodded back — barely — but it was not mockery.
It was the only moment of decency in the room.
Her Quarters
The steward led her down three corridors, through two antechambers, and up a narrow servant stair until finally they reached the Duchess’s apartments.
They opened the door.
Fran stepped in.
It was too much.
Three rooms. A sitting area with a fireplace. A wardrobe large enough for five of her. A bathing chamber. And the bedroom — larger than her entire house in Candlekeep.
A four-poster bed, half a dozen windows, velvet drapes, and a mirror taller than she was.
Her bags were already there, stacked like forgotten luggage.
The cats mewed angrily from their cage.
The door closed behind her with a finality that echoed in her spine.
She didn’t move.
Not for a long time.
Just stood there in the center of the room, her fingers tightening around the cold ring hidden in her coat pocket.
No tears came.
She had cried already — back at the inn, with the envoy looking on, her voice cracked and her hands shaking like a fool.
That had been a mistake.
She wouldn’t make it again.
“They want me to cry,” she said softly, into the silence. “They want me to break.”
She crossed to the window.
The sun was sinking behind the towers of Vartis, gilding the upper walls and turning the valley below into a blue-grey blur.
From here, she could see the rooftops stretching into the mist.
The city was watching.
Waiting.
“I won’t give them the pleasure,” she whispered.
She wasn’t a Duchess.
Not yet.
But she would not let them see her fall.
Not today.
