The wind was colder than she remembered.

  Fran tightened her cloak as the gates of Vartis came into view, the rising shape of Calven’s Rise already touched with the pale hues of late afternoon. Somewhere behind her, the last leaves of autumn still clung to the trees like regrets that hadn’t yet learned to let go.

  A year. Almost a year since she had crossed those same gates for the first time — not as a healer, not as a stranger in a borrowed cloak, but as Duchess. Back then, she had barely known where to stand during a council meeting. Now, the weight of those rooms was as familiar as the ache in her spine.

  Candlekeep felt like a different life. A quieter one — made of herbs, and floors to scrub, and ink-stained fingers. Warm baths on long evenings. Books she wasn’t supposed to read. She’d once thought she would never leave.

  But since then, she had travelled more miles than she had in all the years before. Candlekeep to Vartis. Then Velarith. Orveil. Virevale. Delran’s Hollow. And now she was preparing for the eastern baronies. An entire map’s worth of names. A life she had never chosen — and yet, one she carried as if it had always been hers.

  The carriage creaked to a halt just past the inner gates, wheels muddy from the last stretch of road. Fran stepped down, her hand brushing the side of the door more from habit than need. Behind her, Lady Corenne Olyan followed in silence. The rest of the small retinue — half a dozen guards, Lieutenant Verren, the coachman, and a sleepy footman — moved with quiet efficiency, glad to be home.

  A few guards straightened as she passed, and a young clerk gave her a clumsy bow. Her steps led her toward the inner gates, toward the part of the palace that still bore the warmth of the day — when a familiar voice called behind her.

  “You’ve brought the autumn back with you, it seems. Or perhaps it only waited for your return.”

  Fran turned, unsurprised to find Lord Alven Daskar approaching — gloved hands behind his back, that familiar smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The same smile that had once made her pulse quicken in Candlekeep.

  “I hope you didn’t bring too much southern rain,” he added, stepping closer than protocol required. “We’ve had quite enough damp politics for one season.”

  “Just a few gusts,” she replied. “They tend to follow me.”

  He glanced sideways. “Poetic, Duchess. That’s new.”

  The word landed oddly. He’d used her title, yes — but in that same amused tone he used years ago, back when her name alone was enough. Fran didn’t respond at once, and something in her stillness made his confident smile falter slightly.

  “Don’t,” she said simply.

  Alven’s laugh came out strained, the sound of someone who’d miscalculated and was trying to recover. He let a beat of silence pass before speaking again. “I heard about Delran’s Hollow. Word travels.” His voice carried that old warmth she remembered. “Going yourself, getting mud on your boots... some might call it reckless.”

  “Some might.” Fran kept her tone level.

  “I’d call it brave. Then again, I always did appreciate your... unconventional approaches.”

  The pause was deliberate. So was her silence.

  They walked a few steps more. For once, Alven didn’t push. But just as they reached the threshold of the main courtyard, he spoke again — quieter this time.

  “There’s a hill behind the Academy. Do you remember it? With the three ruined arches?”

  “I remember,” she said carefully.

  “You used to go there to read. Sometimes I’d find you there.” His voice dropped slightly. “We’d talk for hours. About books. About... other things.”

  Fran stopped walking. “Alven.”

  “I know. I know you’re—” His eyes dropped to her hand, to the ring that caught the late afternoon light. “But he’s not here. And we are.”

  She looked at him, sharp as ever. “Are you quite done?”

  His smile flickered — caught between boyish charm and something more calculating. “For now.”

  “Good. Because I am.” She turned toward the west wing without another word, leaving him with the distinct impression that fifteen years had taught her to see through charm she’d once found irresistible.

  Fran’s study was colder than usual, the air tasting faintly of dust and abandonment—familiar, yet oddly distant after several days away. She closed the door gently behind her, drawing a slow breath as she shed her cloak and gloves, stretching her fingers as if trying to release the tension still caught in their joints.

  She was home, yet something in her still felt raw. Delran’s Hollow lingered stubbornly in her thoughts. Those burnt pastures, blood spilled over boundaries invisible to anyone but men who valued pride over peace. Her ruling had been just, necessary—and yet heavy, as all justice seemed to be. Fran rolled her shoulders, feeling the familiar ache settle deeper into her muscles.

  And then there was Alven. The memory of their exchange lingered oddly, his flirtation and thinly veiled intentions mingling awkwardly with the day’s darker concerns. Fran had deflected him, yes—but the very attempt felt unsettling. Alven’s charm was a relic, something that belonged to another life. Another Fran, younger and less burdened, might have smiled more readily. Now she only felt puzzled, faintly irritated—and perhaps just a little sorry for him.

  She shook herself, trying to dismiss it, and stepped further into the room. Two green eyes appeared immediately from beneath her reading chair, glaring with offended dignity.

  “Nymph,” Fran murmured, smiling despite herself. “I see forgiveness is out of the question.”

  The cat turned with regal contempt, presenting her with a disdainful tail and vanishing behind the curtain. Rudy was nowhere to be seen, undoubtedly curled on his pillow in a pointed sulk. Fran sighed, resigned to making amends later, when feline pride had been satisfied.

  She crossed to her desk, running her fingers along the smooth wood, trying to ground herself. Her eyes moved slowly over the stacked documents and letters, left neatly by servants. A few days’ absence meant piles of unread correspondence, each waiting impatiently for her attention.

  She began sorting them, mechanical at first, until her fingers brushed against an envelope of finer parchment. Something about its texture caught her attention immediately. Fran stilled.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  She knew the handwriting without needing to see the name. Elegant loops and unnecessary flourishes—Gale’s hand, unmistakably. Her heartbeat quickened as she tore the envelope open, the faint scent of distant spices and salt wafting from the paper as she unfolded it.

  My dearest storm,

  Forgive the silence—although, knowing you, you’re probably enjoying it. I intended to write sooner; indeed, I did write sooner. Seven attempts, each more hopelessly inadequate than the last. Ludmilla, my so-called mentor, caught me mid-draft and mocked me mercilessly. But here, finally, is something worthy of you—or as close as I’ll ever get.

  The journey from Vartis was miserably typical. The barge moved at the speed of melting candle wax, the weather was relentlessly spiteful, and I spent half the trip soaked, and the other half losing an argument to a goose with territorial issues. Kentar itself is as insufferable and alluring as ever: all silk, salt, and calculated smiles. I would say you’d hate it, but then again, you’ve tolerated Vartis—and me.

  I briefly encountered my brother—if “encountered” can describe a conversation that felt more like stepping barefoot on broken glass. It was civil, swift, and completely pointless. He remains alive, unchanged, and infuriating. I will spare you the tedious details and myself the lingering bitterness.

  I’ve taken rooms at a modest inn near the Scarlet Crescent—near enough to Ludmilla to gain her advice, far enough to avoid strangling her daily. Ludmilla Yperion, since you mercifully haven’t had the pleasure, is my former master, mentor, tormentor, and occasional saviour. She resides in decadent exile on the Crescent’s highest floor, surrounded by velvet, bitterness, and too many mirrors. Despite this—or perhaps because of it—she’s grudgingly agreed to assist in my investigation. And by “assist,” I mean mock me mercilessly while occasionally providing useful scraps.

  She has an apprentice, Daimon Zaon, an unsettlingly talented boy with an admiration for my older work that borders on obsession. He looks at me as if I’m a legend sprung to life; it’s uncomfortable, flattering, and deeply unnerving. You’d frighten him senseless and probably enjoy it.

  Our investigation crawls along. I’ve talked to merchants, thieves, sailors, and more liars than even I’m comfortable with. Our quarry, Ressan, remains elusive, a shadow slipping between each clue we find. But rest assured, Fran: I’ll find him. Or I’ll drown in Kentar’s damned canals trying.

  And now, since I’ve failed to distract myself with pleasantries: I miss you. Desperately. Predictably. Constantly. I miss your silence—especially when it’s aimed at me. I miss how your eyebrows convey more than any speech. I miss your absurd insistence on parsley being a spice rather than an ornamental weed. I miss the unbearable coldness of your feet against my legs at night. Most of all, I miss the quiet way you grip my hand when you’re troubled, as if afraid I might vanish.

  I don’t know when I’ll return. Soon, if fortune smiles. Until then, bear my absence as best you can—by insulting my cooking or plotting exactly how you’ll scold me when I arrive home.

  Always yours, irritatingly sincere and sincerely irritating,

  Gale

  Fran lowered the letter slowly, exhaling in a rush. She wanted, absurdly, to laugh and cry in equal measure. Trust Gale to fill silence with poetry and sarcasm, honesty hidden behind layers of self-assured charm. Her chest tightened as she read his evasiveness again—his brother, his investigation, his casual lies as clear as daylight beneath elaborate wording. Typical Gale. Pretending everything was manageable when clearly it wasn’t. Pretending he wasn’t afraid, lost, or lonely.

  Idiot.

  Yet, beneath her irritation and frustration, relief bloomed, bright and painful. He was alive. Safe enough to mock and irritate her from hundreds of miles away. Fran clenched her jaw, feeling a wave of longing so sharp it surprised her.

  She was about to fold the letter when something small and almost illegible caught her attention at the very bottom corner of the page. Fran squinted, holding it closer to the fading daylight. She tilted it carefully toward the lamp, barely deciphering Gale’s tiny, elegant scrawl:

  You’ll need better lighting to read this, Duchess, or you might miss these essential instructions:

  Next time, when you decide to do that scandalous thing with your tongue, at least knock first. Unless, of course, you’d prefer I surprise you instead. Either way, the wall is still scratched—and so am I.

  Fran’s mouth fell open, heat rising swiftly to her cheeks. Scandalous was putting it mildly—and of course, he would dare write it down. Of course, he would leave it as a final, shameless note. She glared at the paper, half furious, half fighting the uncontrollable smile threatening her lips.

  “You insufferable bastard,” she muttered, with far less venom than intended.

  She folded the letter carefully, resisting the sudden urge to crush it against her chest. Instead, she brushed it quickly across her lips—just once, furtively—and tucked it into the desk drawer beneath empty parchment, out of sight.

  She leaned back, listening to the quiet. Eventually, Nymph emerged from hiding, hopping gracefully onto her lap in dignified forgiveness. Fran stroked the cat absently, murmuring softly into the empty air: “He’s an idiot. And I love him.”

  A knock at the study door pulled her back to the present. Fran quickly smoothed her expression back into the mask of composed authority as she tucked the lingering warmth away.

  “Enter,” she said, straightening.

  Silja stepped in, all efficient courtesy. “Shall I have your bath prepared, Your Grace? And dinner brought to your chambers or served here?”

  Fran didn’t hesitate. “Here. The bath as soon as possible, and dinner after that. Something light, please.”

  Silja gave a short bow. “Of course, Your Grace.” But before she could turn to leave, another figure appeared behind her — taller, older, framed in the doorway with the quiet steadiness of a man who had waited most of his life before speaking.

  “Sir Rhyve,” Fran said with a nod. “Come in.”

  “Your Grace.” He gave the maid a brief glance and a smile. “Silja, would you mind terribly if I delayed her a moment?”

  “Not at all, sir.” She stepped out with a curtsy and closed the door behind her.

  He entered, still dusted with the scent of the barracks — leather, oil, fresh air. He didn’t sit until she gestured.

  “You’ve read the initial reports from the Hollow?” she asked.

  “I have, Your Grace. Lady Olyan said the tension had eased by the time you departed. Verren’s account echoed that. I gather your presence helped calm matters.”

  “I was not alone,” Fran replied. “But yes, I believe it did. There’s no sign of further unrest. No threats, at least not open ones.”

  “That’s a relief. The southern road has remained quiet so far. I’ve sent extra patrols toward Southbridge, just in case.”

  She nodded and glanced toward the window, where the light was beginning to soften. “The east remains a concern.”

  He followed her gaze. “Agreed. I presume you still intend to travel there?”

  Fran looked back at him. “Yes. In three days. That should be enough to finalize the harvest negotiations and arrange protection.”

  He studied her for a moment. “You just returned, Frances.”

  The use of her name was soft, almost chiding. But his concern was real.

  “I’ll manage,” she said, gently but firmly. “I’m not planning another argument in the dirt, only a visit. A presence. I want them to see the duchy remembers they exist.”

  “Will Lady Olyan accompany you again?”

  “No. She’ll remain here for the moment.” Fran leaned back in her chair. “But Lieutenant Verren will bring a proper escort. He and his men were efficient and composed during the Hollow affair. Please thank them on my behalf.”

  “I will. They spoke highly of your conduct as well. And—” Rhyve hesitated. “Lord Daskar left the palace shortly after your arrival. I believe he meant to return to Durnhal, though he hasn’t said as much.”

  Fran’s expression didn’t shift. “Let him go. I’ll send word when I’m ready.”

  “I’ll see to the arrangements,” he said, rising to leave.

  She watched him go, her fingers absently tapping the desk. There was something she needed to know—something Gale had glossed over with his usual charm.

  “Sir Rhyve?”

  He turned. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Have you ever been to Kentar?”

  He blinked at her. “Many years ago. Briefly.”

  “Do you know anything about the Scarlet Crescent?”

  The knight stilled, and a faint pink touched the line beneath his beard.

  “It’s a, ah, well-known establishment,” he said cautiously. “Quite respectable… in its own way.”

  Fran arched an eyebrow. “Its own way?”

  “Entertainers,” he clarified. “Of a… particular reputation.”

  “I see.” She returned her gaze to the parchment, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Thank you.”

  “Might I ask why, Your Grace?”

  She waved a hand, already pretending to skim another report. “Curiosity. I saw the name mentioned recently—briefly, in something I read.”

  “Indeed,” he murmured, clearly eager to take his leave now.

  When the door closed behind him, Fran allowed herself the smallest exhale. The Scarlet Crescent. Of course Gale would find the most complicated place in Kentar to conduct his “investigation.”

  She opened the drawer and touched the letter’s edge once more. Her idiot. Alive, infuriating, and apparently frequenting brothels in pursuit of dangerous men.

  She was definitely going to kill him when he got home.