Chapter 40 Marcella woke to morning sun pressing against the curtains - warm, filtered, and far gentler than her thoughts. Today, she would meet the Montclairs, her new family. If one could call them wolves in velvet. Marcella stood in front of the long mirror, the silk of her crimson gown cascading down like melted wine around her. Lira tied the last ribbon at the back of her bodice. "You look... radiant, milady," Lira murmured, eyes lingering on Marcella's shoulders. She draped a heavy traveling cloak across her arms. "The Duchess of Cardania." Outside, the bridal carriage waited. It gleamed white as bone, lacquered ivory trimmed with gold. Its velvet-lined interior was so dark it swallowed the light entirely. Something about it made her pause. Berith did not greet her at the door. Instead, he came from the stables, astride a black stallion. The wind caught the hem of his coat, giving him the look of a phantom torn from a forgotten war painting. The road to Ashenholt stretched through the belly of the North like a scar. As the hours passed, the landscapes changed - green gave way to frostbitten earth, wild forests thinning, skies bleeding into grey. The journey to the North was not easy. They stopped once for rest, and again near sunset. Marcella barely noticed the time pass. Her eyes rarely left the curtained window, watching as the world grew colder, older, stranger. Once or twice, she saw Berith's figure riding beside the carriage. She didn't speak to him, nor he called to her. When the carriage finally creaked to a halt, it was near dusk. Marcella stirred awake, her head lifting from the cushioned rest. The temperature had dropped, noticeably so. The air outside was thin and cold, biting even through the glass pane. It smelled different too-clean, crisp, touched with pine and iron. This was Ashenholt. Outside, Berith had already stepped out with his gloved hand extended to her. Marcella hesitated before placing her hand in his. His fingers wrapped gently around hers as she descended. The moment her boots touched the stones of the courtyard, the cold clawed up her spine. Ashenholt had not changed. The manor towered like an ancient relic from a crueler century-tall, wind-beaten, and ruthless in its architecture. There was no warmth here, not even in the way the last of the sun kissed the eaves. Power was carved into its bones and mercy had no place in its stone. Berith did not release her hand as they approached the doors. Instead, midway through the walk, he offered his arm. Marcella glanced sideways at him but said nothing. She looped her hand through his elbow and straightened her spine, walking ahead with matching strides. Almost instantly, the great doors at the far end swung open. A gust of stale, cold air spilled out and so did the past. They stood waiting just beyond the threshold, as though summoned from a memory. The Montclairs. Lady Elyria Montclair stood at the center, dressed in midnight blue velvet embroidered with silver so fine it looked spun from starlight. Her red hair, pinned in a regal braid, shimmered with frost pearls. She was Berith's mother. To her right was Lord Cassar Montclair-Berith's uncle. A lean man with the face of a carving, all hollows and angles. He wore his age like armor. The silver rings on his fingers bore the ancient symbols of the bloodline, catching the dying light like old knives. And then there was Aurelia Montclair. Younger, yes. But just as Marcella remembered her. Wine-dark curls and a face too pretty for the cruelty in her gaze. Her lips curled, half amused, half predatory as if already evaluating Marcella and finding her... interesting. Marcella squinted, her gaze sweeping over them like a scholar examining old texts. They were exactly as she remembered them. Berith greeted them first, "Mother. Uncle. Aurelia." Lady Elyria stepped ahead, arms spreading wide in a graceful arc. Her voice was as crisp as the air. "Welcome home, Berith. And you..." Her eyes settled on Marcella. "You must be the new Duchess." Marcella held her head high, her hand still resting neatly on Berith's arm. "It's an honor to meet you," she greeted. "Mother-in-law," Marcella added with a polished smile. That earned her the first flicker of surprise. Not disapproval-no, the Montclairs were far too disciplined for that. But curiosity. As though Elyria were recalculating her assumptions. A muscle ticked in Lady Elyria's jaw before she nodded. "Indeed." "Well, well," Cassar drawled, folding his hands behind his back. "So soon in love, are we? The Duke offering his arm like a true gentleman-how rare." His eyes flicked between the joined arms of the couple. Marcella felt the subtle flex of his arm as if something in him had stirred. She straightened her spine and tightened her hold. "We aim to make a convincing match," she replied smoothly, her tone dripped with velvet irony. "Isn't that what appearances are for, my lord?" Cassar's eyes gleamed at her quick tongue, but before he could retort, Aurelia's voice chimed in, honeyed and dangerous. "Oh, I don't think they're pretending at all," she said, tilting her head with a knowing smile. "Look how tightly she holds him. One would think she feared we might snatch him away." Marcella tilted her head back, her lashes low as she met Aurelia's eyes. "I see no reason to pretend," Berith interrupted, glancing first at Cassar, then at Aurelia. "Lady Marcella holds my arm because she chooses to. If that unsettles you..." He paused, his mouth twisting into a devilish grin. "Then perhaps it should." That silence afterward was brief. Even Lady Elyria paused, a single brow lifting in what might've been approval... or warning. Cassar cleared his throat and let out a brief, uncomfortable laugh trying to break the silence. "Barely wed and already so protective, are we, Your Grace?" he muttered, waving one hand. "Come," he said, gesturing toward the hall behind them. "You'll want to wash the road from your bones before supper." Marcella and Berith followed them. The great doors groaned closed, shutting out the last light of day, and locking Marcella deeper into the lion's den. The manor's interior was as severe as its exterior, all vaulted stone arches, iron-braced doors, and wood so dark it swallowed candlelight. A house that did not pretend to be kind. Even the sconces flickered cold - flame caught behind iron, reluctant to offer warmth. The corridor walls bore the Montclair crest: a silver serpent coiled around a sword. Marcella followed Berith as a steward led them through the hall. They were shown to the Duke's quarters. Inside her room, the maids had already prepared a bath. Steam curled from the tub, but even the heat felt like a borrowed luxury - something that might vanish the moment she relaxed. *********** The Montclair dining hall was a cathedral of shadows. The ceiling arched impossibly high. At its center, the long table stretched like a black altar set with silver so polished it mirrored flame. Twelve candelabras burned, and yet the room still felt dark, as if it refused to be warmed. Marcella and Berith were the last to arrive. Lady Elyria sat at the head of the table. Cassar Montclair sat to her left, already sipping from his goblet as if the wine helped him tolerate company. Aurelia was on the right, toying a spoon between her fingers like she was bored before they'd even started. "Ah," Cassar drawled, curling his lips, "the bride and her silent knight." Berith guided Marcella, escorting her to the seat beside him. Before he sat, he glanced at his uncle, "I find silence far less exhausting than small talk, and far more civil than old gossip." Cassar gave a low chuckle. "Always a sword in that mouth of yours, boy." "Then you've taught me well," Berith returned, unfazed. Lady Elyria's gaze swept over Marcella. "Cardanian silk," she noted, voice like frost on glass. "Lovely. Not northern, of course. But... lovely." "A gift from the Empress." Marcella plasted a smooth smile, taking her seat. Cassar threw a skeptical chuckle, "A duchess with ties to the throne already. Impressive." "I make an effort," Marcella returned, "Though some bonds are harder earned than others." "She's quick," Cassar mused. "Sharp-tongued. I see the North won't wear her down easily." Aurelia raised a brow at that, swirling her wine. "Well, you've already wrapped this one around your arm." Her eyes flicked meaningfully to Berith. "That's more than most managed." The first course arrived - a broth of root vegetables and river pheasant. Marcella sipped it, letting the table's energy reveal itself. The Montclairs did not dine like a family. They spoke like a council, formal and strategic. Elyria spoke little but watched much. Cassar filled silence with wine and half-meant jabs. Aurelia's eyes wandered constantly from Marcella's dress to her posture. And Berith... was Berith. Marcella noticed how Elyria's eyes sometimes lingered on her son--it was not like a mother. It was like a chessmaster assessing a piece that had moved without permission as if measuring how far he'd drifted from their orbit. The second course arrived - roasted venison glazed with ashberry wine and dark herbs that perfumed the room like something from a hunting god's altar. Silver knives glinted as they cut into blood-red meat. It was Cassar who broke the lull again. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, "So, Duchess," he said, the title thick with irony, "what do you intend to do with Ashenholt?" Marcella set down her goblet, tilting her head with polite confusion. "Pardon?" Cassar smiled thinly. "You're Berith's wife now. When war calls - and it will, as it always has for our bloodline. This duchy will be yours to run when he rides out. The land. The people. The name. Are you prepared to hold it while your husband bleeds on someone else's battlefield?" A quiet hush fell over the table, subtle as snowfall. Marcella didn't flinch. "I don't pretend I know everything but I've been trained in governance. I listen well. I learn fast. I adapt and I don't scare easily." Elyria's spoon stirred slowly in her teacup, the soft clink of porcelain suddenly loud. "Spoken like a girl raised in silk and sermons," she said. "You've yet to feel what real frost can do to roots untested." Marcella met her gaze without blinking. "That may be true. But I have survived my own battles." A hostile silence charged the atmosphere. Aurelia laughed, the first genuine one of the night. She set down her knife with a soft clatter. "Well," she drawled, "at least she's not boring." Berith's dark irises held Marcella, pining her there. "She won't need to run Ashenholt alone," he said simply, lifting his goblet. "The walls haven't crumbled yet." Marcella sipped her wine, gaze steady on the silver serpent carved into her goblet.Let them test her. Winter had always underestimated fire. Dojun, who married out of necessity and immediately left for a foreign country, suddenly appeared at his marital home and then at his company, without any prior notice. He brought with him several pho...