Their Chance 🤎 by MBM at Inkitt

ONE

Chapter (1)

Leviticus — Late Evening — Age 28

The governor’s study was a room designed for control.

Everything within it obeyed a kind of quiet order that Leviticus recognized immediately upon entering. The shelves were lined with neatly arranged ledgers and bound volumes, each placed with deliberate intention rather than convenience.

The desk itself was broad and polished to a reflective sheen, its surface occupied only by what was necessary—ink, correspondence, a single brass seal. Even the candles burned evenly, their wicks trimmed, their flames steady. Nothing here was accidental..

He sat opposite Governor Barnett with a posture that appeared relaxed but was anything but careless. One leg crossed over the other, his long frame folded with precise economy, his glass held loosely between his fingers. The amber liquid inside caught the candlelight with each subtle movement, glowing warm against the otherwise restrained tones of the room.

He had already taken note of the exits.

Already measured the distance between the desk and the door.

Already decided that this meeting, whatever its purpose, would not be worth the interruption to his evening.

Governor Barnett poured another drink.

The sound of liquid filling glass carried softly through the room, unhurried and deliberate. When he offered it, Leviticus accepted without comment, more out of politeness than desire. He did not drink to enjoy himself. He drank because it dulled the edges of memory just enough to make sleep possible when it came.

For a time, the conversation remained neutral. Village matters. Supply routes. The quiet unease threading through nearby territories. It was all surface-level discourse, the kind meant to establish rhythm before something more pointed was introduced.

Leviticus waited.

He did not need to ask.

Governor Barnett leaned back slightly in his chair, studying him with a gaze that was no longer casual. It was measured now. Intentional.

“The King has written to me,” he began.

Leviticus did not react outwardly. He lifted his glass, taking a slow, controlled sip, his attention fixed but unreadable behind the thin lenses of his spectacles.

“He and his advisors,” the governor continued, “have taken notice of your… habits.”

A pause followed. long enough to carry implication.

Leviticus set his glass down with quiet precision, the base meeting the coaster without a sound beyond the faintest touch.

“My habits,” he repeated, his tone even, giving nothing away.

“Your reputation,” Barnett clarified. “Your… indulgences with women . The frequency with which you are seen in the company of women who are not your wife.”

Leviticus almost smiled at that.

Almost.

“I was not aware,” he said smoothly, “that I had ever given the impression I possessed one.”

The governor did not return the humor.

“The King is pushing for you to take a wife .”

There it was.

Leviticus regarded the statement without immediate response. He did not reach for his drink again. Instead, he let the silence settle, examining the proposition with the same clinical detachment he applied to his work.

Marriage.

Not an unfamiliar concept. Not even an unreasonable one in the eyes of the court.

But for him…

It was a complication.

A constraint.

A variable introduced into a life he had carefully structured to avoid precisely that.

“The kingdom stands months from the brink of war with the Dark Elves,” he said at last, his voice calm but edged with quiet resistance. “This is hardly the time for me to be tethered to a domestic arrangement.”

Barnett exhaled, as though he had expected the response.

“All the more reason,” he replied.

Leviticus’s gaze sharpened slightly, though his posture remained unchanged.

“My condolences to you and your brothers,” the governor added, his tone softening. “The Taverns were… exceptional people. Your parents, especially. Their loss was felt well beyond your household.”

For a brief moment, something in Leviticus stilled.

He inclined his head once, acknowledging the sentiment without inviting further discussion.

“That was two years ago,” Barnett continued, the softness giving way to something firmer. “Grief does not entitle a man to abandon all sense of restraint.”

Leviticus’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against the arm of his chair.

“You cannot drink your way through loss,” the governor went on. “Nor can you distract yourself from itby whoring through women .”

There was truth in that.Leviticus knew it.

He simply did not accept that the alternative being offered held any more appeal.

“The King has allowed you a great deal of freedom,” Barnett said, rising now and moving toward the desk as he finished his drink. “You have remained diligent in your work. Your service to this village has not gone unnoticed.”

Leviticus followed him with his eyes, attentive despite himself.

“He wants you at court,” the governor said. “As Royal Healer. You are, by all accounts, the finest surgeon in the kingdom.”

“But for now,” Barnett continued, turning back toward him, “he will accept a gesture. A sign of loyalty.”

A pause.

“A wife.”

The word lingered in the air.

Leviticus considered it in silence, weighing not the emotional implications, but the practical ones. Obligation. Visibility. Expectation. A presence in his life that would require attention he had no interest in giving.

He did not want a wife.

More precisely—

He did not want what came with one.

Attachment.

Vulnerability.

Loss.

He had already endured that once.and He had no intention of repeating it.

Slowly, he reached up and adjusted his spectacles, a small, habitual motion that gave him the space to finalize his response.

Then he stood..

“Thank you, Governor Barnett,” he said, his voice composed and cool. “I shall write to the King.”

It was neither agreement nor refusal.

Merely acknowledgment.

He buttoned his dark green coat with practiced ease, each motion precise.

“Give Mrs. Barnett my regards.”

Without waiting for dismissal, he turned and made for the door.

The conversation, as far as he was concerned, had ended.

The servant opened the study door before he reached it, bowing slightly as he stepped aside.

Leviticus passed through without breaking stride.

The corridor beyond was quieter, the air lighter than the weight he had just left behind. Candlelight lined the walls, casting a steady glow across polished floors and soft tapestries

He moved through it quickly.

His thoughts had already returned to the matter at hand.

Marriage.

The king’s request, though framed as optional, was anything but. Refusal would not be without consequence. Compliance, however, presented its own complications.

There would need to be a solution.

A way to satisfy the expectation without surrendering control.

A strategic arrangement, perhaps. Temporary. Functional. Devoid of entanglement.

Yes.

That could work.

It would require the right candidate.

Someone agreeable. Uncomplicated. Easily managed.

Someone who would not interfere.

He stepped through the open doors leading outside.

Cool evening air met him immediately, carrying the faint scent of earth and distant greenery. The manor grounds stretched before him, softened by twilight and carefully maintained to reflect the governor’s sense of order.

Leviticus descended the steps without slowing, his attention still fixed inward, refining the outline of a solution that would allow him to navigate this demand on his own terms.

He did not look down.

And that was his mistake.

His foot caught against something unexpected.

His balance shifted before he could correct it.

For a brief, uncharacteristically unguarded moment, control slipped.

he fell forward falling down the seond part if the decending step that goes into a circular garden around tge estate . But two pairs of shoes as nd a body face into a bustle if flowerbeds.

The impact was sharp enough to force a breath from his lungs, his shoulder striking the ground as the world tilted out of alignment. It was not a catastrophic fall, but it was abrupt, inelegant, and wholly unwelcome.

A soft startled voice broke the stillness.

“Oh!”

Leviticus pushed himself up immediately, irritation surfacing first, swift and instinctive. His movements were efficient, his composure returning almost as quickly as it had been disrupted.

“I— I’m so sorry, my lord,” she said quickly, her voice soft but clear. “I didn’t realize anyone was coming down. I was just trying to replant them before the light faded.”

Leviticus rose fully to his feet, brushing off his coat with a sharp, efficient motion.

“You were directly in my path,” he said, his tone cool, the edge of his irritation still present.

The fall irritated him more than it should have.

Not for the pain. That was negligible. He had endured far worse with far less reaction.

It was the loss of control that unsettled him.

Until he looked down at her.

She was still kneeling among the flowers, half-turned toward him, her basket overturned, petals scattered like fragments of something softer than the world he occupied. Her skin held a rich, warm tone that seemed to gather the fading light rather than reflect it, as though dusk itself had settled gently against her. And her hair Thick and Long.

A cascade of natural waves and curls, dark as ink and full with quiet life, spilling forward over one shoulder as she moved..her skin was like dark smooth cocoa.

She looked up at him then, startled her expression open in a way he found immediately disarming.

“Again I’m so sorry, my lord,” she said, her voice soft, carrying a gentle brightness that did not feel rehearsed. “I didn’t realize anyone was coming down the steps or that their were visitor on the estate .”she explained with a soft quickness

Leviticus did not respond to the apology.

Instead—He stepped closer.

His eyes moved over her quickly,. The way he would observe a patient. Taking in posture, movement, responsiveness.

“You were kneeling,” he said. “For how long?”

She blinked, clearly not expecting the question.

“…I’m not certain,” she admitted. “A little while, I suppose.”

His gaze dropped briefly to her hands.

Soil along her fingers. No tremor. No visible strain.

“You did not hear the door open?”

“I… was focused.”

“That is evident.” He said.

Ava tilted her head slightly, studying him in return now, though far more gently than he studied her.

“I didn’t think anyone would come out this way so quickly,” she added, almost as if she were offering him something to soften the moment. “The flowers needed tending, and I thought—”

“You thought incorrectly,” he interrupted, though his tone lacked the earlier bite.

His attention shifted again.

To the flowers.

Crushed.or they should have been.He was certain of it.

And yet—

As she gathered them, turning one gently between her fingers, the stem did not hang broken. The petals, though disturbed, had not withered in the way fresh damage often caused.

Leviticus frowned, stepping closer without realizing he had done so.

“Show me,” he said.

Ava hesitated, then lifted one of the flowers in her hand.

“This one?” she asked softly.

He reached for it.

Their fingers brushed just slightly.

He took the flower, turning it with careful precision, his expression sharpening behind his lenses.

“This was beneath me,” he said. “It should be damaged.”

Ava glanced at it, then back at him.

“I suppose it’s stronger than it looks,” she said, a small, almost amused warmth touching her voice. “Not everything delicate is fragile, my lord.”

Leviticus’s gaze lifted to hers again, slower this time.

Her pulse is steady, he observed instinctively. No sign of distress.

“You are not injured?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“No, my lord.”

“No bruising? Strain? You were partially beneath my footing.”

Her lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, but something close.

“I promise you,” she said gently, “I am quite alright.

Leviticus straightened slightly, studying her in silence for a moment longer than necessary.

She does not react as expected, he thought.

She gathered the remaining flowers, placing them carefully back into her basket, movements light, almost rhythmic.

“You care for these personally?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, glancing up at him. “They’re part of the front garden. I like to keep them alive.”

“Like to,” he repeated. “Not assigned to?”

She shook her head.

“No. I just… enjoy it.”

Leviticus adjusted his spectacles, though he had no need to.

“You derive satisfaction from preservation,” he said, more to himself than to her.

Ava’s expression brightened slightly at that, as though something in his words had pleased her.

“I suppose I do,” she said. “It feels nice to help something grow instead of watching it fade.”.

Leviticus held her gaze, something quieter settling beneath his usual sharpness.

Then, as if remembering himself, he stepped back.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings,” he said, the sternness returning, though tempered now. “Not all missteps end as… inconsequentially as this one.”

“I will be,” she replied softly. “Thank you.”

Thank you.

For what?

The correction?

The fall?

He did not ask.

Instead, he turned to leave.

One step.

Then another.

But again—

Without turning, he spoke.

“What is your name?”