The Roads Between Us

THE ROADS BETWEEN US

A Historical Romance of the Aluno Empire

Part I — Before the Vows

Chapter 1 — The Four Crowns of the Continent

Seven hundred and seventy years had passed since the founding of the first Empire.

The world had changed immeasurably in those centuries, though it had never entirely escaped the shadows of its older customs.

There were railways now, their iron tracks stretching across valleys and plains, connecting cities that once took weeks to reach by carriage. Steam engines carried passengers between kingdoms, great factories stood at the edges of growing cities, and scholars in academies spent years studying medicine, engineering, architecture, agriculture, chemistry, and the mechanical arts.

Yet the world still belonged, in many ways, to old blood.

The continent was divided among four great Empires.

TheAluno Empireoccupied the western-central lands, a vast dominion of fertile plains, old forests, industrial cities, and four kingdoms bound beneath one imperial crown. Its capital was famous for its stone avenues and government halls, but the Empire’s true strength came from its noble houses, whose lands stretched far beyond the capital.

To its north stood theBremore Empire, known for its colder climate and powerful merchant families.

To the east lay theStivum Empire, where old military traditions remained deeply rooted in noble society.

And beyond the northern mountain ranges was theGlacilaria Empire, whose territories were known for their harsh winters and carefully guarded borders.

None of these Empires were governed by divine right in the sense that their rulers claimed to be gods. There were no gods in this world who walked among men, nor had any supernatural being ever descended from the heavens to appoint kings.

Still, people prayed.

They prayed in small houses of worship found beside roads, in villages, and in crowded cities. These places were less grand than the royal temples of old legends and served ordinary human purposes. People came to them to marry, to make promises before witnesses, to pray for courage, to ask for good fortune, or simply to sit in silence when life became too difficult to bear.

The world had no magic.

It had only people.

And people, with their ambitions, their fears, their tenderness, and their foolishness, had created kingdoms.

Each Empire was ruled by an Emperor and Empress. In the year 770, the four imperial couples were all between forty and fifty-five years of age, having inherited or ascended to their positions at different points in their lives.

But beneath the Emperors stood the kingdoms.

And beneath the kingdoms stood the noble families.

TheAluno Empirecontained four kingdoms.

Bracia, where the story of two families began.

Grelore, a kingdom known for its academies and scholarly institutions.

Peituna, whose lands were rich in agriculture and trade.

AndCruciefere, a region known for its mines, foundries, and developing industries.

The boundaries between the kingdoms were not always visible to travelers. There were no enormous walls separating one from another. Roads crossed their territories, railways connected their capitals, and merchants moved freely under imperial law.

Yet everyone knew where one kingdom ended and another began.

A person knew it by the name attached to their title.

By the estate where their family lived.

By the traditions they followed.

And, most importantly, by the family whose name they carried.

Among the noble families of Bracia were two houses that had maintained a cordial relationship for generations.

The first was theHouse of Valehart.

The second was theHouse of Semora.

Their histories were different.

Their temperaments were different.

Their estates were different.

Yet, years later, people would look back upon them and wonder how fate had managed to bring the two together so perfectly.

The answer, however, was much simpler.

Two girls had once become friends.

And they had been very stubborn about remaining friends.

Chapter 2 — The House of Valehart

The title of Duke of Valehart had existed for generations.

The Valehart lands were situated in Bracia, though the family’s primary residence was in the capital, where the Duke maintained a grand townhouse for official matters, social gatherings, and imperial affairs.

Their country estate, several hours away by train, occupied a large stretch of land surrounded by forests, agricultural fields, and a small lake.

The current Duke of Valehart was a disciplined and respected man.

His wife, the Duchess, was considerably warmer in temperament.

Together they had raised their only biological son,Clifford Valehart.

Clifford was twenty-five years old.

He was the sort of man who made servants straighten their backs when he entered a room.

Not because he was cruel.

He simply possessed an imposing stillness.

He spoke carefully. He moved with purpose. He rarely displayed emotion openly, and his expression remained composed even when circumstances demanded excitement or anger.

The Duke considered these qualities essential for a future head of the family.

Clifford would inherit the title.

He would inherit the estates.

He would inherit the responsibilities that came with them.

And, eventually, he would become the next Duke.

He had been raised with this future in mind.

There was only one thing about Clifford that his parents had never managed to discipline.

His younger sister.

Or rather, his younger sister’s ability to make him forget that he was supposed to be disciplined.

Her name wasSierra.

Sierra had not originally been a member of the main Valehart line.

She belonged to a distant branch of the ducal family, somewhere around the seventh to tenth branches depending upon how the genealogical records were counted.

But blood had not been the reason she became a Valehart.

She had been three months old when tragedy took both of her parents.

There had been no scandal surrounding their deaths.

No mysterious inheritance.

No political intrigue.

Simply an infant left without parents.

The Duke and Duchess had taken her into their home.

At first, everyone had assumed she would grow up as a distant relative under their protection.

Instead, she became their daughter in everything but birth.

And, in time, perhaps even in their hearts more than they had ever expected.

Sierra was doted upon.

Perhaps excessively.

The Duchess indulged her.

The Duke pretended not to.

Clifford did both.

The result was a young woman who possessed absolutely no fear of her elder brother.

Sierra was twenty-one.

She was bright, energetic, reckless, curious, and occasionally impossible.

She had a habit of appearing wherever she was least expected.

She could walk into a formal gathering with dirt on her shoes, claim that she had been studying architecture, and somehow make everyone believe her explanation.

She was not badly behaved by intention.

She simply possessed an extraordinary talent for finding trouble.

Clifford had spent most of his childhood trying to prevent that trouble from reaching her.

He had failed.

Repeatedly.

Sierra’s personality was almost the complete opposite of his.

Where Clifford restrained himself, Sierra expressed herself.

Where he observed, she acted.

Where he considered consequences, she considered possibilities.

And yet the two adored one another.

Their affection was so obvious that even the Duke occasionally wondered whether he had raised two children or one responsible son and one particularly energetic natural disaster.

Clifford’s letters from the years Sierra spent at the academy often contained requests concerning his sister.

Had she eaten properly?

Was she sleeping enough?

Was she still climbing things she shouldn’t?

Was she attending her lectures?

Was she still frightening the household staff?

Sierra’s letters, meanwhile, contained entirely different priorities.

Every month or two, Clifford received a letter demanding something.

Sometimes it was a book.

Sometimes it was a particular drafting instrument.

Once it was a specific type of winter coat she claimed was impossible to find in Grelore.

Another time, she requested a box of sweets that were supposedly essential to her academic concentration.

Clifford knew perfectly well that she could have obtained most of these things herself.

He sent them anyway.

He never complained.

At least not in a manner that reached Sierra.

The Duke and Duchess received similar letters.

The difference was that Sierra wrote to them about her studies.

She wrote to Clifford about everything else.

Chapter 3 — The House of Semora

The House of Semora held the title of Marquess.

Their estates were also situated within Bracia, though their lands were considerably different from those of the Valeharts.

The Semora family had long been associated with agricultural development and trade.

Their lands produced grain, fruits, medicinal plants, and several varieties of crops that were transported throughout the kingdom.

The current Marquess was a thoughtful man who preferred practical matters to grand displays.

His wife was gentle but perceptive, and together they had raised two children.

The first was their son,Hubert Semora.

He was twenty-four.

Hubert had been born with every expectation that he would someday become Marquess.

He was cheerful without being careless, kind without being weak, and responsible without becoming rigid.

People trusted him easily.

He remembered names.

He noticed when servants were tired.

He listened when others spoke.

He was particularly attentive toward his younger sister.

Eirene.

There had been an unusual circumstance surrounding Eirene’s birth.

Two years before she was born, the Marquess and Marchioness had adopted a baby boy.

There had been no political reason.

No inheritance strategy.

No hidden family arrangement.

They had simply wanted a child.

And so they had adopted one.

Two years later, Eirene was born.

The family had never treated the children differently.

Neither had the children treated one another differently.

The boy grew up as Eirene’s older brother.

Not her adopted brother.

Not her half-brother.

Not something that required explanation.

Simply her brother.

And Eirene was his little sister.

That was the only distinction that mattered.

When Eirene was old enough to understand the circumstances of her family’s history, she understood them without difficulty.

The family had never made the matter secret.

Nor had they made it important.

Hubert’s affection for Eirene was unmistakable.

He had been there when she learned to walk.

When she fell from a tree.

When she caught a fever.

When she became frightened during storms.

When she first left home to study.

And when she returned four years later, he would still remember her as the little girl who had once followed him everywhere.

Eirene herself had grown into a very different kind of young woman.

At twenty-two, she was quiet.

Gentle.

Reserved.

She possessed the sort of beauty that did not demand attention but received it anyway.

She rarely spoke unnecessarily.

In unfamiliar company, she could become almost painfully shy.

But those who knew her well understood that her quietness did not mean emptiness.

Eirene possessed a rich inner world.

She imagined possibilities.

She remembered small details.

She was sentimental about things she would never admit were sentimental.

And, secretly, she was an incurable romantic.

The kind of romantic who believed that certain meetings could change a person’s life.

The kind who read old love stories and imagined what it would feel like to be loved with the same devotion.

She simply never expected that the first man who would make her heart behave strangely would be standing beside a railway platform.