Chapter 1
It stopped.
Silence filled the hallway so suddenly that Damian remained still for a moment, breathing unevenly. Yet, the crushing weight of the melody refused to leave him, echoing beneath his skin like something alive, sharp enough to hurt. Every lingering note sent a cold shiver through his body, as if the music itself had found a way to carve into him.
He pressed his palm against the cold wall of the empty corridor, forcing his mind back to reality.
Around the corner, the quiet echo of deliberate footsteps made him draw a sharp breath. In an instant, the tremor in his hands ceased. His posture straightened, every trace of tension shifting into a mask of total composure.
Alex stepped into the corridor, holding a leather-bound folder. As always when facing the Grand Duke, he instinctively adjusted his jacket and lowered his gaze slightly.
To Alex—and to anyone in Diemna—Grand Duke Damian Ignis was less of a man and more of an unshakable force. Standing tall with his dark navy hair and unreadable green eyes, His Grace looked utterly untouchable. There was no flaw in his posture, no sign of fatigue after hours of brutal military training, not a single hair out of place. That was what everybody believed. Except him.
Alex approached with the quiet deference reserved for a formidable leader.
"Your Grace," Alex said, bowing his head. "The documents for the new military equipment are prepared. They only require your final seal."
"Good," Damian replied. His voice was smooth, dark, and perfectly steady—a sharp contrast to the silent agony still throbbing behind his ribs. "Bring them to the study."
The two men walked in silence, Alex trailing half a step behind, the folder pressed to his chest like a shield. Inside the study, Damian settled behind his desk and held out his hand. Alex laid the documents in front of him one by one, and for a while there was only the scratch of the quill and the low crackle of the fire.
"Anything else?" Damian asked without looking up.
Alex hesitated for a moment. "...Lady Claire doesn't seem very pleased. Perhaps answering her letters would help."
Damian's hand stilled over the parchment. Her letters sat somewhere beneath the military reports, unopened, because he could not bring himself to care about the things she wanted him to care about—her wardrobe, her schedule, the precise wording of his affection. It wasn't her fault. She was exactly what a Duke was supposed to want. He simply couldn't remember agreeing to want her.
He said nothing, and Alex, reading the silence correctly, let out a tired sigh and left the study. Left alone, Damian leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. For a moment, in the dark behind his eyelids, he almost heard it again—that same melody, distant now, like something calling from the other side of a locked door.
The next evening, preparations began for the prince's ball. His mother, Natasha, had returned from her countryside estate for the occasion, and Damian went to greet her before they departed together for the palace.
"You must be exhausted after the journey," Damian said. "You should rest for a while."
"I'm fine, dear. The ride was only two hours, so I'm not that tired." Natasha smiled, stroking his cheek. "Look at you. You are truly a noble gentleman."
She was a quiet woman who had lost her husband a few years ago. She had gray hair and a thoughtful face, yet she carried herself with a rare, effortless elegance that made people forget how tired her eyes could look when she thought no one was watching.
They were shown into the grand salon to collect Lady Claire before departing for the palace. Claire looked him up and down, her smile turning tight the moment she noticed his clothes. "It is a lovely suit, Your Grace," she said, her voice dripping with sweet disappointment. "Though, had you answered any of my letters over the last two weeks, we might have actually matched."
"Claire, look how beautiful you are," Natasha said smoothly, stepping in before the silence could stretch too long. "You grow more graceful every time I see you."
Claire quickly dipped into a flawless bow. "Greetings, Your Grace. I am so honored by your words. I only wish to never disappoint."
"You never do, my dear," Natasha replied smoothly. "But come, let us head to the carriage. We must not arrive at the palace after the royal family."
The ball was incredibly boring—a complete waste of time for Damian. Once the royal family officially opened the evening and the waltz began, he had no choice but to lead Lady Claire onto the dance floor.
While keeping up appearances during the dance, Damian’s sharp eyes caught his mother slipping away toward the grand terrace. A discreetly dressed man had approached her, and Natasha, her face suddenly pale with fear, urgently guided the stranger out into the darkened gardens.
Sweeping Claire through a final turn, Damian politely excused himself, ignoring her annoyed protest, and followed them into the shadows.
"How dare you appear before me and spout such nonsense?" Natasha’s whisper cut through the night air, sharp as a blade.
"Your Grace, I beg you," the man pleaded, his voice laced with desperation. "I only need to speak to your son."
Natasha stepped closer, her eyes flashing with a dangerous coldness. "One wrong step around my son, and I will completely forget my manners. Do not make me show you what I am truly capable of."
"Mother? Is everything alright?" Damian stepped out from the dark alley.
The stranger flinched. "With your permission, Your Graces, I shall take my leave," he mumbled, keeping his face hidden in the shadows as he hurried away into the darkness.
Damian looked from the retreating figure to his mother. "Who was that?"
"Nothing to worry about, dear," Natasha said, her face instantly melting back into her usual gentle smile. "Just some unfinished business between me and Her Majesty. She is still quite angry with me for spending so many years away from court."
After the ball, they rode back to the estate in silence, the carriage wheels grinding softly over wet cobblestones. Natasha kept her gaze fixed on the darkened window, her hands folded too carefully in her lap, as though holding something in place. Damian watched her reflection rather than her face, searching for a crack in the composure she had rebuilt so quickly in the garden. He found none. She was good at this—better than he was, most nights. By the time they reached the gates, the melody from that morning had returned to him, curling somewhere at the edge of his thoughts. He didn't mention it. Some things, even he couldn't understand, were easier to carry alone than to explain.
