Chapter I : “A Silence of Frost and Farewell”
Prologue
Rosfane-Orchidmour, Nineteen Years Ago
The wind wailed low through the chapel towers. Snow clung to the narrow glass panes like lace, and beneath a canopy of frost-kissed roses, a wedding was taking place.
"Do you, Prince Thorne of Orchidmour, take this princess for crown and country?"
“I do,” came his answer steady, but not cold.
And when Princess Seraphina of Rosfane raised her eyes to his pale as frostlight, rimmed with quiet sadness she too replied, “I do.” Though no one had expected warmth between them, a strange gentleness passed in that moment. Not forced. Not rehearsed. Simply there.
Years later, the bards would say theirs was a marriage of power. But the truth lingered in unspoken places behind closed doors and candlelit glances. Love, it seemed, had made its home in the most unlikely of palaces.
They ruled together, and Rosfane-Orchidmour was born an ice-veiled kingdom of Gothic beauty, forged by alliance, sustained by affection.
Yet even love does not quiet courtly expectation.
“Her Majesty is with child,” a maid once whispered outside the chamber door.
“A son,” declared Lord Veremont, eyes bright with ambition. “It must be. The bloodline demands it.”
"Let us pray he bears his father's strength,” said Lady Albrey, already sketching names on her fan.
But it was not a son.
In the rose-draped nursery, where snowlight spilled through the panes, Queen Seraphina lay pale upon silk pillows, her breath weak but calm. A nursemaid held the newborn child in trembling arms.
“A girl,” she said softly, as if trying not to be heard.
Seraphina's head turned. Her voice, brittle as ice, cracked through the hush. “A girl,” she echoed, then fell silent.
The chamber stilled.
Only King Thorne moved forward. He reached for the child small, swaddled, and blinking up at him with dark, glasslike eyes.
“She is perfect,” he murmured. “She shall be named Evangeline.”
From the far side of the chamber, a nobleman scoffed beneath his breath. “A daughter cannot carry a kingdom.”
Thorne turned slowly. “No… but she can outlast one.”
That night, the court dined in quiet discontent. And Queen Seraphina, once radiant, no longer smiled. She held her child, yes but rarely, and always with eyes turned elsewhere.
Two winters passed, and then the bells tolled. The queen had died.
The king stood alone in the chapel, black cloak brushing against stone, the small figure of his daughter beside him. She clung to his gloved hand without sound.
“She shall be sent to House Ashenrose,” Thorne said to the steward. “There, she will learn all that is expected of a lady of her station.”
“Is that wise, Your Majesty?” the steward asked, gently. “The child is still-”
“I have no other choice.” His voice did not break, but it was close. “She must learn to survive a court that never wanted her.”
And so it was.
Princess Evangeline Rosewynne of Rosfane-Orchidmour was sent away before her fifth year. She learned the steps of every waltz before she could name all her ancestors. She memorized poetry and recited it with grace. She held her chin just high enough to be elegant, but never proud.
And through it all, she remained quiet watching the world that had turned its back on her.
Once, at dusk, as snow fell against the Ashenrose balcony, a lady remarked absently over tea, “Such a solemn child… It’s as though she knows something we do not.”
“She listens too well,” said another.
Evangeline said nothing.
She sipped her tea, eyes fixed on the gathering dark beyond the frost.
Ashenrose Estate – Rosfane-Orchidmour, Winter
The world beyond the frost-laced windows of Ashenrose Estate lay still beneath its eternal winter. Snow fell in fine, whispering layers, cloaking every rose arch and iron gate in the hush of white mourning. Cold winds sighed through the stone corridors, though the hearth in the table room burned low with reluctant flame.
At the long walnut table, Princess Evangeline Rosewynne, now nineteen years of age, sat beneath a chandelier of blackened crystal, her hands delicately holding open a weathered poetry volume. Her hair, as dark as thawless soil, was arranged in ringlets bound by garnet pins; her gown, of crimson velvet trimmed in onyx lace, shimmered faintly in the firelight.
She read aloud in a low, even tone:
> "A rose does bloom in silence still,
Though none may know her wish nor will.”
A door creaked open behind her quietly, but not so quiet that she did not notice.
“Do make your entrance known,” she said without glancing up. “Or must I assume the wind now walks upright?”
A soft footstep. Then a voice measured, low, and unmistakably familiar.
“I thought to avoid interrupting your war with rhymed sorrow, Your Highness.”
She closed the book with a faint snap and turned toward the intruder. Louie Ravenshade, Royal Consort and Ambassador of Rosfane-Orchidmour, stood in his customary attire: a black velvet coat trimmed in silver, gloves as pale as frost, and his ever-present brooch a single, withered rose cast in iron. His hair, silvery-blond and neatly tied, framed his expressionless face.
“You are late,” she observed.
“I was summoned.”
“Then tell me swiftly,” she said, rising, “for I feel I shall not like it.”
Louie stepped forward, posture formal as always. “A courier arrived this morning from Eldergarde. Their court has extended a formal invitation. I am to be welcomed among their ranks as a guest and emissary for Rosfane-Orchidmour.”
Evangeline blinked. “Eldergarde…?”
“A kingdom beyond the mountains. Far-reaching, iron-willed, and ever fond of formality.”
“I know of it only through whispers and footnotes,” she murmured. “Do they not still wear ruffs and paint their ceilings with saints?”
Louie did not smile. “Among other peculiarities.”
“You are to go?” she asked, her voice tight despite her best efforts.
“I must,” he answered. “The king has approved it. His Majesty views this as a valuable… gesture of goodwill.”
Evangeline turned her gaze toward the frost-covered window, as if seeking an escape through the snow itself. “Then goodwill has very poor timing.”
“I leave within the week.”
Her hands clenched at her sides. “And I am to remain here, I presume, like some forgotten ward?”
Louie’s eyes, pale and steady, lingered on her. “You are still under education, my lady. Your father’s wish was that you complete your refinement here at Ashenrose before rejoining court.”
“Refinement,” she echoed. “As though I were a dulled blade.”
“You are not dulled,” he said quietly. “But you are not yet free.”
She turned back to him. “You are the only one here who listens. Estelle is hardly a comfort, and the maids cannot speak without trembling. And my father he is a name whispered more than a man remembered.”
Louie inclined his head. “The king is weighed by duty.”
“I am weighed by loneliness,” she retorted.
There was a pause. Then Louie stepped forward and placed a small parcel wrapped in black ribbon upon the table.
“A gift,” he said. “My own writings. Observations. Poetry, should you hunger for it. I thought you might wish for something familiar while I am away.”
Evangeline took the bundle gently, her fingers brushing his gloved hand. “You always say you shall write, yet your letters are cold as the stone floors.”
He met her gaze. “I write to inform. Not to warm.”
“Perhaps that is your tragedy,” she said softly.
They stood in silence, the snow continuing its slow descent outside.
“Will they treat you kindly there?” she asked at last. “This Eldergarde?”
“They are not known for kindness,” he replied. “But I am not known for craving it.”
“And their king?” she pressed. “What manner of man sends such summons?”
“I do not know him,” Louie said, voice low. “But I have heard… he is young. And dangerous.”
“Then I hope he does not mistake silence for weakness,” she whispered.
He bowed then, the movement precise and unyielding. “Farewell, Princess. I shall send word the moment I arrive.”
“You had better,” she murmured. “Or I shall come for you myself. With a blade of etiquette and scorn.”
His eyes gleamed faintly. “Rosfane could use more threats like you.”
With that, Louie turned and departed. The great door closed behind him with the quiet finality of a chapel bell.
Evangeline stood alone once more. The fire dimmed. The snow rose.
And the first crack of fate echoed, softly, in the stillness of winter.
Court of Eldergarde – The King’s Office
Eldergarde Palace, Early Spring
The chamber, grand with vaulted ceilings and lined with Tudor-era portraits, was touched now by a different mood something softer. Spring had crept into the stone bones of Eldergarde, coaxing the roses in the garden below to bud and the court to breathe, if only slightly.
Sunlight glinted through tall windows onto a heavy oak table strewn with inked maps, wax-sealed letters, and a grand parchment of architectural sketches. Over it all presided King Evander Eldervale, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, his blond hair tousled and sunlit, unkempt in a manner only royals could afford. The scent of parchment and melting beeswax mingled faintly with the breeze.
To his right stood his twin, Prince Ezekiel, quiet and composed. His dark curls fell lightly over his collar, framing a face unreadable but ever-watchful. Though both wore the colors of Eldergarde deep navy and silver their temperaments split at the root.
Chancellor Ronan Ashvale entered first, long black robes gliding across the marble floor. Behind him came the great men of court: Duke Malvernis, grizzled and sharp; Lord Ambrose Valenroy, broad-chested and cautious; and Marquess Braedon, young, scholarly, and eager. They were the spine of Eldergarde’s noble body each wary, each heavy with old wars.
Evander leaned forward, fingers tapping the edge of the sketched plans.
Evander:
"Gentlemen. I trust the frost has not dulled your appetite for discourse?"
Malvernis (grunting):
"Not if it concerns Leinster."
Valenroy:
"They remain our most bitter wound, Your Majesty. The Briar Sea still weeps our dead."
Ezekiel (calmly):
"Then let us not spill more for pride’s sake."
Evander (smiling faintly):
"Precisely. King Wilson II spirited boy, barely out of his golden cradle has written to us. He offers consideration of truce."
A soft scoff passed from Malvernis, but Ronan raised a hand, eyes sharp beneath the streaks of silver in his hair.
Ronan:
"Wilson II is no child. He is the age of our king, and just as clever. Young does not mean unblooded."
Evander:
"Indeed. Which is why we must answer not with fire, but foundation."
He turned, lifting the grand parchment with care. It showed a valley carved between mountains, arched bridges, a hall of trade and peace, domes that glinted like sunrise.
Evander:
"Vald’dor. The Valley of Gold. We shall build it on the border a gift to peace. To beauty. A gesture they cannot refuse."
Braedon (quietly):
"It is beautiful…"
Malvernis (suspicious):
"And a city means commerce, not loyalty. What binds it to Eldergarde?"
Ezekiel (coldly):
"Our reputation."
Evander (with ease):
"And the laws we write into its stone. Vald’dor shall bear both our flags but ours shall fly higher."
Valenroy:
"And if they build spies instead of schools within its walls?"
Ronan:
"Then we tear it down. But until that day, let us give our sons a legacy beyond graves."
The doors creaked as a young page entered, breathless, holding a crimson-sealed letter. Ronan accepted it and read aloud.
Ronan:
"'To His Majesty Evander of Eldergarde
I have received your vision. Bold indeed. I shall send word of parley. If your architects build truth as well as towers, then perhaps spring may favour more than flowers.
Wilson II, King of Leinster.'"
Silence followed. Outside, the bells of Eldergarde chimed softly in the thawed wind.
Evander (grinning):
"He bites. Let the gold be smelted, and the scribes summoned."
Ezekiel (under his breath):
"Or the swords drawn."
Their eyes met not just as rulers, but as brothers. As men born for war, now gambling on peace.
The doors creaked open. A breath of crisp wind swept in with the figure cloaked in silver Louie Ravenshade, Royal Consort and envoy of Rosfane-Orchidmour.
He bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty. I bring the regards of King Thorne, and the presence of Rosfane, should you still wish it."
Evander, turning from the map table, eyed him with amused curiosity.
"Ravenshade. I had thought snow would melt before Rosfane sent a shadow into my court."
Louie:
"Some shadows travel faster than sunlight, Your Majesty."
Ezekiel raised a brow, while Chancellor Ronan offered the faintest nod of approval.
Evander approached, arms folded behind his back.
"You’re timely, Consort. We are to host a celebration at Vald’dor our Valley of Gold. A monument to the truce we pursue with Leinster."
A pause. The invitation hung in the air.
Evander (with a sly smile):
"Attend it, Louie. Let the court of Eldergarde see winter dance beside spring."
Louie bowed once more, gaze steady.
"As you command, Your Majesty. I shall attend."
Evander turned back to the council.
"Then it is settled. One rose among iron. Let the preparations begin."
