Beyond the Snow

The cart creaked with every jolt in the road, the sound grating against Elena’s nerves. The throbbing in her head was outmatched only by the humiliation of her exit, escorted out of the capital under the mocking stares of the court.

She, Elena von Astrea, sat huddled on a narrow wooden bench, clutching the single suitcase she had left to her chest. Her silk ballroom gown, once a masterpiece intended for royalty, was now grey with the dust of the journey.

“How much further?” she asked, her voice trembling with suppressed rage.

The man didn’t even turn. He wore a shirt of coarse linen, sleeves rolled back to reveal tanned forearms mapped with scars—scars that spoke of a past far more violent than any simple farmer’s.

“Ten minutes,” he replied curtly. His voice was a low rumble, entirely devoid of any hint of reverence.

The wagon groaned to a halt before a house of stone and timber. Around them, the mountains stretched into a cold infinity. The scent of damp earth and manure struck Elena’s senses like a physical blow.

“This… this is a joke, surely?” she whispered, struggling to climb down.

Her foot, clad in a delicate satin slipper, sank ankle-deep into a mud puddle right before the gate. Elena let out a sharp cry of disgust, frozen in place, her face contorted with horror.

The man climbed down with an agility that irritated her and stepped into her path. He was much taller than he had seemed while seated. He smelled of hay, rain, and something metallic, something sharp.

“The earth does not move aside for your path, Duchess,” he said, looking down at her from his height.

“Do not touch me!” she snapped as he reached out. “I can manage on my own.”

Elena tried to take a step, but her shoe remained lodged in the muck. She swayed dangerously, losing her balance. At the last second, the man caught her by the arm, steadying her with a grip that made her flinch. There was no trace of gentleness in his touch, only raw, cold efficiency.

His gaze, utterly lacking the admiration she was accustomed to, pinned her to the spot.

“The entrance is straight ahead,” he said, releasing her abruptly. “Dinner is served once I’ve finished with the livestock. If you wish to eat, you will have to learn where we keep the firewood.”

He turned and walked toward the stable without a backward glance, leaving the former duchess in the middle of the yard with only one shoe and tears of fury burning in her eyes.

Her paradise had shattered.

Elena remained rooted in the muddy yard, watching his back disappear into the gloom of the stable. Humiliation burned her cheeks hotter than the biting mountain wind. As she tried to pry her shoe from the muck, a memory flooded her mind, as cold and sharp as a guillotine blade.

Three days ago. The Capital.

The Imperial Cathedral had never been so silent. Usually, an Astrea event meant the swell of harps, the trill of laughter, and the chime of crystal flutes. Now, the only sound was the heavy thud of her footsteps on cold marble.

She did not wear the gown of her dreams. Instead, she wore a simple white dress. Her father, his face haggard and eyes downcast in shame, had led her toward the altar under the gazes of the aristocracy, gazes filled with pity or, worse, satisfaction.

There, by the altar, the man stood waiting. He was dressed simply in a black suit, impeccable yet austere, looking like a dark intruder amidst the cathedral’s gold opulence.

When Elena reached him, she searched his eyes for a trace of triumph; after all, a provincial bastard was about to receive the hand of the realm’s most coveted duchess.

But she found nothing. Only an indifference that stung more than any insult.

“You unite your destinies under the eyes of the Crown,” the priest intoned in a voice devoid of enthusiasm.

When the moment for the vow arrived, a knot tightened in Elena’s throat. She hesitated. One second, two… the silence in the cathedral became unbearable.

“Poor Elena,” Lady Isolde’s venomous whisper drifted from the front rows. “From future queen to a horse-handler’s wife.”

Cassian Mordrake was not merely a farmer who had stumbled into money. He was a man forged in wars the nobles only read about in reports. It was said he had built his fortune from nothing, seizing gold mines that others believed were cursed. He had seen death at close range, and the scars on his arms were from enemy steel, not the plow.

To him, court titles were merely scraps of paper; his true power lay in the influence he held over the royal treasury.

The man caught her hand. His palm was rough, calloused enough to scratch her fine skin. He squeezed it, not with affection, but as a silent warning.

Elena swallowed her tears and spoke the cursed “I do.”

There was no kiss. No celebration. As soon as the documents were signed, he took her by the arm and led her out of the church, leaving her no time to say goodbye to her life.

Present Day. The Farm.

Elena blinked rapidly, chasing away the ghosts of the cathedral.

Limping in her single shoe, she walked toward the door. If he thought he would see her cry, he was mistaken. She was an Astrea, and if she had to conquer this hovel to reclaim her dignity, she would.

She pushed open the heavy oak door, prepared to find cobwebs and rotting floors. But the words froze in her throat.

The interior was… impeccable. The air smelled of beeswax, fresh-cut wood, and dried lavender. Polished stone floors gleamed in the twilight, and the furniture, though lacking the baroque flourishes of the palace, was massive and well-crafted, the kind of quality that betrayed a man of significant means.

“Not quite the stable you expected, is it?”

Cassian’s voice echoed from behind her. He had entered soundlessly, leaving his mud-caked boots at the entrance in a gesture of military discipline. Standing there in thick wool stockings, he appeared suddenly less threatening, yet just as imposing.

Elena lifted her chin, refusing to seem impressed.

“It is clean. But it is empty. Where are the servants? Who is to unpack my trunks? Who prepares dinner?”

Cassian walked past her, heading toward the kitchen where a large cast-iron stove dominated the room.

“There are no servants, Elena.”

“I beg your pardon? You clearly have resources, Cassian. This house is larger than the manors of many low-ranking nobles. You can afford at least a maid.”

The man stopped and turned toward her. He slowly unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, staring at her fixedly.

“I could afford a full staff if I wished. But I do not want strangers in my house. If you want something, you will have to see to it yourself.”

Elena huffed, revolted. “You only wish to see me suffer, don’t you? To feel powerful because you’ve managed to drag me into this misery.”

Cassian took a step toward her, closing the distance until she was forced to tilt her head back to maintain his gaze.

“If I wanted to see you suffer, I would have left you in the capital, where your former friends would have torn you limb from limb now that your father has lost everything.”

He left her there, in the center of the spacious kitchen, and ascended the wooden stairs.

“Choose any room upstairs, except for the one at the end of the hall. That one is mine. If you intend to eat tonight, I suggest you change out of that gown and start preparing your own meal. I am not your cook.”

Elena felt the blood rush to her cheeks. He was mocking her. It was clear he didn’t expect her to know how to light a fire or slice bread without losing a finger. The kitchen was the realm of servants, a place she had never stepped foot in, except perhaps to ask for a glass of water in passing.

She could no longer remain silent. She followed him up the stairs, gathering the train of her soiled dress in one hand.

“How dare you?!” she cried. “How dare you speak to me as if I were some scullery maid? I am an Astrea! The blood in my veins built this empire! My name means honor, power, and—”

Cassian turned abruptly. He moved so quickly she flinched against the wall. He stepped into her space, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“Your name?” he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous velvet. “The Astrea family is history. Your father is in exile, and your estates are under imperial seal.”

“It does not matter! Blood does not change!”

“You are not an Astrea anymore, Elena.” He cut her off. “You signed the registry. You swore before the gods and the King. The moment we walked out of that cathedral, you ceased to be an Astrea.”

He leaned toward her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

“You are my wife now. You are under my protection and my authority. And your name, the one you will carry until the earth swallows you, no longer bears a noble particle. Your name is Elena Mordrake.”

“Mordrake?” she repeated with loathing.

“It is a name that gives you the right to live,” he said, pulling away. “Your nobles threw you to the dogs, but behind the name Mordrake, no one will touch you.”

Elena collapsed onto the bed in the first room she found. The space was austere, white walls, a massive wooden bed, and the scent of lavender and resin. No tapestries. No canopy.

In the capital, the night was always full of life. Here, there was only the wind sighing through the branches.

Everything had been prepared for her since she was six years old. While other girls played in the garden, Elena was the prisoner of endless lessons in etiquette and diplomacy. Her governesses, harsh women with hawk-like gazes,had molded her like a rare piece of porcelain.

She had been raised for one purpose: to be the perfect fiancée, the future Crown Princess who would bring brilliance to the throne. Every gesture was calculated; every word was weighed.

“You were born to be Queen, Elena,” her mother would whisper.

And Alaric… Alaric had been the sun her universe revolved around.

Until that cursed morning.

Elena had stood behind marble columns, watching as her father was judged for “high treason.” Poor investments in the Northern mines and the financing of rebels who had promised to wipe out the De Astera debts had turned against them.

She had expected Alaric to intervene. But when Alaric rose from his seat, his voice did not waver.

“The Astrea family has forfeited its honor. By my signature, their fortune falls under imperial seizure,” he had declared, signing the parchment without a blink.

Elena had met his gaze for a heartbeat. She found no regret, only cold calculation. It was easier for him to replace her with another than to stain the Crown’s image with a traitor’s daughter. He had discarded her in a second, as if swapping an old glove.

Elena struck the hard mattress with her fist. The humiliation burned hotter than the betrayal. The King wanted to teach the aristocracy a lesson: “If an Astrea owes money to a merchant of the soil, they shall pay with their own blood.”

Cassian Mordrake had bought her father’s debts. He had bought her.

Elena curled up on the bed, drawing her knees to her chest. Alaric had discarded her, her father had sold her, and the King had exiled her.

And then there was him. The man who had paid a fortune for a wife who hated him.Why would a man with that much power do such a thing? He didn’t seem like the type who needed a noble name for show.