A storm had settled over the Northern Keep that evening—snow tapping against the arched windows like fingers demanding entry, wind howling through the stone corridors like the echoes of ghosts long gone. Yet within the Duchess's chamber, all was still.
Damon sat alone in the silence, surrounded by imperial drapes and untouched perfumes, by memories preserved in dust.
Vivian's room.
Untouched since the day she vanished. Untouched by anyone but him. He had never allowed Diana to cross this threshold.
Never.
The hearth was cold, though he hadn't noticed. He sat at the edge of the bed, where the sheets still bore the faintest hint of her perfume, though it had been years.
He had come here so many times—searching for answers, for a sign, for a reason. For her. And yet all she had left behind was her wedding ring. Placed gently on the bed. Not a letter. Not a word. Just absence.
Damon picked up the ring from the nightstand. He turned it between his fingers, slowly. Reverently. As if it might whisper back if he just held it long enough.
Then he sank down—fully, heavily—onto the bed, his broad frame curling inward like something broken. His breath shook.
"Vivian..." he whispered into the dark. His voice cracked like thin ice. "If this is your punishment… I accept it."
Silence answered him. Heavy. Cruel.
"I was a bastard. A worthless husband. I see it now—I see it every time I look at her and she looks through me like I'm no one. Like I'm nothing."
He shut his eyes tightly. The pain surged like a buried knife twisting in his chest.
"She's growing up so fast, Vivian," he choked out. "So sharp. So cold. So alone. She won't let me in. She doesn't smile for me. Doesn't ask for anything. I don't know how to be her father. I don't know how to reach her."
His voice dropped to a tremor, barely audible. "It hurts. Gods, it hurts…"
He clutched the ring to his chest, as if it might anchor him to some past where he hadn't ruined everything.
"…to know that she's slipping away from me. That she's learned to live without needing me. That I'm just… the shadow behind her name. Not a father. Not a man she loves. Just… the man she tolerates."
His shoulders shook.
He pressed his face into her pillow and breathed in the lingering echo of the woman he had failed—wife and mother both—and the daughter they had brought into this cruel world.
"If there's anything left of you in this world," he whispered, voice hoarse, "please… please help me reach her. Help me make her see that I want to try. That I am trying. Even if I'm too late."
But the wind outside screamed louder than any prayer.
And the room stayed silent.
ONE WEEK LATER
The corridors of Devonshire Estate were a flurry of quiet movement that morning.
And Vivica's bedchamber had transformed into a flurry of organized chaos—maids bustling with open trunks, soft wool cloaks folded beside polished boots, bundles of letters sealed with the Devonshire crest laid atop a lacquered chest. Thick tomes on diplomacy, warfare, and linguistics were wrapped in silk and tucked safely between layers of cloth. Everything was meticulous. As always.
Outside, the Northern sky loomed vast and pale, a muted grey that swallowed sunlight. The carriage bound for the coast waited in the courtyard, its black lacquered frame stamped with the Devonshire sigil and reinforced for the months-long voyage to the Kroux Empire.
Inside the study, Damon stood watching his daughter fasten the last clasp of her fur-lined mantle. She wore navy today, the color of storms. It suited her—elegant, severe, untouchable.
He had watched her grow into this woman of thirteen—watched her navigate politics and frostbitten winters, watched her master the ledgers of a duchy and memorize war theory like it was scripture.
But he had never truly reached her.
And now… she was leaving.
He cleared his throat. "There's still time," he said softly. "You don't have to go."
Vivica met his eyes, calm and unreadable. "I do."
Damon nodded once, as though he'd expected it—but his jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides before he stepped closer, slower than usual, like he were approaching a wild creature that might bolt.
"Then…" His voice wavered just slightly. "Can I at least… have the honor of holding you once before you go?"
There was a flicker in her eyes, something unreadable. But she gave the smallest nod.
He crossed the space in a breath.
And then he wrapped her in his arms—not as a duke, not as a war general, but as a father who had failed and regretted and ached.
He held her tightly, like something precious he was terrified to break, terrified to lose. His chin rested lightly atop her head, and for a moment, the cold outside the keep disappeared.
"You're so strong, Vivica," he murmured into her hair. "Too strong for someone so young. And I know I had a hand in making you that way. I'll carry that."
Her arms didn't rise to hug him back, but she didn't pull away.
He drew back slightly, just enough to look into her face. "When you return… would there be a chance for me? To try again? As your father. Not as your duke."
Her gaze didn't flinch.
Silence.
A minute passed.
Five minutes passed.
Ten minutes passed.
Then—
"Farewell, Your Grace." She voiced out calmly.
The words struck like frostbite, but Damon didn't flinch. He bowed his head as she stepped back.
And then, with the mantle fastened high on her throat, Vivica Devonshire turned and strode down the hall without another glance.
Servants bowed as she passed. Guards straightened.
They respected her as the lady of the house.
They recognised her as the ONLY lady of the house.
The great doors of the keep opened to the wind, and the cold greeted her like an old friend.
Damon stood in the shadows of the doorway as she stepped into the waiting carriage, flanked by a retinue of guards and maids. Her trunks had already been loaded. The horses were restless, steam rising from their nostrils. A banner bearing the Devonshire crest flapped above the lead rider.
She did not look back.
And then the carriage began to roll.
Away from the Keep.
Away from the North.
Away from the duke who had not known how to love his duchess when it mattered most.
Thus, Lady Vivica Devonshire departed the empire's farthest duchy, bound for a foreign land across a churning sea—six months by voyage, years away in distance—and began the journey not just to the Kroux Academy, but to the making of something far more formidable than the court had ever expected:
A daughter forged not by affection…
…but by absence.