A tiny bird circled above the crown prince, its delicate wings catching the morning light. The air was crisp, the breath of winter carrying faint curls of frost that sparkled in the sunlight. Seraphine’s eyes followed it instinctively, a brief, welcome distraction from the flood of confusing emotions stirring inside her. She told herself it was nothing more than admiration for something beautiful, much like the way she saw the bird itself. Her gaze lingered at the small, cute, and utterly captivating bird. The morning’s frost and her own tangle of thoughts slipped to the background, replaced by a fleeting, almost childlike sense of wonder.
The small bird descended from above and landed lightly on Cassian’s shoulder. It was round and plump, no larger than a fist, with snowy white plumage so soft it looked more like fluffed cotton than feathers. Its wings were tipped with faint silvery-gray, and its tiny black eyes glittered like beads above its short, stubby beak. Seraphine tilted her head, trying to place it. She had seen a similar creature in her world. She remembered a bird being often nicknamed a snow fairy of Japan, though she had never seen one in person. Seeing it now, perched on his shoulder, she could see why it earned that name. Its delicate form and snowy plumage seemed almost magical, as if it had fluttered straight out of a fairy tale.
Lucien noticed her lingering gaze and whispered quietly, “That’s a shierna. They live in the northern highlands. Clever little beings, and surprisingly tough despite their size.”
The shierna let out a soft, cheerful chirp as Prince Cassian reached up and brushed his fingers gently over its tiny head. The little bird ruffled its feathers with delight, and he smiled warmly, his eyes softening as he watched it settle contentedly on his shoulder.
Edmund stepped forward and dipped into a deep, respectful bow before speaking. “Welcome, Your Highness! Congratulations again on your triumph against the raiders.”
He shivered as a cold breeze passed. “But let us not linger in the cold. Please, come inside.” His voice was warm and booming, the smile on his face showing his genuine happiness at seeing the young prince.
Isolde followed with a more delicate bow, her tone light and almost scolding, like an older sister indulging a wayward sibling. “You really should have arrived later, Your Highness. We might have been better prepared to welcome you properly.”
Cassian inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, a small, gentle smile touching his otherwise steady expression. “No. I wanted to see you in person, Duchess Isolde. You have always been like an older sister to me. I wanted to come as soon as possible. I am glad to see you in good health. And congratulations on your sons.”
Cassian raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
"Hasren."
From his place at the front of the carriage, the man stepped forward without a word, carrying two lacquered chests bound in silvery cords. His skin was a warm, deep bronze, the kind that spoke of sun heavy lands far from the Northern cold.
He was built like a warrior, tall and broad-shouldered, yet his movements were almost soundless, a quiet grace that betrayed years of training in far more than combat. His dark brown hair was drawn back in a loose tie, though a few strands slipped forward, softening the strong lines of his face. A thin scar crossed his nose diagonally, from the lower left cheek to just beneath the right eye, but it did not ruin his looks. If anything, it lent character to his otherwise gentle, composed demeanor.
His eyes, a deep steel-gray, held a watchful sharpness, as if they missed nothing. For all his presence, there was something elusive about him, the kind of man who could vanish into the shadows at will.
Cassian’s gaze turned to Isolde, softening just slightly. “For you,” he said, voice calm but considerate, “herbal oils to soothe your muscles, and teas that help restore strength. You have endured much, and I hope this eases the days ahead.”
He then gestured toward the second chest. “And for the little ones,” he added, voice steady yet warm, “soft toys and garments. Small comforts, perhaps, but things they may enjoy.”
It was a subtle but unmistakable display of care, thoughtful gifts chosen not for show, but for usefulness and comfort. He rested his hand briefly on the clasp, as if weighing the worth of such small comforts before letting go.
“Come now,” Edmund urged with a hearty clap of his hands, his smile as bright as the winter air was cold. “We will all freeze if we keep standing out here. Let us get inside where it’s warm.”
They moved indoors, the warmth of the hearth in the main hall was a welcome change from the morning frost. Edmund ushered Cassian to the dining room where breakfast had been neatly laid out. Fresh bread rolls, lightly golden and brushed with butter, steamed gently from the oven. Soft, creamy cheeses and smoked salmon were arranged neatly on fine china dishes.
At each place setting, a small fine china bowl held warm, lightly sweetened oatmeal, topped with roasted almonds and hazelnuts glazed with a touch of honey and a hint of warming red spices. The dishes had already been served, and all could take their first bites at leisure.
Cassian removed his gloves, putting them in his pockets. His long fingers, pale and elegant, looked almost too refined for a sword, though rumors about him told another story.
Seraphine sat beside Lucien, quietly aware of the prince’s presence across the table. Seraphine found her attention drawn to him again and again, at the way the faint light from the window glinted off the silver cuffs at his ear, at the way his crimson eyes softened whenever the tiny white shierna fluttered down to peck at its own small bowl of seeds and small berries. Each time she realized it, she fixed her eyes on her own plate, as if the creamy oats might keep her thoughts in line.
Seraphine carefully took a spoonful, the subtle heat from the nuts surprising her, but it also reminded her of home, like the sweet-spicy potato chips she enjoyed in her world. The combination of creamy oats and sweet-spiced nuts was comforting and hearty, perfect for a brisk winter morning.
Yet despite the cozy warmth of the hall and the gentle murmur of voices, she could not quite shake the feeling of being quietly observed, as if the prince’s crimson eyes saw more than she intended to reveal.
Edmund moved with easy familiarity, reaching for the delicate teapot himself rather than leaving it to the servants. The fragrant steam curled into the air as he poured, careful not to spill a single drop. “I thought you might enjoy this,” he said, placing the cup gently before Cassian. The tea was pale amber, infused with the faintest sweetness of dried strawberries and tea leaves, a rare treat from the southern lands.
Cassian lifted the cup, inhaling the aroma with a small smile, his crimson eyes glinting with amusement. “You remembered,” he said softly.
Edmund’s grin widened. “Of course. One cannot welcome a guest properly without attending to his comforts.”
Isolde nudged Edmund lightly at his side with her elbow, a playful gesture that drew a quiet chuckle from him. With a mock sigh of defeat, Edmund obliged and began pouring tea for everyone himself, filling the cups with practiced care.
He set a cup before Seraphine as well. She accepted it with both hands, tilting her head curiously at the faint fruity aroma. As she tasted the tea, she blinked in surprise.
(Strawberries? I didn’t expect such a flavor here in the North.)
She thought, pleasantly surprised and impressed by the taste.
In her previous world, strawberry tea was common enough, but this was nothing like the inexpensive blends she had once known. The gentle sweetness needed no extra sugar. It was as if the fruit itself had sweetened the cup. She could taste the care taken in selecting and drying the berries to preserve their full, rich flavor.
Edmund raised his cup. “It is good fortune to share a meal on such a morning. Your presence honors our home, Prince Cassian.”
Cassian inclined his head. “The honor is mine. It is a relief to see you both well after the birth.” He shifted his gaze briefly to Isolde, the sharp edges of his face gentling. “You look stronger than I feared, Duchess Isolde. I hope the gifts will be of some use.”
The moment passed with light conversation and warm smiles. Only after the dishes were cleared did Cassian lean back slightly, resting one arm on the armrest of his chair, his expression sharpening.
“There is something else,” he said, his tone frank, cutting through the lingering warmth of the meal. His eyes moved to Seraphine. “Regarding the matter in your letter. I will not allow Lady Seraphine to accompany me to the dungeon.” His words were not raised, yet they settled over the table like a drawn blade, quiet but impossible to ignore.
Seraphine eyes widened and she felt a lump at her throat. For a heartbeat she forgot the warmth of the hearth and sat as if bracing against an unseen draft.
Lucien’s brows drew together. “You don't have to worry about her, Your Highness. She won't be alone. I will be at her side.”
Cassian’s crimson eyes shifted to him, calm yet unyielding. Scanning every inch of his body that he could see, before he opened his mouth once more while shaking his head. “It makes no difference. I do not want to spend my time guarding someone who is unprepared. I do not want distractions in a place where a moment’s lapse can cost lives.”
Lucien clenched his teeth at that remark, barely concealing being offended. “You speak as if she will be a burden.”
Cassian gave a small shrug, his voice still even. “I speak as I see. She looks as though she only began training recently. Barely any muscle, no experience outside the walls. You may be willing to risk her life, but I am not. And the larger the group, the greater the chance of drawing monsters to us. I prefer to travel light and fight alone.”
A faint, embarrassed heat crept up Seraphine’s neck. The truth of his words stung. Seraphine focused on the neat weave of her skirt as if the pattern might keep her from flinching.
Lucien’s voice cooled. “A crown prince should care for his people, not dismiss them.”
Cassian’s eyes narrowed, a faint twitch betraying the temper he held in with a slow breath. “I care enough not to lead the unprepared to their deaths. That is why I refuse. I do not need more lives on my conscience.”
He glanced at Seraphine, his voice gentler than before. “I heard you’ve been unwell these past weeks, keeping to your room and worrying your parents. I am glad to see you well again.”
His tone shifted as he leaned forward slightly, the warmth giving way to a sharper focus. “But what has brought on this sudden interest in the dungeons?”
The room seemed to grow still, a faint chill creeping into the air. Seraphine swallowed hard, her mind racing for a reason that would sound convincing, something that would not rouse suspicion.
Fragments of the real Seraphine’s journal surfaced in her memory, the fears and nightmares that had haunted her. She decided to borrow that truth, hoping the crown prince might be the sort to understand. She felt a pinch of guilt at borrowing another’s words, but in that instant, the boundary between her own fears and the ones she read blurred too easily.
She laced her fingers together in her lap, holding them still as if the motion alone might steady her words. “When I fell ill, I shut myself away. I told myself I needed time to recover, but the truth is…I was afraid.”
Her voice was soft but steady, she shortly glanced at Lucien before she continued. “The nightmares kept coming. I saw Lord Lucien falling, just as the others before him had. I could not shake the thought that I would stand by again, powerless to stop it.”
She drew a slow, measured breath. “For weeks I hid, thinking that if I locked the world out, I could keep that future from coming true. But the fear only grew stronger. I realized I cannot go on like that. I do not want to be the kind of person who hides behind closed doors while others fight and die.”
Her eyes rose to meet Cassian’s, steady and calm. “I want to do something, anything, to protect those I care about. If there are artifacts, old knowledge, anything in the dungeons that can give me the strength I lack, then I have to seek it. I will not let fear decide my path.”
Inside, she could not tell if she was voicing Seraphine’s true thoughts from the journal or merely her own conclusions. Yet outwardly her expression remained composed, betraying nothing of that doubt.
“I want to grow stronger,” Seraphine said, her voice low but carrying a quiet intensity. Her fingers tightened in her lap, as though steadying herself. “Not for ambition or to stand above anyone. I only want to protect the people I care about… and stop feeling powerless.”
She hoped her plea would reach the prince, that he might see the sincerity in her words, perhaps even commend her for her resolve. Perhaps she could even ask him to show his collection to her. Everyone has been so kind to her so far, so fate might let her get what she desires, to slowly achieve her goal.
But.
The flicker of hope in her eyes faded as swiftly as it came. A cold shiver crawled down her spine.
Cassian’s gaze, once steady and thoughtful, lost all trace of gentleness. The warmth drained away, leaving his eyes as sharp and cold as winter steel.
Had she misjudged the depth of his obsession with the artifacts, even toward the daughter of his closest friends?
His final look carried a simmering danger that made her wonder if one more wrong word might cost her head.
The crackle of the fire seemed distant now, its warmth unable to reach the hollow chill creeping into her chest.