"Cheers!" rang out, and the sound of laughter and chatter echoed throughout the grand hall.
From the seat at the head of the table, Rosalind saw men in worn-out fur cloaks, some with hair tousled and faces streaked with dust from the road.
A soft smile curved on Dorian's lips as he noticed the delicate necklace resting against her collarbone — the one he had gifted her."
"The necklace is beautiful… My lady. " he murmured.
Noticing his gaze and catching the hint in his voice, Rosalind stirred faintly, her fingers instinctively reaching for the pendant as a sleepy smile appeared on her lips.
"Then I suppose… I should thank the one who gifted me such a beautiful thing," she whispered.
"I think he'll be glad to hear that."
If it pleased her, there was nothing in this world he would not seek out and bring to her hands.
The feast unfolded with the steady chime of clinking goblets, echoing like a song of camaraderie through the grand hall.
Soon enough, the wine began to work its magic—men rose to their feet, swaying in drunken merriment, voices rising in unison as they sang age-old ballads Rosalind had never heard before.
"I hope you will not take offense at this, Rosi." Dorian said suddenly, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
"What do you mean by that…?"
"For this mess." he glanced around the hall, where songs and laughter echoed without end.
Dorian knew that through the eyes of nobility, these soldiers were seen as crude and expendable, their joy found in bloodshed. They would never know that, for men like these, joy wasn't grand—it was honest and simple. Maybe it was the stories they told one another on the battlefield day after day, a steaming bowl of soup or a piece of bread shared after a long march, or the thought of someone waiting for them with a smile, a hug, when they finally returned home.
He hoped Rosalind would come to accept them as he did, so that they would always have a place to return to.
"This feast was meant for them. So… I think I have no problem with this." Rosalind smiled, raising her cup toward her husband.
The songs and laughter proved that all her efforts had not been in vain. Rosalind's heart swelled with quiet joy, knowing that they—the soldiers—could at last savor the peace they so rightfully deserved after long days away.
Dorian's expression faltered for a moment, her words brushing against something unspoken inside him.
And then... he lifted his own cup to meet hers.
Perhaps no further explanation was needed, she preferred this kind of simple joy to those lavish, tedious banquets—where nobles paraded in their finest attire, hiding hollow words behind charming smiles.
"Are they always like this?" she asked, glancing at him then back to the boisterous crowd. "So cheerful, even in the face of the enemy?"
Her father—King Baldric—had fought many wars in his youth and often shared those stories with his two daughters:
"We raise our swords to protect what we love, not to seize what doesn't belong to us."
So... instead of fairy tales about love conquering all, the little princess learned to be strong—so she could guard those she cherished.
And that was why Rosalind cherished the devotion and sacrifice of these soldiers, and saw no reason to judge those who returned home after long days patrolling the coldest reaches, protecting this empire.
Rosalind watched him for a moment, noticing the way his gaze softened — just before he spoke.
After all, who could truly welcome death with calm? People simply learned to accept it—when they had no other choice.
It was the final smiles—feigned serenity in the face of the inevitable—were the ones that haunted him the most.
He had seen too many of them in his life.
Memories clung to him like dried blood on a blade, impossible to wash away.
"This journey is just a patrol, nothing more," he said at last, his voice settling into its usual even tone. "The Redmark Tribes are now nothing more than scattered remnants... We just need to drive them back to where they belong."
"The Redmark Tribes?"
Dorian looked at her with a faint smile and answered her question.
"The Redmark Tribes—descendants of ancient clans that once ruled the frozen North, long before Astravelle rose to power."
His grip on her hand tightened slightly. "The late king and my father stood together to drive them deep into the wilderness. But hatred like theirs never truly dies—it merely slumbers, waiting for the right moment to rise again."
"That's why you still keep an eye on them, even now."
"Exactly. You know, anything can happen… That's why I want to make sure they'll never set foot on this land again."
There was ice in his eyes—Dorian did not tolerate defiance, especially not from savages like the Redmark.
Dorian was never taught to sit back and relish a victory won by others. That's why he never stopped warning those exiled from their homeland—this Everfrost was not a place they should dare to disturb.
"May I have a moment with you?" Dorian asked, just as she was still curious about the abrupt request. "I have a few people I'd like to introduce to you."
When she placed her hand into his, the corner of Dorian's mouth curled up into a satisfied smile.
He firmly held her hand as they walked past soldiers lost in their wine and food. They arrived at a group of people, and Rosalind quickly recognized Rowan Eisenhart among them.
As they saw the two approach, the group immediately stood and bowed.
"Rosi, let me introduce you to the people I trust the most."
Dorian said, then turned his gaze toward Rowan.
"Rowan Eisenhart. You've met him already."
Rowan, with his steady gaze and black cloak, nodded in greeting, a silent protector always ready. "Nice to see you again, Your Grace."
"It's nice to see you too, Sir Rowan," Rosalind replied with a nod.
"And this big one is Bryden," Dorian continued, turning slightly to point at a man with a muscular build, short-cropped hair, and a gaze that seemed to evaluate every movement in the room.
The broad-shouldered man bowed.
"A pleasure to see you, Madam."
"The pleasure is mine, Sir Bryden."
"Please... don't call me 'Sir'... I mean... just Bryden is fine, Madam."
He seemed ready to say more, but a sharp glance from Rowan cut him off. He simply gave a small shrug, as if used to being silenced.
"This one is Keiran Blackmoor. He's the fastest among everyone here."
Rosalind turned to see a man with ash-gray hair and eyes as cold as the northern ice. Silent and hard to read, Keiran said nothing but gave a slight nod. His hands—scarred and calloused—testified that weapons were never far from his side.
"My pleasure to serve you, Madam."
"Thank you, Sir Keiran."
"This is Cealis. Though she is a woman, not everyone in this hall stands a chance of defeating her."
The woman Dorian referred to had dark brown hair neatly tied behind her head, and a gaze so sharp it was almost hard to believe.
"Honored to meet you, Madam," Cealis said in a calm voice, placing a hand on her chest as she bowed. At her waist hung a simple dagger—unadorned, unembellished—just a weapon forged for use.
"And the last is Fealan Morwen. He's my financial advisor, so you might see him more often within the castle walls than on the battlefield."
Unlike the others, Fealan didn't have the build of a warrior. No armor, no scars—only a long, dark green cloak finely embroidered with silver thread along the sleeves, a symbol of the wealthy Morwen family from the North.
"Your Grace," Fealan bowed his head, a polite smile on his composed face and his gaze full of care. "It's a great honor.
"The honor is mine, Sir Fealan," Rosalind replied.
They weren't merely subordinates, but comrades who had stood by Dorian's side through countless battles.
And now, he was introducing her to these comrades. Whom he trusts the most.
"Everyone, once again, allow me to introduce my wife—Rosalind," he said, tightening his grip around her hand. "I hope you will remain loyal to her and protect her as you would protect me."
Dorian was always like this—one way or another, he never failed to affirm her place in front of others. And Rosalind was always grateful for it.
Because no matter how strong or capable she was, in this place, she was still an outsider.
But his quiet yet unwavering support gave her strength—not just to earn their goodwill, but their recognition as well.
Though she didn't wish to admit it, her heart had already begun leaning toward that cold-hearted duke.