By the time the sun stretched its pale fingers across the sky, Eastmere Manor was already humming. But the grandeur of it all still felt foreign to Elowen. Her coarse, calloused hands had never touched silk before Lord Aramis. Now she was dressing him in it.
The silver-threaded cravat refused to sit properly. Her fingers fumbled slightly, and though he didn't flinch, she felt the heat of his scrutiny.
"Are you attempting to strangle me, little dove?" he asked lightly.
"N-no, my Lord," she replied, stepping back immediately. Her voice was soft—meek—but her eyes lower like they used to.
Aramis lifted a brow, his lips twitching. "A shame. I rather admire a woman with ambition."
He plucked the cravat from her hands and adjusted it himself with a practiced flick. When he turned, the morning light glanced off his coat—midnight black stitched with silver vines, glinting like armor.
Elowen trailed after him down the grand staircase, careful not to step too close. In her arms, she carried his gloves and his walking cane—neither of which he used, but insisted be brought regardless.
Outside, the carriage waited—a sleek, dark thing with the Blackstone crest etched in gold. It gleamed like it had something to prove.
Elowen hesitated.
"Climb in," Aramis said without looking back.
She obeyed, stiff-backed and careful not to brush against him as she took her seat across from him. Her world was changing too fast, spinning on a new axis named Aramis Blackstone.
"Are you always this silent?" he drawled, stretching out in the plush velvet seat like a bored god.
"It's not my place to speak, my Lord," she murmured looking at her hands.
He tilted his head, examining her. "Oh? And here I thought I didn't get myself a boring maid ."
Elowen flushed.
"Forgive me. I spoke out of turn."
"Hmm. If I wanted mindless obedience, I'd get a hound. You were amusing. Don't stop now."
She didn't respond. He watched her for another breath his gaze trailing a face , her blue eyes and then turned his gaze to the window.
The ride was quiet but not peaceful. The silence between them crackled with unspoken rules and power dynamics Elowen had only begun to grasp. Her eyes flicked once to the elegant interior—the gold rivets, velvet drapes, and intricate carvings. This was another world entirely. One she didn't belong in.
They reached the disputed farmland as the fog lifted. Two men were waiting, as instructed—one old and thin, the other young and broad as a bull.
Aramis stepped down from the carriage first. His presence drew every eye. When Elowen followed, she kept her head low but noticed how the farmers' postures shifted. Everyone reacted to Lord Aramis, even the dirt beneath their boots.
"Gentlemen," Aramis said lazily. "Let's dispense with the pleasantries."
"My Lord," the older man bowed. "I'm Mr. Grantham. This is Thomas Hale."
"The land in question—who claims it?"
"I do," they said in unison.
Aramis smiled like a cat. "Charming. Miss Marwood, the satchel."
Elowen handed it over quickly, avoiding their gazes. She stepped back just as Aramis retrieved the parchment inside.
He held up a deed and tilted it toward the light.
"Mr. Grantham, did you forge this with trembling hands or were you simply drunk? The seal is three years out of date."
Grantham stiffened. "I—I—"
"Lies are dreadfully boring," Aramis said. He tore the document down the middle and let the halves flutter to the ground.
Thomas gaped. "So I can keep my land?"
"It was never his to take," Aramis said simply. "You'll pay a fine for the trouble, Grantham. And you, Thomas, will keep your pastures and cease writing me letters. Agreed?"
The men nodded.
Elowen stood quietly to the side, her heart racing. She wasn't sure what she had expected—perhaps yelling or endless negotiations—but not this. Not such swift cruelty in velvet gloves.
When they returned to the carriage, Aramis gestured for her to enter first. She did so quickly, folding her hands in her lap.
"That was… efficient," she muttered softly more to herself but he heard anyway.
"Surprised I didn't order them both hanged?"
"No, my Lord. I just… didn't expect the truth to matter."
He looked at her. For a moment, the usual smirk vanished.
"Neither did I," he murmured.
The carriage rolled forward again, but Elowen noticed the road was different.
"We're not returning to Eastmere?"
"No."
She tensed. "Then… where?"
He met her gaze, his eyes unreadable. "Norridge."
Her breath caught. Her throat went dry.
"Why?"
"I'm curious about the roots of my new little servant. Consider it a detour."
The silence stretched between them. Elowen's heart thundered.
Norridge was not a place to bring lords. It was a place people left. She hadn't been back since entering service at Eastmere, and now—of all people—she was returning with the Lord himself.
The streets of Norridge were narrow and worn, lined with crooked doors and children barefoot in the muck. Elowen's home was a sagging structure hidden behind a gnarled elm tree.
She stepped down from the carriage with trepidation. Aramis remained behind her, surveying everything with quiet disdain.
"Charming," he muttered.
She said nothing.
Inside, her brother Silas stirred on the cot, thinner than she remembered. Her mother—frail, her breaths shallow—lay beside him.
Elowen dropped to her knees beside them. A neighbor woman offered her a brief nod, then left the room respectfully.
Silas blinked. "Elowen? Who is that?"
She stood slowly, turning to the doorway. "Lord Aramis Blackstone."
Silas paled.
Aramis offered a shallow nod. "Pleased to meet the ghosts she left behind."
Elowen stared at him, unsure of what to expect. An offer of help? A cruel remark?
Instead, he simply turned and left.
She followed, confused and frustrated. Her hands balled into fists in her lap as the carriage pulled away from Norridge.
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked, her voice quiet but firm.
He didn't answer immediately.
Then: "To see the truth."
"And what truth is that?"
His gaze flicked to her, cold and knowing. "That you still believe I'm capable of kindness."
She looked away, stung. He made her feel like a fool for hoping.
**
Marrowbone Hall shimmered like a fever dream. Nobility spilled through the grand archways, silks rustling, laughter chiming like silver bells. Elowen stepped down from the carriage last, her breath catching.
Her dress was plain compared to the women inside—but she held herself taller. Not proud. Just… prepared.
Aramis offered his arm.
"Try not to embarrass me," he said.
She blinked. " My lord ?"
He smiled. "Don't try to be everyone's servant, you're my special servant"
The ballroom hushed as they entered. Eyes followed them. Murmurs bloomed in their wake.
Elowen felt them all—those whispers, those stares— she felt small but she didn't flinch. She wasn't just a maid. She was the Lord's personal servant. She was part of his world now, even if it burned.
He leaned close, his breath warm against her ear.
"Smile, Elowen and stay close."
And so she did—slow, soft, with the barest hint of defiance in it.
A smile made of silk and steel.