The northern light of Hivelle filtered gently through the tall windows of her room, pale and silver, soft as frost. It painted the polished floors and the carved frame of her canopy bed in blue-tinted shadow, touching the ivory curtains like fingertips of cold silk. Cerise sat at her vanity with her spine straight, eyes half-lidded with sleep, letting her maids fasten the clasps of her linen corset and smooth the folds of her morning gown over her legs. Every movement was measured, a quiet meditation before the day's performance began.
They worked in practiced silence. The scent of rosemary and milk soap still clung to her damp skin from her bath, mingling with the lingering coolness of the early morning. One maid tugged gently at the ribbons lacing up her bodice; another carefully combed her still-wet hair, dark as ink and stubbornly heavy. The tresses clung to her shoulders like a silken shawl. Cerise closed her eyes and let them complete their delicate rituals, each touch affirming the roles she had learned to embody.
Her dress was a pale winter blue, embroidered with curling frostflowers around the hem and sleeves. It had been chosen for the cool weather and the warmer guests her mother expected later—appropriate, modest, refined. The fabric whispered softly with each slight movement, an echo of the understated elegance required of her.
She blinked slowly at her own reflection: long black lashes, a pale mouth, dark eyes with just a hint of violet. Her expression was pleasant, quiet, sweet. Just as it should be. In that glass, she saw both the practiced mask and the unspoken questions of what she might one day become.
Cerise did not yet know what she was meant to become, but she had long since learned how to perform. The rhythm of duty had shaped her into an actress on a stage where every expression was measured and every gesture scrutinized.
Downstairs, the estate moved like a well-oiled clock. Servants swept ash from the hearths, and the kitchens were redolent with the scents of toasted nuts and stewed plums. Outside, the frost had begun to melt along the edges of the hedges, leaving the garden paths slick and shining. The steady hum of activity provided a counterpoint to the quiet internal world that Cerise carried.
Cerise entered the breakfast salon with quiet grace, curtsying gently as she passed through the doorway. The soft murmur of conversations and the clink of porcelain set the tone for the morning's formality.
Lady Blanche Steele sat at the table already, her long white hair braided into a perfect twist and pinned with silver clasps. Her pale eyes flicked upward, cool and assessing, as if measuring every detail of her daughter's composure before the day truly began.
"Don't drag your hem," she said.
"Good morning, Mother," Cerise replied, taking her seat with a calm that belied the turbulence quietly stirring within.
The silver teapot gleamed between them, nestled beside a dish of sugared pears and a tray of seedcakes. Blanche poured a single cup, stirring once without looking; the light caught on her rings as she took a small bite of fruit, chewed, and swallowed before speaking again.
"You have guests arriving later," she said calmly. "Don't get your dress dirty. Find your sister."
"Yes, Mother."
Blanche didn't look up again. That was all the instruction Cerise would be given. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken expectations, leaving Cerise to contemplate her next move as her tea cooled in its porcelain cup.
She finished her tea in silence and excused herself with a bow of her head, sliding quietly from the salon as the mansion continued its orderly routine.
The gardens behind the Steele estate were wide and stately, shaped into winding rows of dormant rosebushes and pruned trees. Cerise stepped lightly over the stone paths, careful not to let her slippers catch on the slick moss. The soft breeze bit gently at her cheeks, carrying with it a whisper of distant winter and the promise of change.
She found Minette crouched by the koi pond—her dress soaked to the waist, both hands cradling a wriggling frog with innocent delight. The tranquil surface of the water was momentarily disturbed by the small, vibrant creature, its silent struggle echoing the carefree mischief of youth.
"Oh, gods," Cerise breathed, hurrying forward. "Minette—"
Her little sister turned with a bright, gap-toothed smile. Her white curls were damp with dew and clung to her cheeks. Her pink satin dress, the one stitched with embroidered daisies, was splattered with mud and soaked through at the hem, a striking contrast to the careful refinement expected of them.
"I found three!" she chirped. "One jumped right into my lap."
Cerise's stomach twisted as she regarded the messy scene with equal parts amusement and worry. "Minette, you can't—Mother will lose her mind if she sees you like this. Why are you even—?"
"I'm practicing," Minette said proudly.
"Practicing…?" Cerise stared, her tone laced with both astonishment and concern.
"For when I marry a Desrosiers," she said matter-of-factly, dropping the frog back into the water with a plop. "They're farmers, right? And farmers have frogs."
Cerise sighed and knelt beside her, gently pulling a leaf from her sister's curls, a tender gesture that belied her inner disquiet. In that quiet shared moment, the realities of their world and the expectations of the kingdom loomed large in her thoughts.
House Desrosiers. She thought of Printelle—fertile, lush, overflowing with flowering valleys and golden fields. The family was known for their wealth in agriculture, their beautiful estates, their enchanting children. The girls were always praised for their laughter and their roses. The boys were raised to flirt like poets. People said they were charming, but everyone knew charm was a weapon.
Cerise smiled faintly. "Desrosiers men are hardly farmers, Minette."
"They have gardens."
"Yes, and libraries, and hunting dogs, and more lovers than they can count."
Minette scrunched her nose. "Still, I want to marry one. Maybe the King will marry a Desrosiers girl too, and then we can all live near each other."
Cerise didn't answer, her silence speaking volumes as she considered the weight of tradition and the shifting alliances among the four great houses of the kingdom.
There were four houses in the kingdom. Everyone knew them, whether they whispered it in drawing rooms or studied them at grand academies. Their names resonated like an ancient melody, each note laden with power and subtle intrigues.
House Solano, far in the sun-drenched South, ruled Soleil with gold and silver. Traders, bankers, and coin counters—more comfortable in silk than in armor. They said power could be bought, and the Solanos had never run out of things to buy.
House Beaumont, austere and ancient, held Autombre in the Northwest. Advisors, judges, lawgivers. They dressed in gray and spoke in phrases that felt like traps. Their words were always watched. Their hands were always clean.
House Desrosiers lived in Printelle, among orchards and festivals and sweet wine. They governed the land with smiles and seduction, planting power alongside poppies. They played the game with laughter—but they always won.
And then there was House Steele.
Hivelle. Cold. Stern. The North.
Known for their soldiers. Their discipline. Their silence.
Cerise stood and dusted off her skirts carefully, her motions echoing the quiet determination that had been instilled in her since childhood.
"Go back inside," she told Minette, smoothing the wet satin down her arm. "Let your nursemaid fix you up. Please."
Minette pouted, but obeyed, trudging toward the door as her wet shoes squelched softly on the stone. Cerise lingered outside just a moment longer, brushing the dirt from her gloves as she steadied herself for what lay ahead.
When she returned to the house, she caught sight of movement on the long gravel path outside the foyer—two figures, a man and a woman, whose presence disrupted the familiar order of the estate.
The man was tall and clean-cut, walking just slightly ahead of his companion. His coat was fitted and expensive, trimmed with fine gold embroidery. He had chestnut-brown hair and amber eyes, and the smug gait of someone accustomed to quiet admiration.
The woman at his side was more vivid—tan skin, curly brown hair piled high, and a gown the color of ripe oranges, heavy with jewels and lace. Her earrings glinted like emerald fire, and she laughed at something he said, one hand fluttering to her neck in a practiced motion. Her presence stirred a quiet tension in Cerise's chest.
Her heart began to race. She ducked out of view and slipped into the rear hallway, her steps silent against the hushed backdrop of the mansion.
Moments later, her mother's maid found her and summoned her to the drawing room. There, Lady Blanche was already seated, her expression unreadable as always. She didn't greet Cerise, only motioned for her to sit, the room already brimming with a restrained formality.
The guests were arranged comfortably on the settee, smiling as though they owned the room. Their refined airs did little to mask the undercurrent of calculated politeness.
"Cerise," Blanche said crisply, "may I present Lady Juvela Solano and her son, Antor."
Cerise bowed, her hands steady despite the tremble in her chest. "It's an honor to meet you."
Juvela's eyes lit up. "Oh! So this is the eldest Steele girl." She stood and circled Cerise slowly, eyeing her like a piece of sculpture. "Turn your face to the light. Ah—yes. A little pale. Long limbs, small wrists. Lovely lashes. Not the usual white hair, though."
Blanche sipped her tea. "She takes after her father."
"Well," Juvela said with a shrug, "she's not hideous. That works."
Cerise only smiled, as she had been trained to.
Antor offered a stiff bow. His smile was all teeth and polish, his eyes just slightly too sharp. "Lady Cerise," he said, voice smooth. "I've heard you're the most refined girl in Hivelle."
Cerise dipped her head, voice even. "I do my best to bring honor to my house."
Juvela clapped her hands once. "Now, tell us about your talents, darling."
Blanche gestured slightly, giving silent approval as the soft murmur of conversation and the clinking of teacups filled the space. Cerise folded her hands and spoke steadily, "I am trained in the pianoforte. I read and write poetry in the old tongue. I am proficient in arithmetic and bookkeeping. And I've been studying fencing for the last two years."
Juvela raised a brow. "Fencing? How very… northern of you."
"I enjoy the discipline," Cerise said quietly.
Juvela leaned closer. "What about courtship? Dancing?"
Cerise only smiled again, her expression remaining serene even as each compliment felt like an inspection and every question a subtle measurement.
The rest of the visit blurred—teacups refilled, veiled glances exchanged, Blanche speaking more to Lady Juvela than to Cerise. It was as if every moment was scrutinized, etched into memory with the precision of a ruler marking out fine lines.
It wasn't until the Solanos had gone that Blanche spoke plainly.
"You will be married to Antor," she said, without ceremony.
Cerise's world went silent. She stood there in the parlor, hands limp at her sides, the teacup in front of her long since gone cold. She said nothing. But inside, something had cracked.