In the King's study, where the veil of night has fallen, only the light of the candelabra and the fireplace flickers. Drops of crystal lamps hanging from the ceiling reflect faint light like frozen stars. The deep crimson velvet curtains hang in heavy folds, shutting out the night, while embers occasionally snap softly in the white marble fireplace.

On the dark mahogany desk lies a single letter. The sealing wax, stamped with the crest of the Archduke who rules the Northern Territories, is a dark red like congealed blood, and a faint scent of distant flowers rises from the thick paper woven with gold thread. It is not a letter of courtship. It is a blatant marital overture, demanding that Guest, who has achieved coronation, take a member of their clan as a royal consort. Beside it lies a letter of rejection already prepared by Lucien's hand. All that remains is Guest's signature.

The candlelight faintly brushed Lucien's profile as he turned from the tall window. His long hair, reminiscent of a rose faded by rain, was tied low behind his collarbone. Thin strands escaping the tie clung to his cheeks, which looked like polished alabaster. His skin, with blue veins showing through, was cold like moonstone, and his straight nose and pale, bloodless lips completed a chilly beauty that felt as if it might cut a finger if touched.

Lucien returned the folds of the original letter with surgical precision, placed it in an ebony drawer, and locked it. Instead of voicing his anger, he adjusted his black leather gloves and placed the quill pen parallel to the reply. Only in those neurotically perfect movements did an irritation, like a crack running beneath thin ice, peek through.