Three Days Later – Estrath Hall, Main Cathedral
Snow fell in silence.
Not the gentle, drifting flakes that decorated festive cards, but a dense, smothering curtain of white that buried horses, muffled footsteps, and turned even the boldest mourners into quiet ghosts. Each step in the snow felt like a marker of time, slow, deliberate, and heavy. And for the first time in her life, Valeria Estrath welcomed it.
She stood at the front of the chapel, draped in mourning black, her figure slender beneath layers of fabric and lace. A veil, deep as midnight, shadowed her face, hiding the smirk she wore like a hidden blade. Behind her, the coffin—polished ashwood with silver trim—rested in place. Eight engraved sigils adorned its surface, each representing a great Northern family. At its center sat the insignia of House Estrath: a winterthorn tree, its gnarled roots deep in the frost.
But Valeria knew it was empty.
The servants had not found Auren’s body in time. They said an avalanche had struck as he rode to his mistress’ estate, burying him beneath the snow. Valeria had buried an empty box.
Fitting, really.
The air was thick with silence and tension.
The chapel was full, as it had been for days. Cloaks lined the pews—gray, blue, forest green. The highest-ranking houses of the North had sent their representatives, each more eager to see her weakness than to mourn the man she had once called husband.
In the front row, Lord Ryven and his heir exchanged glances, their faces stiff with practiced politeness. Behind them, House Ulthorn’s noblewoman kept glancing at her watch, awaiting the moment when the widow would collapse. Would she cry? Would she scream? Would she beg for their aid in her sudden widowhood?
They were here to see if she broke. If they could claim her title.
Valeria Estrath did none of those things.
When the priest stepped back and gestured for her to speak, she rose slowly. The hem of her gown whispered across the marble floor like the trailing edge of a stormcloud. Every eye in the room followed her. She had to be careful. Careful in every movement, every word. She couldn’t afford to show them even the slightest weakness.
Her eyes flicked to the front row where Julian, her former brother-in-law, watched her with a calculating gaze. The one who had always lingered in her husband’s shadow. The one who would have taken the Duchy if Valeria faltered now.
She swallowed the tight knot in her throat and stepped forward to the altar.
And smiled.
“I loved my husband,” she began, her voice steady and unbroken. “He taught me many things. How to survive a dinner with poison in the soup. How to smile while bleeding. How to use silence as a weapon.”
A ripple went through the crowd. Some gasped. Others exchanged glances, their faces painted with confusion or disbelief. The priest looked flustered, as if unsure whether to reprimand her or continue with the service.
Valeria lifted her gloved hand. The fabric of her sleeve slid like liquid, the only sign of the ice that ran through her veins.
“Duke Auren Estrath,” she continued, her voice carrying with quiet authority, “was a man of vision. He believed in discipline, in ambition, in the strength of bloodlines. When I first married him at seventeen, he sat me down with a ledger and said: ‘You want affection? Earn it. Balance my books.’”
Another murmur rippled through the chapel. The young lords of House Ryven, seated near the front, exchanged glances of disbelief. Their eyes widened at her casual tone.
Valeria gave a small, almost imperceptible smile.
Everything had a price, he had always said. And she had paid it—paid it all.
“I learned well,” Valeria continued. “He showed me how to lead. To fight with money, with power, with silence. To speak and never utter a word. To smile and see enemies die.”
She stepped back, eyes sweeping across the congregation. At the back of the chapel, standing near the massive oak doors, stood Duke Killian of Wyrmgarde.
Their eyes met.
He stood like a figure carved from stone, his presence towering over the room. His cloak was the color of a winter storm, dark and sweeping, as if the North itself had cloaked him in shadows. His hands were folded behind his back, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look at the priest or the coffin. No, he watched her.
His gaze was sharp. Appraising. Calculating.
Valeria’s heart stilled. She had expected him to attend, of course. He had arrived without fanfare, his intentions unclear. He was a distant relative by marriage, a political ally of her late husband. The Northern Duke whose lands spanned the icy expanse to the north.
He was also the one man Valeria had never been able to decipher.
The priest cleared his throat, as if trying to regain control of the moment. “You may return to your seat, my lady,” he murmured.
Valeria didn’t need to be told twice. She returned to her place, the cold marble seat beneath her like a reminder that no one, not even the dead, could offer her comfort. As she passed by the first row, she could feel Julian’s eyes boring into her back.
He was waiting. Waiting for her to falter.
But Valeria Estrath did not falter. Not today. Not ever.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. The traditional hymns, the incantations, the low murmurs of condolences from the gathered families. Valeria nodded at each one in turn, the corners of her lips curving ever so slightly. To anyone who didn’t know her, it would appear as though she was absorbing their sympathies with grace.
She wasn’t.
She was taking their measure.
After the Burial
The procession to the burial site was a grim affair, the snow swirling harder with every step. As the funeral party gathered at the gravesite, Valeria stood apart, her hands folded in front of her, the heavy cloak she wore billowing with the wind. It was done. The funeral rites were complete, and Duke Auren Estrath had been sent into the cold earth—empty coffin, empty life.
And yet, she felt nothing.
Not grief. Not joy. Just the unmistakable sensation of liberation.
It was her turn now.
The nobles clustered around the grave, murmuring their final pleasantries. Valeria stepped back and watched them like a spider watching flies approach its web.
And then she felt it.
A shift in the air. A presence that wasn’t quite right.
A shadow loomed at the chapel gates. Cold eyes. Steely, unblinking.
Duke Killian of Wyrmgarde.
She hadn’t seen him move, but there he stood—tall, imposing, like a mountain of ice among the men and women who fawned over her late husband’s empty legacy. He stood motionless, his gaze fixed on her with an unsettling intensity.
Valeria’s pulse quickened, but she kept her expression neutral.
His eyes met hers.
And he nodded, once. Briefly.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, his silhouette disappearing into the storm.
