The First Morning

I did not sleep well.

The bed was softer than anything I had ever known, the pillows like clouds, the sheets cool and smooth against my skin. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw silver eyes watching me, and I woke with my heart pounding and my hand reaching for something that was not there.

By the time pale light began to seep through the curtains, I had given up on rest entirely. I rose, wrapping a robe around myself—silk, I realized with a start, real silk—and walked to the window.

The moor was different in the morning. The mist had lifted, revealing a landscape of rolling hills and dark granite outcroppings, dotted with the ruins of old towers and the skeletal remains of trees that had died centuries ago. It was bleak, but there was a stark beauty to it, a wildness that called to something in my chest.

I was still standing there when a soft knock came at the door.

Mira entered with a tray of breakfast—porridge, fresh bread, honey, tea—and a bundle of clothing over her arm. She took in my rumpled appearance with a practiced eye and said nothing, simply setting the tray down and beginning to lay out the clothes.

“I thought you might like to see the gardens today, my lady,” she said, smoothing the skirt of a deep green dress. “The morning light is best for them.”

I looked at the dress, then at her. “Am I permitted to go outside?”

“You are permitted to walk the grounds. The gardens, the courtyard, the path to the gate—but no further.” She met my eyes. “Lord Alaric’s orders are clear, but they are not cruel. He simply… prefers to know where people are.”

Prefers to know where his prisoners are, I thought, but I did not say it. Instead, I ate my breakfast, letting the warmth of the tea seep into my bones, and allowed Mira to help me dress.

The green dress fit better than anything I had ever owned. It was simple in cut but beautifully made, the fabric falling in soft folds that moved with me rather than against me. When I looked in the mirror, I hardly recognized the woman staring back—no longer the merchant’s daughter in her worn shawl, but someone else entirely. Someone who might belong in a place like this.

“You look lovely, my lady,” Mira said, and I thought she meant it.

I turned from the mirror, uncomfortable with the reflection. “Show me the gardens.”

The corridors were as empty as they had been the night before, our footsteps echoing on the stone. But in the daylight, I could see details I had missed—the carvings on the doorframes, the faded paintings that hung in forgotten alcoves, the way the light fell through the high windows in shafts of gold and amber.

Blackmere Manor was old. Older than I had realized. There was a weight to it, a sense of centuries pressing down on every stone, and I found myself wondering how many brides had walked these halls before me, how many had looked out these windows and wondered if they would ever leave.

Mira led me through a side door I would have missed on my own, and suddenly we were outside.

The gardens were a ruin.

That was my first thought, looking at the tangled vines and overgrown paths, the statues half-hidden by ivy, the fountain that no longer flowed. But as I walked further, I began to see what they had once been—the careful design of the hedges, the bones of roses that must have been spectacular in their prime, the terraced levels that descended toward a small lake at the bottom of the hill.

“It was beautiful once,” Mira said, watching me take it in. “Lady Mariana—Lord Alaric’s mother—she loved these gardens. After she died, he could not bear to see them tended. He ordered them left to grow wild.”

I stopped, looking back at the manor rising behind us. Lady Mariana. The human woman who had loved a vampire, who had borne his child, who had died—according to the whispers—by the hands of those who could not accept what she had done.

“He lost her,” I said slowly. “And he let the gardens die with her.”

Mira said nothing, but her silence was answer enough.

I walked down the overgrown path, pushing aside branches that had not been trimmed in years, and found myself standing before a statue half-hidden in the ivy. It was a woman, her face worn smooth by weather, but I could still see the kindness in her features, the tilt of her head that suggested she had been laughing when the sculptor captured her.

Lady Mariana, I guessed. Alaric’s mother.

I reached out and touched the cold stone, feeling the roughness beneath my fingers.

He let the gardens die with her.

I thought of my own mother’s garden—a small patch of herbs behind our shop, nothing like this—and how I had kept it alive after she passed, tending the rosemary and thyme because it was the only thing that made me feel close to her. The idea of letting it wither, of sealing it off and pretending it had never existed—that was not grief. That was something else. Something that had calcified into stone.

I turned away from the statue and walked back toward the manor, my thoughts churning.

When I reached the door, I found Dorian waiting, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression as smooth as ever.

“Lord Alaric requests your presence at dinner this evening,” he said. “Formal attire. The great hall. Seven o’clock.”

I felt my stomach tighten. “He wishes to dine with me?”

“He wishes to perform the duties of a husband,” Dorian corrected gently. “It is expected, given the circumstances. The court will be watching, my lady. Appearances matter.”

The court. I had forgotten, in the strangeness of this place, that there was a wider world beyond these walls—a world of vampires and politics and games I did not understand.

“What should I expect?” I asked.

Dorian considered the question. “Lord Alaric will ask about your background, your education, your skills. He will assess you as he would any new piece on the board. My advice is to answer honestly, but guard your heart. He is not looking for a wife. He is looking for an asset.”

An asset. I nodded, though the word sat sour in my mouth.

“Is there anything else?” I asked.

Dorian’s gaze flickered, and for a moment I thought I saw something almost human in his face. “He is not cruel, my lady. But he has forgotten how to be kind. Do not mistake his silence for weakness, and do not expect warmth where there is none.”

He left before I could respond.

I spent the afternoon in my chambers, trying to read a book I had found in the small library attached to my sitting room, but the words blurred before my eyes. All I could think about was the dinner to come, the silver eyes that would assess me, the man who had locked his heart away so thoroughly that he had let his mother’s gardens die rather than tend them.

When Mira came to help me dress, she chose a gown of deep burgundy, the color of old wine, with sleeves that tapered to points over my hands and a neckline that felt scandalously low. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a stranger—a woman who could have been a princess, or a sacrifice, depending on how the light fell.

“You will do fine, my lady,” Mira said, pinning my hair up with a series of small silver clips. “Remember: he is more afraid than you are.”

I turned to her, startled. “Afraid? Of what?”

She met my eyes in the mirror. “Of feeling something he has spent a century trying to forget.”

The clock struck seven. I took a breath, smoothed my skirts, and walked toward the great hall.

Hey guys!!! Hope you are loving the story 🫣 Don't forget to like, comment and vote ❤️

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***