The bell rang at the third hour after dawn. One long chime, low and measured, followed by two sharper notes.

  Morning light filtered through the tall windows in slanted bars of gold, catching the dust that rose with her breath.

  Frances stirred, not because she had rested well, but because the hour demanded it. She reached out, instinctively, to the left side of the bed — the space remained cool and undisturbed.

  She withdrew her hand without comment, then sat up and exhaled, letting the familiar weight of silence settle around her shoulders like a cloak..

  It had been two weeks since Gale had left Vartis. Sixteen days, to be precise. Not that she was counting. She simply appreciated structure — as any good ruler should. And structure meant remembering the promises a certain advisor had made before vanishing downriver on a barge, full of determination, grand intentions and a whole series of daily letters she had yet to receive. Not that she expected any. Not truly. He was brilliant, infuriating, and predictably unreliable. She had known that long before he ever touched her.

  Still, this was the bed they’d shared on his last night.

  A practical decision, of course. The tower was too drafty, too narrow, and he had insisted she “try proper sheets for once.” Now, each morning she woke before the servants knocked, in a silence that pressed too close.

  She rose and dressed without ceremony. No maids attended her; she preferred it this way.

  No cats, either — Rudy had taken to hunting again, and Nymph slept in the basket by the fireplace, too dignified for such nonsense.

  She tied her hair back in a swift, tight braid. Her robe — dark green velvet, lined in silver — fell neatly over her frame. She glanced in the mirror, not out of vanity, but habit.

  A Duchess must look like a Duchess. Even when she doesn’t feel like one. Virevale had taught her that much.

  Down the stone corridors she moved like a shadow — silent, brisk, unhurried — her boots echoing faintly on the tiles. Two guards stood at attention by the council chamber doors. They bowed as she passed. She offered a nod in return, no more.

  She had come a long way from the stranger who first walked these halls. The woman they once ignored, corrected, dismissed. Her voice had grown sharper, her spine straighter. The council no longer spoke over her — though they occasionally still tried.

  The mornings now followed a precise rhythm. A small breakfast. A report from the steward. A review of letters and petitions. By midmorning, the council session began. The same pattern, each day. Reliable. Predictable.

  And utterly lifeless.

  Her first weeks in Vartis had been like this, or worse. The chill of the stone. The weight of silence in every hall. The insistent buzz of voices telling her what she must do — marry, submit, delegate. That she had not only endured, but prevailed, still surprised them. Now they called her steady. Efficient. Controlled.

  But the truth was: she missed the chaos.

  She missed the scattered books in the tower study. The scent of burnt toast and midnight coffee. The endless arguments about tax theory and magical ethics. The gleam in his eyes when he knew he was about to win an argument — or when she surprised him and didn’t let him.

  She missed the spoon.

  Gods, that ridiculous spoon.

  It had begun as a petty disagreement in the kitchen at Veltryn House — she’d grabbed the nearest utensil to defend her soup from unsolicited seasoning. He, of course, had retaliated by charming the spoon to stick to her palm until dusk. The duel had ended in laughter, an overcooked dinner, and a kiss she still remembered every time she passed the spice rack.

  Not that she thought of those things. Not directly.

  She missed the interruptions, the dry wit, the way he could ruin her entire schedule by simply leaning in and whispering something unspeakable in her ear.

  She missed — if she were honest — the warmth. Not just of arms or skin, but of presence: the way a room felt less like a tomb when he was in it, the way silence never had time to settle.

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  But now everything worked. Everyone reported on time. The palace was clean. The meetings began and ended as scheduled. There were no magical explosions in the archives. No ill-advised culinary experiments in the night.

  She reached the antechamber beside the council hall and waited, as she always did, for the inner doors to open. Her notes were already in hand. Her face, composed. Her voice, ready.

  And yet.

  A small part of her — the foolish, undisciplined part — listened for footsteps she would not hear today. The low scrape of boots in a hallway, followed by a muttered curse, a slammed door, a sarcastic greeting.

  Nothing.

  Just the quiet shuffle of parchment, and the weight of her own breath.

  Two weeks. The duchy had held itself together for two whole weeks without the resident disaster mage. Efficient, orderly, smooth.

  Sterile.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” said the steward as he opened the chamber doors.

  Fran inhaled once, slow and steady, and let her expression fall into its usual stillness.

  The Duchess had work to do.

  The council chamber smelled of parchment, wax, and autumn rain.

  Lady Olyan was speaking — calm, clear, without urgency — but Fran caught the tension beneath her tone. “The matter concerns two minor lords along the southern border, both laying claim to a patch of winter pasture. A familiar quarrel. The same fields, the same cattle, the same accusations. But this time, they’ve begun hiring swords.”

  Fran didn’t sigh. Didn’t blink. She reached for the map at her side and circled the disputed area with a precise line of red ink.

  “I’ll review the original charters this evening,” she said. “If either of them dares to march a single man onto contested land before then, I’ll strip their titles myself and let their sons graze with the goats.”

  “Then I’ll make certain your message reaches them by nightfall, Your Grace.”

  Across the table, Sir Rhyve stifled a cough that might’ve been a chuckle. Lord Merrowe did not.

  She turned a page, already moving to the next topic.

  Grain and forage reports from the eastern granaries. Delayed inspections from Northmere. A missing shipment of salt from the coast — likely vanished into black-market ledgers long before reaching the city gates. All routine, and all neatly arranged in piles across the council table.

  “Have the market inspectors verify the stocks by week’s end,” Fran ordered. “If the numbers don’t match the ledgers, we will.” Her voice did not rise, but several councillors shifted in their seats.

  Thalyra Velgrin gave a short, satisfied nod.

  They moved on. Line by line, page by page. Nothing exploded. No one interrupted her with a fiery counterspell or half-baked theory about invisible wheat smugglers or the philosophical implications of goat-based economies.

  Efficient. Smooth. Predictable.

  Until Lord Daskar cleared his throat.

  “If I may,” he began, and for a moment she remembered him younger — brighter-eyed, windburned, laughing under the eaves of Candlekeep’s old annex as he sketched ward-runes in the snow to impress her.

  She buried the memory, and nodded for him to continue.

  “I believe the time has come,” Alven said, “for Her Grace to pay a visit to the eastern baronies.”

  Several councillors stiffened.

  “With all due respect, my lord,” said Merrowe, “Her Grace’s schedule is already full. The harvest audits are under way, the charter revisions from Merindel are still pending, and—”

  “And the eastern lands,” Daskar cut in gently, “have not seen a ducal visit since His Grace the Duke rode through fifteen years ago, and only because the bridge at Marren’s End had collapsed and he was forced to detour.”

  That drew a few murmurs.

  Fran didn’t speak immediately. She watched Daskar instead, noting the calm way he returned every gaze. Steady. Prepared. He knew this would be unpopular.

  “Lord Merrowe is right,” Fran said at last. “There are matters here that require my attention — and they will have it. But so will the east.”

  Silence.

  “A ruler’s absence can be excused. For a year, perhaps two. But decades?” Her tone was even, her gaze level. “The east has been left to fester. It’s time they remembered who governs them — and whom to call upon when they have no one else.”

  No one objected further. Not aloud.

  She stood, closing her ledger with finality. “Meeting adjourned.”

  The others rose with her. Chairs scraped, papers were gathered, formal farewells exchanged. Some bowed more deeply than others.

  She turned to leave — then paused.

  Her fingers brushed the edge of her left hand.

  The ring was still there.

  She didn’t look at it.

  Not directly.

  Just long enough to remember what it meant. What it still meant.

  Alven approached as she stepped into the corridor beyond the chamber, his voice low. “Thank you. You didn’t have to back me.”

  “I didn’t,” Fran replied. “I backed the truth. They’ve been neglected for too long.”

  A pause. Then his voice softened. “You’ve changed. Not much, but… enough. You used to argue longer.”

  “And you used to be prettier.”

  He laughed. “Untrue. I’m still devastating.”

  She didn’t reply — but her mouth twitched, betraying the shadow of a smile.

  “Do you remember that last winter?” he asked, voice lowered. “You’d taken over the entire western annex — three blankets, two chairs pushed together, half a dozen books. I brought you bread through the side door, hoping to steal one.”

  Fran looked over. “You tripped and nearly set your coat on fire.”

  He smiled. “It was worth it. You didn’t chase me away.”

  “I was freezing,” she said. “And you brought the only loaf left in town.”

  “Still,” he said. “You didn’t chase me.”

  They parted then — formally, with a nod — and she turned back toward her study. Already, the steward awaited her with the next set of petitions.

  She resumed her day. Her schedule awaited.

  She signed five documents. Annotated a sixth. Ordered a revision of the eastern tax forms.

  Her routine, precise and undisturbed.

  Tomorrow, there would be more.

  Tomorrow, it would be seventeen days since Gale left.

  Not that she was counting.

  Still no letters.

  Not that she expected any.