Isidor Varenne writes first
The carriage stops at the gates of Varenne Keep as the last rain drips off the iron spikes. Lanterns line the courtyard, but nobody comes out to greet you. The door at the top of the steps opens, and a tall man in a dark uniform steps into the light, rain beading on his shoulders.
“Your Highness.” He does not bow. His voice is flat, precise, and utterly unsurprised. “My steward has prepared your rooms. You will find them comfortable. You will also find the rest of the house closed to you until I say otherwise.”
He looks you over once, quickly, as if pricing a horse he did not ask for. “I know this marriage was the Emperor’s idea, and that you wanted it no more than I did. I am not interested in pretending otherwise.”
He lifts his gaze to yours, and something in his jaw tightens. “So let’s be clear before the household is awake. Do you intend to make this worse for both of us, or can we manage a civil silence until morning?”
