Chapter 39: The Mansion of Blue
The first thing Sylvara felt was the ache behind her eyes. The faint scent of lavender drifted from the sheets beneath her, softer than anything she’d slept on before. Her lashes fluttered open, and the golden morning light spilled through the high windows of the chamber. The silk curtains swayed gently, whispering secrets with every slow breath of wind.
Her body still trembled. The night before clung to her like a stain she couldn’t wash away. The slap on her cheek burned faintly when she moved her jaw, and her throat felt dry, tight.
When she sat up, the sound of fabric brushing against skin echoed, blue silk. She was dressed in a long gown that shimmered when the light touched it, the color of the calmest sky before rain. The sleeves draped loosely from her wrists, and tiny silver threads glinted faintly along the hem. Someone had braided her hair again, tying it neatly at the back with a blue ribbon.
It should have made her feel beautiful. It didn’t.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror beside the bed. The pale bruise on her cheek, the sadness in her violet eyes, those were what she saw. Her lips parted slightly, trembling as she whispered to herself, “So l’ll be going to… my new cage.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, her heart thudding quietly in her chest.
Now that she knew the truth, why Orion kept her here, it made her stomach twist. She was not a wife. Not even a lover. She was a vessel. A solution to a curse written in his blood.
She’d overheard enough from the servants to piece it together. Orion von Hawthorne, Duke of Ebonvale, feared by kings and councils alike, could not bear an heir unless it was with one of her kind.
A Velaryn.
Her.
The thought made her throat tighten.
If she bore his child, she would be bound to him for life. A living, breathing reminder of her captivity. She didn’t want that future, not even if it meant safety.
Her mind drifted back to what the slave hunters had said before Orion’s men found her. “A man’s weakness can be cured by a Velaryn… if you find the right herb, the right hand.”
Maybe if she could find a cure, something to fix his reproductive condition, he wouldn’t need her anymore. Maybe then he would let her go.
Her fingers pressed against her lips. “Right… he’d let me go,” she whispered, though her voice carried no conviction.
But deep down, she hoped.
A faint knock interrupted her thoughts. Three gentle taps. She turned her head, startled.
The heavy oak door opened with a low creak, and footsteps entered, firm, measured. The sound of steel shifted slightly, and Sylvara’s gaze rose.
The figure who stepped in wore black armor engraved with a hawk’s crest, the same symbol she’d seen on Orion’s robes. The stranger’s presence filled the room with quiet authority.
At first glance, she thought it was a man. The figure was tall but slender, movements graceful, controlled. A long black ponytail trailed over the shoulder, and a scar ran down the left cheek, disappearing beneath the chin.
But the face, sharp and strangely beautiful, made her hesitate.
Their eyes met.
The stranger froze for a moment, as if stunned. Then, with surprising softness, the figure dropped to one knee. “My apologies, my lady,” came the calm, low voice.
Sylvara blinked. The tone was light, feminine. Her brows furrowed slightly. That was not a man’s voice.
Her lips parted in surprise. She's… a woman?
“What for?”
The knight bowed her head lower, her voice steady but tinted with amusement. “For staring at you like an idiot,” she said.
Sylvara almost laughed at the bluntness but caught herself. “It’s not a problem,” she replied quietly, her voice calm, though inside she was uncertain.
The knight straightened, her armor whispering softly as she rose. “Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Astrid Wilder, one of the four members of the great knight… the Black Hawk. From today onward, the Duke has assigned us as your personal protectors.” She bent one knee again, placing a fist over her heart in salute.
Sylvara stared at her blankly. What was she supposed to say to that? “Oh…” she managed. “I see.”
Astrid’s lips curved faintly, something between amusement and respect.
Then her expression hardened again. “You are now my new master.”
“What?” Sylvara frowned. “I don’t think that’s necessary. If the Duke ordered you and the other maidens to take care of me without your consent. You all should just leave, don't force yourself on someone you don't want to be around.”
Her words were sharp, defensive, but Astrid didn’t flinch.
The knight’s blue eyes softened, though she hid it quickly behind her stoic expression. Inside, Astrid’s thoughts were nothing like her composed face. She’s even more beautiful than the rumors said. The Duke is lucky I’m not a man, or perhaps am the unlucky one for not being a man.
But she didn’t let it show.
Instead, she cleared her throat and said, “My lady, it’s time to leave. The Duke’s orders.”
Sylvara hesitated, then nodded quietly. Her legs felt weak as she stood. The air was cool against her skin, and the silk brushed softly against her ankles.
Astrid stepped closer, and for a moment, Sylvara felt the woman’s gaze on her again, curious, almost protective. Every time Sylvara looked back, Astrid turned her face away quickly, her cheeks faintly red beneath the scar.
Silently, Astrid took a sky-blue cloak from the chair and draped it over Sylvara’s shoulders, letting the hood fall low over her face. She tied the ribbon beneath her chin gently, her gloved fingers brushing the skin of Sylvara’s neck.
“Better,” Astrid murmured.
Sylvara nodded, whispering, “Thank you.”
Outside, the sound of horses whinnying and carriage wheels crunching over gravel reached them. Astrid opened the tall doors, and a burst of crisp morning air swept in. The scent of dew and cedar filled Sylvara’s lungs as she stepped out.
A white carriage stood waiting at the foot of the stairs, its golden rims gleaming under the sun. Three knights stood nearby, each in black armor with silver trim, identical crests gleaming on their chests.
They bowed deeply when Sylvara appeared.
She looked at them nervously, clutching the folds of her gown. Their gazes didn’t linger; they stared at the ground in solemn discipline.
Astrid extended her hand toward her. “Please, my lady.”
Sylvara hesitated, her fingers trembling slightly before she placed her hand in Astrid’s gloved palm. The warmth of the leather was oddly reassuring.
Just as she was about to step into the carriage, a voice broke through the air.
Smooth. Confidence. Unfamiliar.
“Allow me… miss.”
The tone made her freeze.
Sylvara turned sharply, her hand instinctively flying to hold the edge of her hood, tightening it around her hair. The white strands, her secret, her curse, must not be seen.
A man approached from the garden path, sunlight spilling over his golden hair. His stride was graceful, almost lazy, like a nobleman who had never been refused anything in his life. His uniform was lighter than the knights’, white trimmed with gold, a sapphire brooch gleaming at his throat.
He smiled when their eyes met, a smile too easy, too practiced.
Astrid immediately moved, stepping between them, her hand resting on her sword’s hilt. “Identify yourself.”
The man chuckled, his voice dripping with charm. “Easy now, knight. I only meant to greet the Duke’s… guest.” His gaze slid toward Sylvara, curious, amused, and something else she couldn’t name.
Sylvara’s heart pounded painfully. There was something dangerous in his smile, something that reminded her of Orion, but colder.
Astrid’s jaw tightened. “His Grace ordered no one to approach the lady.”
“Oh, I see…” The stranger tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Then I suppose His Grace forgot to mention me.”
Astrid frowned. “And who might you be?”
The man stepped closer, and even the sunlight seemed to dim around him. His words came like a whisper and a challenge all at once.
“Prince Magnus of Aurelia.”
The name struck the air like thunder. The knights instantly stiffened, dropping to one knee in reflex. Even Astrid hesitated.