CHAPTER 5

Cleoh watched the woman closely, trying to decipher her identity. Suddenly, as if a breeze had whispered her name into his ear, a memory surged powerfully in his mind: Loorna Caisent, the Duchess of Caisent.

He didn’t remember her from what he—Cleoh—had lived, but from what the book had said about her. A barely described figure in vague passages: elegant, always distant, trapped in mourning for her lost daughter. A mother without a child. A wife without power. A name that gleamed with the weight of sorrow.

And yet, the woman in front of him didn’t quite match that image.

Yes, her bearing was worthy of nobility: back straight even in sleep, hands folded naturally, and an aura of control so solid it seemed to fill every corner of the room. But there was something more in her. Something human. Close.

Something the book had failed to capture.

Cleoh swallowed hard. If she truly was the duchess… then she was also the person who had adopted him. Or at least, the boy he now inhabited.

The woman opened her eyes completely.

"Cleoh…"

Her voice was low, but laden with an emotion that wavered between relief and worry. She stood immediately, crossing the space between them with quick steps, as if afraid he might vanish again at any moment.

“Are you alright?” she asked, leaning over him.

Her warm hands cupped his cheeks firmly, holding him gently as she looked at him intensely, as if she needed to make sure he was really there, conscious, breathing.

Cleoh blinked, surprised by the sudden closeness. He nodded slowly, though the stiffness in his back betrayed his discomfort.

He had to stay in control. This time, he couldn’t afford to lose his composure or let himself be swept away by confusion. Not after realizing that this body wasn’t his, that he was no longer himself, but someone else: a young noble named Cleoh, whose life he had only just begun to understand.

He had to adapt. Pretend. Keep playing the role.

Because in that world, even a misplaced sigh could raise suspicion.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried to stay calm, he couldn’t ignore how strange it all felt. The touch, the words, that closeness so full of affection for an identity that wasn’t his.

It was like living inside someone else’s reflection…

and he still didn’t know how long he could hold its gaze.

“You’re very pale,” murmured the duchess, brushing his forehead with the back of her hand, as if still unsure he wasn’t feverish. “You gave us quite a scare, Cleoh.”

He didn’t know what to say. Words tangled in his mind, soaked in a confusion he couldn’t entirely conceal. But he managed to nod, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible.

The duchess stilled for a moment, surprised by the almost guilty tone of his voice. Then, as if she had heard more than he had said, she sat on the edge of the bed. Her expression was soft, though framed by a melancholy that wouldn’t quite fade.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” she said gently. “But if something ever happens… please, don’t face it alone. You frightened me deeply.”

Cleoh lowered his gaze, his fingers clutching the bedsheet delicately. He wasn’t sure how to respond: whether to offer another apology, fake some gratitude, or simply remain silent. There was something in her words—an unexpected warmth, almost intimate—that contradicted the distant image the book had painted of the duchess.

Five Hours Earlier

“Anne, now that the young master is out of danger, it’s a good time for you to change before you catch something yourself. I’ll inform Her Grace of what happened,” said the head maid, firm but understanding.

“Yes, ma’am…”

Only then, upon hearing those words, did Anne seem to come back to herself. She had been so absorbed in worrying about Cleoh that she hadn’t noticed her own state. Her clothes were still soaked, clinging to her body, and though a light blanket covered her shoulders, the cold still seeped mercilessly into her bones.

Her body trembled involuntarily, as if only now becoming aware of the storm’s toll.

With slow steps and numb hands, she set out to obey, casting one last glance toward the young man who slept, still wrapped in a faint, warm glow.

...***...

The morning progressed with a deceptive calm, still unaware of the unrest running through the eastern wing. In a private room on the second floor, scented with lavender and golden light, Duchess Loorna Caisent remained seated before her vanity, back straight and hands resting gracefully in her lap.

One maid worked to gather her chestnut hair into an elaborate braid, while another discreetly selected a mother-of-pearl brooch from several jewels laid out on a velvet cloth.

“Something simple this morning,” said the duchess, looking at her reflection with a serene expression. “The navy blue, with the high collar.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” replied the maid with a slight bow, setting aside the brooches to retrieve the requested dress.

The atmosphere was calm, disciplined, with no sound but the gentle brushstrokes through her hair and the soft murmur of fire in the hearth. Until a sharp knock at the door broke the stillness.

“Who is it?” asked the duchess, without raising her voice, but firmly.

“It’s me, my lady. Forgive the interruption,” came the head maid’s voice from the other side. “There is… an urgent matter that requires your attention.”

Loorna exchanged a quick glance with the maid holding the brush, then nodded.

“Let her in.”

The door opened with restrained speed, and the head maid entered with an unusually grave expression. She bowed deeply before speaking.

“Your Grace… there was an incident this morning. Young Master Cleoh was found in the garden, unconscious from exposure to the cold. He was taken to the medical wing, and the doctor is already attending to him.”

Loorna’s hand, resting on the armrest, tensed imperceptibly. Her expression, however, barely changed. Only a faint shadow passed through her eyes.

“Unconscious? In the garden? How did he get out without anyone noticing?”

“We don’t know for sure yet. It was Anne Marie, the new maid, who found him. She covered him with her coat and called for help. Thanks to her quick thinking, he reached the infirmary in time. The doctor says his life isn’t in danger, but he remains unconscious.”

For a moment, Loorna didn’t respond. She merely shifted her gaze to her reflection in the mirror. The same impassive face stared back, but beneath that calm, a rising tension could be sensed.

“Who was in charge of his care this morning?”

“There were no specific orders, Your Grace. The young master had requested privacy for several days. No one thought he’d go out… in those conditions.”

The duchess briefly closed her eyes and drew a measured breath.

“Where is he now?”

“In the eastern wing’s infirmary. The doctor has begun treatment. He recommends monitoring him throughout the night.”

“Very well. Have a detailed report prepared. And thank young Anne Marie personally for her actions.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Loorna made a slight gesture for her to leave. The head maid bowed once more and exited the room.

As the door closed, the room seemed to regain its pulse. The maid holding the dress waited in silence. The one with the brush remained still, unsure whether to continue.

“Finish the hairstyle,” said Loorna softly, almost a whisper. She looked at no one. Her face remained serene, unshaken like a noble statue. And yet, beneath that mask of composure, her mind was a restrained storm. The news had struck her like an icy wave, and though she forced herself to remain calm, her breathing betrayed the truth: she had not yet regained balance.

Each inhale was a measured effort, as if trying to contain emotions in a glass already too full.

The brush resumed its path through her chestnut hair, gliding smoothly as if nothing had happened. But inside, every fiber of her being vibrated with an echo she could not silence.

Young Cleoh… unconscious, lying in a bed in the medical wing. The report had been clear, restrained, direct. Yet the image in her mind was anything but objective. She saw him—without having seen him—skin pale as porcelain, lips tinged purple, fragile body wrapped in blankets, and a thread of breath barely clinging to life.

And then, without permission, another memory slipped into her thoughts like a whisper.

Cloeh. Her daughter.

She saw her—or thought she did—just as she had been that last morning: wrapped in a light cloak, cheeks pink from the cold, laughter ringing like a bell as she turned to her. That laugh… she hadn’t heard it in years, yet the memory was so vivid it hurt.

In her mind, the image overlapped with Cleoh’s. Not because of their features—though they were similar, pale reflections of the same portrait—but because of how life seemed to slip away from them both so suddenly, as if fate delighted in ripping away everything she touched with tenderness.

Loorna narrowed her eyes in the mirror. Melancholy surfaced, but she didn’t allow it to spill over. Her face had to remain serene—because that was what was expected of a duchess. Of a mother. She couldn’t afford to break again.

But in her chest, chaos pulsed with almost adolescent urgency. What had she felt when she first saw him? Was it that resemblance to Cloeh… that had driven her to adopt him?

A slight tug on her hair brought her back. The maid mumbled an apology. Loorna responded with a slight nod, as if nothing had happened.

And yet, something within her was cracking.

“I cannot lose another child.”

When the hairstyle was done and the navy-blue dress adjusted perfectly to her figure, Loorna rose without a word. The maids stepped aside with silent bows, as if sensing something in her had changed.

She didn’t descend to the dining hall as she did every morning. She didn’t take her place at the table or request her usual jasmine tea. Instead, she walked through the still-quiet corridors of the mansion, her steps firm but deliberate, as if each carried an ancient weight.

The servants she passed stepped aside respectfully, bowing their heads, but none dared question her path. Loorna didn’t need to announce it—her presence spoke for itself.

Upon reaching the medical wing, one of the maids rushed to open the door for her. The doctor, seeing her, paused his work and offered a discreet bow.

“Your Grace,” he greeted with measured tone. “His Highness is stable. His breathing has improved. The fever is gradually receding.”

“Has he woken?” she asked without preamble, her voice like thin ice.

“Not yet,” the doctor replied. “But his body is responding well. I don’t think it will be long.”

Loorna gave a small nod and moved toward the bed without another word. The room was warm, scented faintly of herbs and steam. The curtains were partly drawn, letting soft golden light filter through.

Cleoh lay still beneath thick blankets, his face pale but peaceful, a delicate bead of sweat on his forehead. He didn’t look ill… but distant. Far away, as if his soul was still wandering.

Loorna sat beside him without a sound. She didn’t touch him. Didn’t speak his name. She just looked at him, for a long time, as if trying to find in him an answer that couldn’t be found in books or reports.

And for a few moments, the silence in the room seemed to deepen—not into stillness, but into waiting.

But a part of her—the oldest, most broken part—had already begun to tremble at the possibility of another loss.

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