Celia stepped into the study, the heavy wooden doors closing behind her with a quiet thud.
The room was vast yet cloistered, its dark oak bookshelves towering high, filled with centuries-old tomes bound in leather and gold. The scent of aged parchment, ink, and faint traces of cedar lingered in the air, blending with the subtle warmth of the crackling fireplace at the far end. Heavy velvet drapes, the same deep shade as the Ravenshade sigil, framed the tall windows, allowing only a sliver of the gray, overcast light to filter in.
In the center of the room, beneath a grand chandelier of wrought iron and crystal, stood an imposing mahogany desk. Every item upon it was meticulously arranged—neatly stacked documents, a silver quill resting in its inkwell, and a single ornate dagger placed deliberately within reach.
And behind that desk sat the Duke of Ravenshade.
Despite the years that lined his face, Duke Reinhart Ravenshade still carried the sharpness of a man who had not allowed time to dull him. His features were refined, chiseled with the same aristocratic precision that Celia had inherited—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and piercing gray eyes that bore into everything they looked upon. Yet where Celia's gaze held measured curiosity, his was unyielding, cold, and unreadable.
His dark hair, streaked with silver, was neatly combed back, revealing a sharp widow's peak. Clad in a tailored black coat embroidered with silver filigree, he carried an air of quiet authority, a presence that commanded without the need for raised voices or grand gestures.
He did not rise as Celia entered, nor did his expression shift in welcome. Instead, he merely studied her, his steely gaze weighing her as though assessing not just her presence, but what she might bring before him.
The silence stretched, thick with expectation.
Finally, he spoke, his voice deep and measured, carrying the weight of a man accustomed to being heard without question.
"You've returned."
Celia met her father's gaze without wavering, her expression composed, neither warm nor defiant. She lowered her head slightly in a measured gesture of respect—just enough to acknowledge his authority without appearing meek.
"As you summoned, Father," she replied, her tone even and refined, devoid of unnecessary emotion. "I have returned as expected."
She straightened, her hands resting lightly at her sides, maintaining the perfect poise befitting a daughter of Ravenshade. Though her demeanor remained neutral, there was an unspoken tension in the air—one that neither father nor daughter openly acknowledged.
The Duke's sharp gaze did not waver as he leaned back slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers atop the polished mahogany desk. His voice, deep and deliberate, cut through the silence like a blade.
"The task I assigned you—has it been completed?"
There was no warmth in his tone, only expectation.
Celia remained composed, her posture unwavering. She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment.
"Yes, Father. The matter has been handled as per your instructions."
Her voice was steady, that was the reason she visited the royal palace but her stay extended than she expected,revealing nothing beyond what was necessary. There was no need for elaboration unless he requested it. She had learned long ago that with her father, efficiency was valued above all else.
The Duke gave a small, approving nod, his sharp eyes never leaving Celia. Though his expression remained unreadable, there was the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in his gaze.
"Good."
The single word carried the weight of expectation fulfilled. Yet, even as he acknowledged her success, his gaze sharpened ever so slightly, observing her with the precision of a man accustomed to reading even the subtlest of expressions.
A flicker of something—hesitation, perhaps—crossed Celia's otherwise neutral features. It was brief, barely perceptible, but not to him.
His fingers tapped once against the desk, a quiet, deliberate motion. The faint crackling of the fireplace and the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on the far wall filled the brief silence before he finally spoke again.
"You are troubled."
It was not a question. It was a statement—one that left no room for denial.
The dim candlelight cast long shadows across his face, accentuating the unwavering scrutiny in his gaze. The study, with its heavy bookshelves and somber decor, seemed to close in ever so slightly, as though waiting for her response just as intently as the man before her.
For the first time since entering the study, Celia shows hesitated.
Her father's gaze remained fixed upon her, his sharp, discerning eyes leaving no room for evasion. The steady crackle of the fireplace and the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock filled the silence between them, stretching it taut.
Finally, she exhaled softly and spoke, her voice carefully measured.
"It is regarding Darian."
The Duke said nothing, but the slight tilt of his head indicated that she had his full attention. Encouraged, or perhaps resigned, Celia continued.
"He has changed," she stated plainly.
"Drastically. The arrogance that once drove his every action has faded. He is… quieter, more deliberate. Almost as if he has been forced to confront something beyond his understanding."
She paused for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. "It is not weakness," she clarified. "If anything, he seems more determined than before. And yet, there is uncertainty in him—something I have never seen."
Her gloved fingers tightened ever so slightly at her sides. "I do not know if this change is for the better… or if it will lead him somewhere beyond his control."
The words settled into the air, absorbed by the heavy presence of the study. Celia maintained her composed exterior, but inwardly, she braced herself for her father's response.
The Duke remained silent for a long moment, his gaze distant as he contemplated Celia's words. The dim glow of the fireplace cast flickering shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his expression.
The rhythmic ticking of the antique clock filled the silence, each passing second stretching the weight of his deliberation. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his chair, a slow and deliberate motion.
Finally, he spoke, his voice calm yet carrying an unmistakable command.
"Watch over him."
No further explanation. No elaboration. Just those three words.
His gaze returned to Celia, unreadable yet firm, as if expecting no argument.