Deep in the night, a nightmare tore Amanda from sleep. Flames devouring familiar huts, screams, her brother’s face twisted in terror, his hoarse cry: “Run, Amanda! Run!” She fled, stumbling, feeling the searing heat at her back, until the ground vanished beneath her feet and the icy waters of the river closed over her head.
She woke with a short, stifled cry, her heart pounding like a trapped bird. She sat up in bed, trembling, unable for several seconds to remember where she was. The vast chamber with its soaring ceiling—luxurious, yet alien. In the corner, barely visible in the gloom, two silhouettes: one stocky, the other leaner. Leo and Torgrim, encased in their invisible armor, dozing while they kept watch over her rest.
Memory crashed over her anew. Her parents… the gentle, defenseless faces of her mother and father. *What happened to them?* Nomads. Cruel and merciless. In the book, they had been a true scourge, wiping entire villages from the face of the earth and shattering steel-clad knights with ease. Her simple family had stood no chance.
With a heavy, crushing weight on her chest and tears she kept brushing away, Amanda rose from the bed. She did not don her formidable golden armor. Instead, she crossed to the massive carved wardrobe in the corner. Inside hung garments clearly prepared for a noble guest. Mindful of the autumn chill, she chose a gown of deep green velvet with long sleeves, trimmed with silver embroidery in swirling ivy patterns. Over her shoulders she draped a soft cloak of silvery-gray wool, edged with ermine fur. The clothing was warm, opulent, and surprisingly comforting.
Barefoot, she slipped silently from the room and descended the spiral staircase into the night garden.
The air was cool and damp, scented with fallen leaves, wet stone, and the lingering perfume of late autumn blooms. Moonlight, filtering through scattered clouds, silvered the frost-touched lawns, the fanciful topiary of boxwood, and the skeletal outlines of leafless trees. It was breathtaking and melancholic, like a scene from the most beautiful and sorrowful anime.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
She walked slowly along the gravel path, her velvet gown whispering, her thoughts swirling around the past, the present, and a terrifying future. So lost was she in them that she did not hear the approaching footsteps.
“Cannot sleep, my lady?”
The voice came quietly from directly behind her. Amanda started and spun around, her heart leaping into her throat once more.
There stood Randel. Not in armor, but in a dark blue—almost black—doublet of fine wool, embroidered at the throat with silver thread. His cloak was thrown over one shoulder, and his hair appeared slightly disheveled, as though he had spent long hours bent over work. He looked exactly as a handsome prince from a manhwa ought to look: elegant, a little weary, and devastatingly striking in the moonlight.
“Lord Randel?” Her voice came out unsteady. “What… what are you doing here at this hour?”
The corners of his mouth lifted in a faint, tired smile.
“I rarely sleep at night. Or rather, I do, but very little. The silence is undisturbed; no one interrupts. It is the most productive time for attending to the duchy’s affairs.” He shrugged lightly. “Reports, maps, dispatches from the borders… A future duke must grow accustomed to sleeplessness early.”
He took a step closer, his gaze turning searching.
“And you… why are you awake? Is something troubling you?”
Amanda looked away, fixing her eyes on the ghostly outline of a fountain in the distance.
“Just… a bad dream,” she murmured uncertainly.
Randel drew nearer still. Moonlight fell full upon her face, and he noticed what she had hoped the darkness would conceal.
“You’ve been crying,” he said, his voice softer now.
Amanda instinctively touched her eyes.
“No! I… it’s just from the dream. I’m fine.”
He regarded her, and in his eyes there was no mockery or prying curiosity—only understanding. He saw her not as the Guardian, but simply as a young woman frightened by a nightmare.
“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “even the strongest among us are haunted by nightmares. There is no shame in it.”
He did not press her. He did not ask questions. He simply stood beside her, sharing the silence of the night garden and the weight of her unspoken grief. And in that silent companionship there was more warmth than any words could have offered.