Gerhardt did not sleep.
He lay in his narrow bed in the servants’ quarters, listening to the wind move through the castle walls, feeling the letter press against his chest through the fabric of his nightshirt.
He had not put it down.
He had not hidden it in a drawer or locked it away in his desk.
It stayed with him, close to his skin, as if his body needed to absorb its contents before his mind could decide what to do.
When the first grey light of dawn crept through his window, he rose and dressed in his formal steward’s coat—the one with the silver buttons, the one he wore only for official occasions.
He did not know why he chose it today.
Perhaps because he might be dismissed by evening.
If he was going to leave, he would leave properly dressed.
He touched his pocket.
The letter was there.
It was time.
The morning passed in a blur of ordinary duties.
Gerhardt oversaw the kitchen staff, reviewed the day’s menu, approved a requisition for firewood, and settled a dispute between two footmen over a broken lantern.
He did these things as he had always done them—efficiently, quietly, with the calm authority of a man who had run a ducal household for forty years.
No one noticed anything wrong.
But Cassian noticed.
At breakfast, Gerhardt poured the duke’s tea with hands that trembled almost imperceptibly.
He forgot to bring the morning reports until Cassian reminded him.
When a servant dropped a tray in the corridor, Gerhardt did not even turn his head.
He simply stood at the window of the solar, staring out at the snow, his face pale and distant.
Cassian watched him through the open door of his study.
He said nothing.
But he noticed.
And something cold settled in the pit of his stomach.
He remembered this.
Not from the novel—from his first life.
Gerhardt had come to him with that same haunted look.
He had stood before the desk, his hands clasped too tightly, his voice barely steady.
And he had resigned.
No explanation.
Just forty years of service ended with a bowed head and a closed door.
Cassian had never understood why.
Not then.
Not in all the years that followed.
The old steward had simply vanished from his life, and Cassian had been too proud, too cold, to ask.
Now he saw that same shadow on Gerhardt’s face.
He knew what was coming.
He was going to lose him.
By midday, Gerhardt had made a decision.
He would tell the duke after the evening meal, when the castle was quiet and there would be no interruptions.
He rehearsed the words in his head as he walked the corridors, as he signed requisitions, as he nodded politely at the guards who greeted him.
He had served three dukes.
He had survived them all by knowing when to speak and when to be silent.
This was the hardest thing he had ever had to say, and he would say it properly, with dignity, with the truth laid bare.
But the afternoon brought complications.
A messenger arrived from the eastern garrisons with urgent reports.
Cassian spent hours in council with his military commanders, and Gerhardt was needed to take notes.
The evening meal was delayed.
A minor crisis erupted in the kitchens when a barrel of salted fish was found to be spoiled.
By the time Gerhardt had resolved everything, the castle was dark and the duke had retired to his private chambers.
He had missed his chance.
Tomorrow, he told himself.
Tomorrow, without fail.
But Cassian did not wait for tomorrow.
As Gerhardt was making his final rounds of the night, checking the locks on the storerooms and the candles in the corridors, a young page approached him.
“Sir Gerhardt,” the boy said, “His Grace wants to see you in his study.” Gerhardt’s heart stopped.
“Now?” “Yes, sir.
He said it wasn’t urgent, but he’d like to speak with you before you go to bed.” Not urgent.
Gerhardt nodded, dismissed the page, and stood alone in the corridor.
His hands were trembling again.
He pressed them flat against his coat and took a long, slow breath.
He had served three dukes.
He had survived them all.
He would survive this.
He walked to the ducal study and knocked on the door.
Cassian was seated at his desk, a single candle burning beside him.
The fire had burned low, casting the room in amber shadow.
He was not reading or writing.
He was simply sitting, waiting, his hands folded on the desk before him.
When Gerhardt entered, Cassian looked up.
And Gerhardt saw it.
The flicker of something in the duke’s eyes—a quiet grief, already settling in before a single word had been spoken.
As if Cassian had already accepted a loss he had not yet been told about.
“Gerhardt,” Cassian said.
“Close the door.” Gerhardt did so.
He stood before the desk, his back straight, his hands clasped behind him to hide their trembling.
Cassian studied him for a long moment.
Then he said, very quietly, “You have been distracted all day.
You forgot the morning reports.
You stared out the window for half an hour.
At dinner, you poured wine into a cup that was already full.” Gerhardt swallowed.
“Your Grace, I—” “If you have something to tell me,” Cassian said, and his voice was calm but heavy, “tell me now.
I would rather hear it quickly than watch you suffer through it slowly.” The silence stretched.
Gerhardt could hear his own heart beating.
The letter was in his pocket.
He had carried it for two days.
He could not carry it any longer.
“Your Grace,” he began, and his voice cracked.
He took a breath.
“There is something I have kept from you.
For ten years.
I should have told you long ago.
I did not.
I was afraid.” Cassian’s jaw tightened.
There it was.
The preamble to goodbye.
He had heard it before, in another life.
He waited, his hands pressed flat against the desk, bracing himself for the inevitable.
“Afraid of what?” he asked quietly.
Gerhardt closed his eyes.
“Of you, Your Grace.
Of the man you used to be.” The words hung in the air.
Gerhardt opened his eyes and forced himself to meet Cassian’s gaze.
He had expected anger.
He had expected the cold, familiar mask of the Wolf of the North.
Instead, Cassian’s expression did not change.
He simply nodded slowly.
“That man is dead,” he said, his voice rough at the edges.
“Tell me what you need to tell me.” Gerhardt reached into his coat.
His hand was shaking so badly he nearly dropped the letter.
The crumpled envelope shook in the candlelight.
He stared at it.
“A chambermaid,” he said.
His voice was barely audible now.
“Her name was Elise.
She worked in the east wing.
She was barely nineteen.” He stopped.
Swallowed.
“Your father…
before he died…
she fell pregnant.
He sent her away.
I was the one who walked her to the gate.
I gave her a pouch of coins—not enough, not nearly enough—and she thanked me.
She thanked me, with tears in her eyes.” His voice broke.
He pressed on.
“She had a daughter.
She named her Seraphina.
After your mother.” A shuddering breath.
“I received a letter.
I burned it.
I told no one.
The old duke would have seen the child as a threat.
The old you…” He couldn’t finish.
“I was afraid.
For ten years, I was afraid.
And now the mother is dying, and the girl is alone, and I—” He stopped.
His eyes were wet.
He did not wipe them.
“I don’t know how to ask for forgiveness,” he whispered.
“I only know I had to tell you.
Now.
Before it was too late.” He laid the crumpled letter on the desk.
Then he stood there, an old man with tears on his face, waiting.
Cassian stared at the letter.
He did not pick it up.
He did not speak.
The silence stretched, heavy and fragile.
Then he raised his eyes to Gerhardt’s face.
The quiet grief that had been there before was gone, replaced by something entirely different.
“You’re not resigning,” Cassian said.
It was not a question.
Gerhardt blinked.
“Resigning?
No, Your Grace.
I—I am telling you about the child.” The tension in Cassian’s shoulders eased, almost imperceptibly.
He looked down at the crumpled letter.
Then back at the old steward.
“A sister,” he said quietly.
“I have a sister.” “Yes, Your Grace.” Cassian was silent for a long moment.
Then he stood.
“Then we will go to her.
Prepare the carriage.
We leave at dawn.”