The moon hung above Valemont Mansion, bathing its magnificent gardens in silver light.
Beyond the tall windows, the last candles were being extinguished, and the household was gradually surrendering to sleep.
But Rosylin Valemont was still awake.
She sat beside the window of her small bedroom, staring at the familiar black shawl resting across her lap.
She had made a promise.
Four days.
Four nights.
And she was not allowed to run away.
Rosylin buried her face in her hands.
“Oh, what have I done?”
The memory of the previous day returned with such clarity that her cheeks immediately grew warm.
She had cried in Sylvan Ashford’s arms.
Not a few quiet tears.
She had clung to his expensive coat and cried until she could barely breathe.
And he had held her.
He had even patted her back, awkwardly at first, as though comforting someone was an entirely unfamiliar task.
Rosylin pressed her palms against her burning cheeks.
“How am I supposed to face him now?”
She had spent the entire day trying to forget what had happened beneath the old tree.
Unfortunately, the harder she tried, the more clearly she remembered everything.
His deep voice.
His cold blue eyes.
The unexpected warmth of his embrace.
And the ridiculous agreement she had made before running away from him yet again.
She glanced at the clock.
It was getting late almost twelve.
Perhaps he had forgotten.
Perhaps he had grown tired of waiting and returned to his guest room.
Somehow, she doubted both possibilities.
With a defeated sigh, Rosylin stood and approached the small mirror beside her bed.
Her old dress was faded and badly wrinkled.
She had repaired its sleeves several times, and the stitching along the hem had begun to loosen again.
Her long burgundy hair fell untidily down her back.
She tried arranging it with her fingers, but several stubborn strands escaped around her face.
After a moment, she gave up.
There was little she could do about her appearance.
She picked up her black shawl, wrapped it securely around her shoulders and carefully opened her bedroom door.
The corridor was empty.
After listening for approaching footsteps, she slipped outside.
Tonight, she intended to keep her promise.
Even if she had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to say to him.
Sylvan Ashford was not accustomed to waiting for anyone.
During his three years with the Imperial Legion, he had learned to endure exhausting journeys, sleepless nights and difficult negotiations without complaint.
Yet waiting beneath an old tree for one particular woman was proving unexpectedly irritating.
He sat on the stone bench with a book resting open in his hand.
Trying to read the book in a Moonlit night.
His black hair stirred occasionally in the night breeze, and his dark coat emphasized his broad shoulders.
At 188 centimeters, Sylvan possessed a commanding presence even when seated.
His piercing blue eyes, however, were paying remarkably little attention to the book.
He turned a page.
Then another.
He had read the same paragraph three times.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered.
He lowered his gaze and attempted to concentrate.
A few minutes later, the faint rustling of leaves reached his ears.
Someone was approaching.
He recognized the soft footsteps before their owner emerged from the shadows.
Without lifting his head, he spoke.
“You’re late.”
Rosylin stopped so abruptly that the hem of her dress caught beneath her shoe.
She stared at him.
“Grettings to you .”
Sylvan finally raised his eyes.
There she was.
Her familiar black shawl concealed most of her faded, messy dress, while her long burgundy hair spilled over the dark fabric.
Several loose strands framed her pale face.
She looked as though she had spent considerable time deciding whether to come.
And considerably less time preparing herself.
“Twenty-three minutes,” he said.
Rosylin blinked.
“What?”
“You’re twenty-three minutes late.”
“Did you count?”
“Unfortunately.”
She stared at him, uncertain whether he was being serious.
His expression offered no assistance.
“I didn’t know there was a particular time.”
“Then you should have asked.”
“You didn’t tell me!”
“You didn’t ask.”
Rosylin opened her mouth, then closed it again.
This man was impossible.
Sylvan returned his attention to the book.
“Are you going to stand there all night?”
She looked toward the mansion.
“Perhaps.”
“Then I shall have to endure a very boring conversation.”
Rosylin frowned.
“You’re already reading.”
“I was reading.”
He closed the book.
“Now I’m waiting for you to decide whether you’re going to run away.”
Her cheeks warmed.
“I’m not going to run.”
Sylvan raised an eyebrow.
“An interesting statement, considering your previous record.”
Rosylin pulled her shawl more tightly around herself.
“That was different.”
“Of course.”
She could have sworn there was amusement in his voice.
But when she looked at him, his face remained as cold as ever.
Eventually, Rosylin approached the old tree.
She sat at the opposite end of the stone bench, leaving a respectable distance between them.
Sylvan noticed.
He said nothing.
For several moments, the only sounds were the crickets and the gentle movement of leaves overhead.
Rosylin stared at her hands.
Sylvan watched her from the corner of his eye.
She had barely looked at him since arriving.
“Have I suddenly become frightening?”
Her head snapped toward him.
“What?”
“You’ve been studying that patch of grass for several minutes.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then look at me.”
She did.
For approximately two seconds.
Then she immediately looked away.
Sylvan’s eyes narrowed.
“Did something happen?”
“No!”
Her answer came far too quickly.
He considered her for a moment.
Then his gaze fell briefly to his coat.
Understanding dawned.
“You’re still thinking about yesterday.”
Rosylin wished the earth would swallow her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Naturally.”
“Can we please discuss something else?”
“Gladly.”
He picked up his book.
“What do you read?”
The sudden change of subject startled her.
“Books, Rosylin.” he said.
She gave him an offended look.
“I know what books are.”
“Excellent.
We’re making progress.” he smile.
Then her eyes moved toward the book in his hand.
“What are you reading?”
“A historical account of the northern campaigns.”
“That sounds terribly boring.”
Sylvan slowly looked at her.
“Does it?”
She nodded.
“Does everyone in the book spend their time discussing battles?”
“Mostly.”
“Then I feel sorry for them.”
“For whom?”
“The people who had to write it.”
Sylvan stared at her.
For a moment, Rosylin wondered whether she had offended him.
Then the corner of his mouth moved.
Only slightly.
But she saw it.
“Do you always criticize books you haven’t read?”
“Only when they sound boring.”
“An admirable scholarly method.”
Rosylin finally laughed.
It was a small, unexpected sound.
Sylvan went quiet.
He had seen her frightened, suspicious, embarrassed and furious.
He had seen her crying so desperately that she could barely stand.
But he had never heard her laugh like that.
Her brown eyes brightened, and for a brief moment, the sadness that usually shadowed her face seemed to disappear.
He found himself looking at her longer than necessary.
Rosylin noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m listening.”
“I wasn’t speaking.”
“Precisely.”
She frowned.
He reopened his book before she could question him further.
Their conversation continued beneath the moonlight.
Rosylin discovered that Sylvan genuinely loved reading.
He had collected books during his travels and could remember obscure historical events with an accuracy she found both impressive and rather irritating.
Sylvan discovered that Rosylin possessed an extraordinary curiosity.
She asked questions about distant cities, ancient kingdoms, unfamiliar languages and places she had only encountered in books.
When she spoke about stories, her nervousness gradually faded.
She became animated.
Occasionally, she forgot to lower her voice.
Sylvan listened.
He did not ask why someone living in Valemont Mansion knew so much about distant places yet seemed to have experienced so little of the world herself.
He had given his word.
For tonight, that would have to be enough.
Then, in the middle of Rosylin’s enthusiastic explanation of a novel she had recently discovered, a very unfortunate sound interrupted her.
Her stomach growled.
Loudly.
She froze.
Sylvan lowered his book.
Rosylin stared straight ahead, pretending absolutely nothing had happened.
Another sound followed.
She immediately pressed both hands against her stomach.
Sylvan looked at her.
“When did you last eat?”
She turned crimson.
“That’s a very strange question.”
“When?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Her stomach disagreed.
Sylvan closed his eyes for a moment.
“Apparently, your stomach is more honest than you are.”
“Please stop talking.”
“Did you eat dinner?”
Rosylin looked down.
She had intended to.
But by the time she reached the kitchen, the servants had already cleared away most of the food.
She had taken a little bread before returning to her room.
It had hardly been enough.
“I ate something.”
“What?”
“Bread.”
“How much?”
She hesitated.
Sylvan stared at her.
“Rosylin.”
“Why are you interrogating me about bread?”
“Because you seem determined to avoid answering a remarkably simple question.”
She folded her arms.
“You’re very unpleasant sometimes.”
“Frequently, according to my sister.”
Despite herself, Rosylin smiled.
Sylvan stood.
“Stay here.”
Her smile vanished.
“Where are you going?”
“To find something edible.”
“No!
You don’t have to!”
He looked down at her.
“Sit.”
Before she could argue further, he walked toward the guest wing.
Rosylin watched him disappear.
She considered running away.
Then she remembered their agreement.
With a miserable sigh, she remained on the bench.
When Sylvan returned, he was carrying a small covered tray.
Rosylin immediately stood.
“What is that?”
“Food.”
“I can see that!”
“Then why did you ask?”
She gave him an exasperated look.
He placed the tray on the bench.
Inside were bread, cheese, fruit and a small pastry.
Rosylin stared.
“Where did you get these?”
“From the guest quarters.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“No one .” he said.
She looked up.
Sylvan met her eyes.
“I haven’t forgotten my promise.”
Something in Rosylin’s expression changed.
She sat down slowly.
“Thank you.”
“Eat before it gets cold.”
She glanced at the bread.
“It’s already cold.”
“Then eat before I change my mind.”
She picked up a piece.
Sylvan sat beside her, opening his book again.
He did not mention her scars.
He did not ask about the people who had hurt her.
He simply waited while she ate.
Rosylin occasionally glanced at him.
He pretended not to notice.
For reasons she could not explain, the silence no longer felt quite so uncomfortable.
The night grew colder.
A breeze moved through the rose garden, carrying the faint fragrance of flowers.
Rosylin pulled her black shawl closer.
Sylvan noticed the movement.
A few minutes later, she shivered again.
He looked at her faded dress, then at the thin fabric of her shawl.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
Another breeze passed.
She shivered.
Sylvan gave her a flat look.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Before she could respond, he removed his coat and held it out.
Rosylin stared at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Offering you a coat.”
“I already have a shawl.”
“An extraordinarily ineffective one.”
She looked down at her familiar black shawl.
“It’s perfectly fine.”
“Then stop shivering.”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Then reluctantly accepted his coat, draping it over her shoulders without removing her shawl.
It was far too large for her.
Sylvan observed the result in silence.
Rosylin looked down at herself.
Then she remembered something.
His eyes narrowed.
“What now?” He said.
She touched the sleeve of his coat.
“Are you sure I should wear this?”
“Why?”
She lowered her voice.
“What if I ruin it again?”
Sylvan stared at her for a moment.
“Are you planning to cry on this one too?”
Her eyes widened.
“Sylvan!”
He raised an eyebrow.
It was the first time she had called him by his name without hesitation.
Rosylin realized it a moment later.
Her cheeks turned pink.
“I mean—Your Highness—”
“Too late.”
She covered her face.
“Please forget I said that.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you asked so politely.”
Rosylin burst into laughter.
This time, she could not stop herself.
Sylvan watched her, a faint smile briefly touching his lips before he looked away.
For the first time that evening, she seemed genuinely comfortable beside him.
And he found himself wishing the night would last a little longer.
The moon was slowly disappearing behind a veil of clouds.
Rosylin had finished eating some time ago, yet neither of them had made any attempt to leave.
Sylvan sat beside her with his book open, occasionally turning a page.
Rosylin remained wrapped in her black shawl and his oversized coat, watching the moonlight fall across the roses.
She had expected their meeting to be uncomfortable.
Perhaps even frightening.
Instead, she had spent most of the evening arguing with him about books, eating food he had brought her and laughing at remarks she suspected he did not intend to be funny.
It was strange.
This was the same man who had cornered her in the kitchen, demanded to know her identity and refused to let her escape beneath the old tree.
Yet tonight, he had not asked a single question about her family.
He had kept his promise.
Rosylin turned toward him.
“Sylvan?”
“Hmm?”
“May I ask you something?”
He turned another page.
“You’ve been asking questions all time.”
“This one is different.”
His fingers stopped moving.
He closed the book and looked at her.
“Then ask.”
Rosylin suddenly regretted opening her mouth.
She lowered her eyes, nervously twisting the edge of her black shawl between her fingers.
“You promised not to ask who I am.”
“I remember.”
“And you promised not to mention me to anyone.”
“Rosylin, I haven’t lost my memory.”
She gave him an irritated look.
“I’m trying to ask you something!”
“Then stop circling around it.”
She fell silent.
Sylvan leaned back against the old tree, watching her with an expression she could not read.
Finally, Rosylin gathered her courage.
“Why?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Why what?”
She looked directly into his blue eyes.
“Why do you want me to come here every night?”
Sylvan went still.
Rosylin continued before she could lose her courage.
“You don’t know who I really am.
You don’t know anything about me.
And I already told you that I can’t explain.”
Her fingers tightened around the edge of his coat.
“You’re a prince.
You must have far more important things to do than sit in a garden with someone like me.”
She hesitated.
“Yet you asked me to meet you here for four nights.”
Sylvan watched her without speaking.
Rosylin’s voice softened.
“So tell me…”
She raised her brown eyes to meet his.
“Why do you want to see me every night?”
For the first time that evening, Sylvan Ashford had no immediate answer.