Chapter 1
Prologue
His wife was dead.
In the dim light of early dawn, the man emerged alone, having dismissed the attendant who held a black umbrella over his head. His face was a mask of indifference. Rain lashed against the cold headstone, shattering into a fine mist that veiled his view, yet the man, cloaked entirely in black, was a stark and unmissable figure.
Duke Liam Evason Crawford.
As he gazed down at his wife’s coffin, his eyes were dry, unclouded by tears. His composure, stark in the face of his loss, radiated a chill that seemed colder than his usual demeanor.
Duchess Crawford had died in a carriage accident.
The weekly tabloids had been in a frenzy for days, their headlines screaming the news of the unprecedented incident.
DUCHESS ARLEN CRAWFORD MISSING AFTER CARRIAGE VEERS OFF JEKANROAD, TUMBLES DOWN EMBANKMENT
UNPRECEDENTED TORRENTIAL RAINS HAMPER SEARCH EFFORTS
CITIZENS OF EDEL PLUNGED INTO GRIEF OVER DUCHESS’S ACCIDENT
Her body remained unrecovered. The family carriage, having departed the estate, had skidded on a rain-slicked road in Simona Forest, sending the Duchess, her maid, and the coachman plunging over a cliff. The wreckage was a ghastly sight, but the occupants were nowhere to be found.
Hundreds of searchers, including a party dispatched by the royal family, had combed the forest, but the Duchess remained missing. Then, two months later, the case took a grim turn. The remains of a woman, mauled by wild animals, were discovered. A ring on her finger confirmed her identity, and just yesterday, the death of Duchess Arlen Crawford was officially declared.
At the funeral, hastily arranged in a single day, the Duke’s face betrayed no trace of anguish, sorrow, or any other sentiment. As his elegant hand tilted, a fine stream of dirt trickled from his grasp, scattered by the wind onto the coffin below.
“Not a single tear. The poor Duchess,” one mourner whispered.
The woman who had been the subject of universal scorn in Edel had finally elicited a flicker of pity in death.
“He is merely concealing his grief,” another countered. “Duke Crawford is not a man to display such intimate emotions.”
The momentary compassion vanished, finding no purchase in the crowd. If anyone deserved sympathy, it was not the shameless Duchess who had ensnared him, but Duke Crawford himself, a man of unwavering integrity caught in her trap.
The throng at the funeral was so vast it was no exaggeration to say all of Edel had gathered, a veritable swarm of humanity. It was not a wave of mourning for a beloved duchess, but a tide of breathless anticipation for the now-unfettered Duke’s next move.
Despite the foul weather, the crowd was joined by reporters who, like jackals scenting a kill, unleashed a barrage of flashbulbs throughout the solemn ceremony. Though the people glared, they knew with bitter irony that they would all be buying the very papers these reporters would fabricate on their way home.
“He ought to put this tragedy behind him and start a new family,” one woman murmured.
“Indeed. This time, he must choose a proper lady of the house, one who will not disgrace the Crawford name,” another agreed.
The women’s eyes glittered with greed as they discussed his remarriage, their minds already on the newly vacant position. Every citizen of Edel knew precisely how Duke Crawford had felt about his wife while she lived.
While many feigned condolences, the Duke simply stared at the coffin, his face an unnervingly placid mask. The husband who had been so relentlessly cold throughout their marriage remained expressionless even as her casket was carried away. Thus, no one found it odd when he departed before the priest had even finished the final benediction.
After leaving the funeral, the Duke’s next destination was not, as one might expect, a receiving line for mourners, but a business trip. When news broke that he had set sail on the Golden Star, even his staunchest admirers could only shake their heads at his chilling indifference, prioritizing commerce on such a day.
* * *
“Set sail,” Liam commanded as he stepped aboard the docked ship, peeling the pristine white gloves from his hands.
At that single, clipped order, the massive sails unfurled, and a long, resonant horn blast echoed like thunder. The colossal vessel, its bow adorned with the statue of a goddess, churned a furious wake as it began its voyage.
The Golden Star, an ultra-luxurious transatlantic passenger liner built by the Crawford Company at the cost of a fortune, was usually so packed that securing a black-market ticket was nearly impossible. Today, however, it was eerily silent. The Duke, commandeering a vessel that generated immense profits for his private use with only a dozen attendants, showed no hint of regret.
He shrugged off his damp, blue-black frock coat, handing it to an aide before sinking into a chair on the VIP deck, which boasted a private pool. Though he had shed the chilled garment, the cold scent of rain still clung to him, drawing his brow into a sharp line.
“The reporters?”
“It has been handled, Your Excellency,” Jason replied.
Liam sipped the whiskey an attendant had brought. At an elegant gesture from his master, Jason presented him with a freshly printed newspaper. The Duke’s dispassionate gaze swept over the day’s headline, lingering on the final lines of the article.
AMID THE MOURNING OF EDEL’S CITIZENS, THE FUNERAL OF DUCHESS ARLEN CRAWFORD WAS HELD…
The woman who had been his wife for a year was dead. At least, that was the official story. A smirk touched Liam’s lips as he looked at the main photograph—a prominent shot of himself standing before the gravestone. His gaze then shifted, landing on a picture of Arlen. The man who had shown only mild irritation at the article featuring himself now underwent a swift, stark change in expression.
“I do not recall authorizing this photograph.”
“My apologies, Your Excellency.”
“Have it removed. Permanently.”
No further explanation was necessary. Jason, who had served the Duke for over a decade, needed no further instruction. With a silent prayer for the newspaper that would cease to exist by day’s end, he quietly accepted the paper.
“How long?” Liam asked.
“Approximately one month to reach the Aglan Republic, at the westernmost tip of the continent. The route will take us through the Kingdom of Yggdrasil and the Principality of Babrium.”
“A month…”
After a brief silence, Liam spoke again, his voice low. “Is Arlen with them now?”
“Well… according to the report…”
“Shorten the voyage.”
Liam cut off his aide’s hesitant reply without a shred of mercy, his gaze fixed on the horizon. To demand more speed, knowing they had already trimmed a journey that would take any other ship two months, was a clear sign that his patience had been stretched to its breaking point.
His command given, Liam’s eyes settled on the goddess statue pointing toward the edge of the world—a statue erected at his wife’s vexing suggestion. The memory of her face, alight with joy as she first saw it, flashed before his eyes.
* * *
“Over there, Your Excellency.”
Liam’s expression grew inscrutable as he followed the man’s pointing finger. After a brutally expedited voyage and a seven-hour carriage ride, they had arrived at a small village on the westernmost fringe of the Aglan Republic. The air was thick with the sweet perfume of wildflowers blooming riotously across the verdant landscape. Beyond the vast, rolling hills, a clear sea met the horizon, its surface shimmering as if kissed by the sun.
"Nortonburg."
Having finally reached his destination, Liam uttered the name of the place she had so often spoken of. A humorless smile touched his lips. He had scoured every inch of that region, only to find no trace of her. Yet here she was, in a foreign land, hiding in a place that so closely resembled it.
Then, you must be here.
Dismissing his men, Liam began to walk, his steps slow and deliberate. Wild grass rustled and crushed beneath the toes of his fine leather shoes. Soon, a woman came into view. She was smiling, holding a circlet woven from wildflowers. Her unique scent, mingling with the rich fragrance of the meadow, seemed to drift toward him on the breeze. His grip on the handle of his cane tightened.
“Arlen.”
His voice, though quiet, was so steady it sounded as if he had been calling her name in every waking moment. At the sound of that low whisper, she finally turned. His gaze traveled from her gaunt shoulders, which flinched at the sight of him, up to her face, now drained of all color.
“Found you again. And so quickly.”
Her eyes, a shade of violet more profound than the lavender that carpeted the field, widened in shock. As he watched her, Liam felt the inexplicable tightness in his chest, a pressure that had plagued him throughout the journey, finally begin to release its hold. The conclusion he had reached after endless, torturous deliberation brought him no regret.
“You should have run farther. Somewhere my eyes could never reach.”
He had imagined she would have fled across three or four continents. Her escape was, in truth, pathetically inadequate, and a glacial coldness settled over his features. Though his tone was chiding, as if scolding a child for a minor wrongdoing, the place where Arlen now stood was a distant land, a full two months’ journey by sea.
“Liam…”
Facing the cold-blooded man from whom not a touch of warmth radiated, Arlen’s lips trembled.
“I… I am not going back with you.”
“What are you talking about, Arlen?” His eyelids lifted slowly, his cool eyes narrowing dangerously. “I found you. Therefore, your life belongs to me. Is that not the law of this world?”
His gaze pinned her in place, and a distinct, predatory glint flickered in his piercing, gray-blue eyes. The powerful always obtained what they desired. That was the rule of this world, and even if that rule had its flaws, he was the man who stood above it.
“And with this, I have won.”
As the words flowed from him, smooth and deliberate as ink from a fountain pen, a brilliant, triumphant smile finally broke across his previously impassive face.
