Duchess Livia

The carriage had barely stilled when Astrid felt the weight of her choice settle over her shoulders like winter frost. The manor loomed ahead—tall windows, dark stone, and an air of quiet command. Beside her, he said nothing, though his hand brushed hers, a fleeting reassurance. They were led through candlelit corridors to a chamber draped in velvet. There, seated with effortless poise, was Duchess Livia. She was younger than Astrid had imagined—yet her gaze held something far older. Appraising. Certain. “So,” Livia said, rising slowly. “You have come willingly.” Astrid swallowed. “We have, Your Grace.” Livia circled them, her steps soft against the polished floor. “You will find my household… demanding. Loyalty is not merely spoken here—it is lived. You belong to me now, in comfort and in service.” Her fingers lifted Astrid’s chin, tilting her face toward the candlelight. “You will attend to me. You will ensure I am never alone when I do not wish to be. You will learn my moods, anticipate my needs.” A pause. A faint smile. “And you will keep me warm, when the nights grow long.” Astrid’s breath caught, though she did not look away. There was something unsettling in Livia’s nearness—yet something magnetic, too. Livia turned to him next, her gaze sharper. “And you—do not mistake gentleness for weakness here. You are hers as much as mine. You will support her, steady her… and obey me in all things.” Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken understanding. “Good,” Livia murmured, stepping back.