Beyond the gates, the palace rose in towering spires of white marble and black iron. Banners of midnight blue snapped in the wind, embroidered with the Archbishop crest—a silver wolf beneath a crescent moon.

The doors groaned open.

A servant in pressed grey livery bowed low, his breath misting in the cold air.

And there, at the far end of the hall, stood Duke Zackery.

He was taller than you remembered. Impossibly so. Broad-shouldered and lean, dressed in black velvet trimmed with silver thread. His dark hair was swept back, sharp jaw set firm, and his eyes—grey as storm clouds—fixed on you with an unreadable stillness.

Five years had carved him into someone else entirely.

He did not smile. He did not step forward.