The courtyard was buzzing. The servants, who had been bracing for a cold and distant political union, stood frozen at the scene unfolding before them.
“Oh my! How romantic!” one maid whispered excitedly. “I thought they wouldn't get along, considering she’s a LeonCraft, but His Lordship looks smitten!” “They look perfect together, don't they?”
The air was lively with gossip, but not everyone was celebrating. Standing at the top of the stairs was a luxuriously dressed woman with the same vibrant, sunny crimson hair as Miller. Beside her stood a sour-faced young man. As Aunt Maria watched Miller carry his new bride toward the doors, her face twisted, and she clicked her tongue in sharp, visible annoyance.
“Welcome, Your Ladyship, Viscountess Francesca Leo— oh, Ironwood,” Maria said, making a deliberate, fake slip of the tongue to provoke her. She stood tall, trying to put Francesca in her place before she even crossed the threshold.
As Miller lowered Francesca slowly to her feet as the thump of her cane sounded, she maintained her practiced, bored smile. So, you want to play, do you? she thought.
“It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Lady... oh, wait. My apologies. It’s Mrs. Maria Hevel, isn’t it?” Francesca replied, her tone dripping with sweet, feigned innocence.
By emphasizing the last name 'Hevel,' Francesca drew a sharp, invisible line. The noble title and the Ironwood surname were bestowed upon Miller alone; the new lineage started with him. How dare she try to pull a stunt the moment I arrive? Francesca thought. She is nothing but a leech clinging to her nephew’s success.
She then turned her gaze to the young man standing beside Maria, who appeared to be around fourteen. “And who might this be?” The boy looked at his mother with a hint of scorn before glaring at Francesca. “I am her son, Alan Hevel.”
“It is an honor to meet you too, Alan,” Francesca said, her smile never wavering.
Miller, however, was not smiling. He cast a suspicious look at Maria. “Aunt Maria, why was the Northern entrance not cleared? I gave specific instructions.” Maria nodded dismissively. “I did ask the servants to clear it, Miller, but there was simply too much snow. It couldn't be finished in time for your arrival since I had to be at the chapel for a service to the Goddess.”
“Then why didn't you send word?” Miller pressed, his voice hardening.
“Are you insinuating that I did this on purpose, Miller?” Maria’s expression shifted instantly. She pivoted to playing the victim, her voice trembling as if wounded. “How can you be so hurtful to your own flesh and blood the moment you get a wife?”
The servants nearby began to shift and whisper at the dramatic display. Francesca felt a headache forming from the thin air and the petty theatrics. She gave a small, tired sigh.
“I am truly exhausted from the travel,” Francesca interrupted, cutting through Maria's performance. “Miller, why don't we have the butler show me to my room? I would like to rest now.”
“Of course. My apologies, Francesca,” Miller said, his protective instincts kicking in again. He signaled to the butler standing a short distance away. “Follow me, My Lady,” the butler said with a respectful bow, leading her away from the tension in the foyer.
The butler led her to a cozy, expansive room on the ground floor. It sat at the very end of the hall, providing a sense of seclusion and quiet that the rest of the castle lacked.
The room was a blend of rugged northern utility and surprising elegance. A large fireplace built from dark volcanic stone dominated one wall, already crackling with a welcoming fire that cut through the mountain chill. Thick, plush carpets in deep forest greens covered the floor, a blessing for her tired joints and the furniture was made of heavy, dark oak polished to a soft sheen. A large bay window offered a spectacular view of the caldera’s inner slopes, where the setting sun was painting the snow in shades of violet and gold.
With the rhythmic thump-thump of her cane against the rugs, Francesca entered the space and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you for leading the way. I would like to rest now.”
“Certainly, Your Ladyship. I shall send a maid to wake you before dinner,” the butler replied respectfully. He stepped back and closed the heavy oak door with a soft, muted click.
The moment she was alone, Francesca’s "Noble Lady" mask crumbled. She flopped onto the massive bed, the down mattress swallowing her tired body. “Just as I thought,” she muttered into the pillows. “Aunt Maria and her son are still trying to white-grip their power, exactly like in my last life.”
She reached out and propped her cane against the bedside table, her thoughts drifting as she stared at the ceiling. Well, for now, she can keep it. I have no desire to drown in the paperwork of internal affairs or argue over the price of laundry soap. Stretching her arms wide, she let out a long, unladylike yawn. In my life as Kim Hanna, I worked myself to death even with an incurable illness. In my first life as Francesca, I was executed for things beyond my control. This time? I’m going to live a peaceful shut-in life. No work, no stress, just quiet.
As the sun dipped below the rim of the caldera, casting long, peaceful shadows across the room, Francesca’s eyes fluttered shut. The thin mountain air, once a burden, now felt like a heavy, cool blanket, pulling her into a dreamless sleep.