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Chapter Text

The Dimitrescu estate loomed like a secret no one dared to whisper aloud. Its many towers pierced the gray sky, watching over the Carpathian valley like sentinels of stone. Inside, warmth was a rarity; reserved for hearths lit during state visits or for men discussing matters they assumed were too complex for a woman’s ears.
Alcina Dimitrescu had long grown used to the chill.
Her boots echoed along the east wing’s corridor, where portraits of frowning ancestors glared from gilded frames. Her mother’s warnings echoed louder still in her memory.

“A lady must not walk alone where the guards train.”

“The eastern halls are for men. For matters of governance, of war.”

“Be content with embroidery and poetry, Alcina. That is the sphere of your power.”

Nonsense. Power did not lie in needlepoint or polite conversation. Power sat behind closed doors; deciding taxes, breaking treaties, commanding lives with the stroke of a pen.
And Alcina Dimitrescu was not made for silence.
She pulled open a heavy door to a forgotten study, chasing the scent of ink and dust. Her eyes swept over the shelves: histories of Wallachian battles, estate ledgers, foreign maps, and an entire volume on siege tactics. She reached for the thickest book, only to freeze.
A voice behind her purred like velvet over steel.

“Careful. That one’s in Latin. It curses the foolish who mispronounce its lines.”

Alcina spun, heart lurching.
A girl leaned against the far bookshelf, arms crossed, one boot pressed against the paneling. Not a servant; her coat was too fine, its fabric foreign, its buttons shaped like birds in flight. Her trousers, cut for riding, clung to her long legs with unapologetic ease.
She looked like she belonged to another world entirely.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Alcina said, recovering her voice.

“Neither are you,” the stranger replied, arching an amused brow. “But I won’t tell, if you won’t.”

Alcina’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not from the valley.”

“Kazan,” the girl replied with a slight, elegant nod. “Baroness Maya Beranek. And you must be the Count’s daughter.”

“I am.” Alcina hesitated. “Alcina Dimitrescu.”

“I assumed. You’re far too tall to be anyone else.”

Alcina flushed. “I know. It’s not exactly something I can help.”

Maya smiled; genuine, not cruel. “It suits you. Women should take up space.”

Alcina blinked. No one had ever said that to her before. Not without a smirk or a sneer. The baroness stepped forward and held out a gloved hand. Alcina hesitated, then took it. The skin beneath was warm and calloused. A swordswoman, perhaps.
“What are you doing in the east wing?” Alcina asked.

“Avoiding tea with your father. He insists I try the estate’s plum jam. Again.” Maya mock-gagged. “And you?”

“Looking for something not written by men who hate women.”

“Let me know if you find it,” the baroness said dryly. “I’ve been searching since I was twelve.”

The two stood in silence for a moment, then Maya pointed to a cracked window.
“Care for some air? This place smells like boredom.”

They slipped onto a side balcony, wind biting but bearable. The sky blushed with the colors of early dusk; violet clouds streaked with fire, the mountains like jagged ghosts on the horizon.
Maya rested her elbows on the balustrade, gazing out with the ease of someone who had seen the world and found it wanting.

“It’s beautiful,” Alcina murmured.

“Yes,” Maya said, without turning. “But I meant you.”

Alcina stared, speechless.
“Sorry,” Maya added, glancing over. “That was forward.”

“No; ” Alcina cleared her throat. “Just… unexpected.”

The wind caught Maya’s hair, brushing it across her cheek. Her gaze was steady, open. “You don’t hear it often, do you?”

“Not from women.”

“Then let me be the first of many.”

A silence bloomed between them, soft and strange. Alcina felt her heart knock against her ribs like it wanted to escape.
“Why are you really here?” she asked.

“My uncle wants a trade agreement with your father,” Maya said with a shrug. “He thinks I’m just the family’s pretty face. But I do most of the writing. Most of the thinking too.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Doesn’t it?” Maya chuckled, then turned. “I’ll be here three more nights. If you’re not afraid of being caught, I’d like to see you again.”

“I’m not afraid of much,” Alcina replied.

Maya smiled like a secret. “Good.”

That night, Alcina lay awake, her hands still tingling from that brief touch. Something had changed. A door had opened. For the first time in her life, she was not alone in her defiance.
The world still loomed large and cruel. Her parents still spoke of future suitors. Her tutors still praised quiet women. But she had felt a spark; a whisper of something more.
The next nights passed in stolen hours; on balconies, in shadowed corridors, in the small alcoves of the castle where secrets liked to bloom. They spoke of the world and of war, of books and heartbreak, of the names they’d been called and the ones they dreamed of carving for themselves.
And then, just as quickly as she had come, Maya left.
No promises.
No letters.
Only a look.
And a kiss that never quite reached Alcina’s lips.
Just close enough to haunt her.

Chapter Text

The candle on Alcina’s desk burned low, dripping wax onto the old wooden surface like falling teeth. Night had wrapped the Dimitrescu estate in hush and frost. Beyond the thick glass windows, the wind howled down the mountain’s throat like a beast starved of joy.
But inside her chambers, Alcina was haunted by something far gentler.
Her fingers grazed the silk scarf folded in her lap; the one Maya had left behind. Burgundy, embroidered with her family’s crest: a falcon crowned in gold. She told herself she kept it for diplomatic reasons. That it was leverage, not longing.
But every time she touched it, the ache returned.

Three Years Ago

The second night they met in secret, Maya had taken her to the stables.

“I ride when I can’t breathe,” she said, brushing her horse’s coat with long strokes. “Which is often.”

“What suffocates you?” Alcina asked.

“The way they speak around me. As if I’m not meant to hear, or worse, not smart enough to understand. My uncle once told a guest that I was a lovely distraction; like a well-trimmed hedge in spring.”

Alcina’s laugh had startled them both. “You’re far too sharp for a hedge.”

“You, on the other hand,” Maya said, stepping closer, “are something else entirely.”

Alcina tried not to step back. “What do you mean?”

“You wear your anger like a dress. Beautiful. Unapologetic. Deadly.”

Maya had been close then. So close that Alcina could see the faint scar above her right brow, half-hidden beneath dark strands.
“Did you fight?” she asked softly, lifting a hand before she could stop herself. Her fingers brushed Maya’s skin. “Here?”

“A duel,” the baroness said. “My brother’s friend. He was drunk and said I couldn’t handle a blade.”

“And?”

“I handled it through his shoulder.”

They both laughed, and for a moment, the world beyond the stables didn’t exist.

Now

Alcina stood by her window, the castle beneath her blanketed in white. Somewhere below, the servants were lighting fires, preparing the great hall for visiting lords. But she didn’t move.
She pressed her fingers to the glass and whispered her name.
“Maya…”

She remembered the third night.

Three Years Ago

It was snowing, and they snuck into the greenhouse; the one Alcina’s mother once cherished, now left wild with ivy and night-blooming flowers. The moon spilled silver across the stone floor.
Maya pulled her coat tighter and offered Alcina a flask of warmed wine.
“To secrets,” she said.

“And to what they become,” Alcina replied.

They clinked the flask and drank.
“What do you want, Alcina?” Maya asked after a moment. “Not what they tell you to want. What burns in you when you're alone?”

It took her a while to answer.
“Power,” Alcina said finally. “Not for vanity. For defense. For protection. For change.”

“I see it in you,” Maya said. “It scares me a little.”

“Does that mean you’ll run away?”

“No,” she whispered. “It means I’ll never forget.”

That night, their hands touched longer. The space between their bodies narrowed, tense with breathless pause. Their foreheads met, then their noses.
The kiss nearly happened.

Nearly.

But footsteps in the snow startled them apart.
A guard. A whisper. Duty.

The spell broke.
And Maya left the next morning.
No note. No goodbye. Just that scarf, left on the balcony chair as if she meant for Alcina to chase her.
But she didn’t.
She couldn’t.
Her father had summoned her to a dinner with a noble suitor’s family that same day. One who spoke over her at every turn.
She sat through it like a ghost.

Now

Alcina ran her thumb along the stitched falcon crest, her jaw tight with the ache of memory. Maya’s absence had taught her something permanent; about the cost of inaction, the cruelty of silence, and the weight of a name like Dimitrescu in a world not made for women like them.
She had never chased after her again.
But not because she didn’t want to.
Because the world was already sharpening its knives for her, and she knew; back then; that she’d need both hands to survive.
And still…
If I had kissed her… would she have stayed?
The wind outside howled louder. But inside her chest, a quieter voice stirred.

“So cruel,” Alcina whispered into the cold.

“Her scarf…I’ll remember her everyday”

Chapter Text

Kazan was colder than memory allowed.

The wind there was not the romantic sort, not the kind that teased hair and whispered through silk curtains. No—it howled, bitter and sharp, scraping against windowpanes like a beast with iron claws. Winter arrived early and overstayed its welcome. The snow fell in silence, but its presence was always violent—like everything else in Kazan’s noble courts.

Baroness Maya Beranek stood by the window of her estate, watching the frozen lake beyond her courtyard glisten like polished bone. The glass was rimed with frost, her breath making small clouds against its surface. The wood stove crackled behind her, but the heat never reached her skin. Not really.

She hadn’t been warm in three years.

Three years since Castle Dimitrescu.

Three years since Alcina.

Not the woman the world would one day fear. But the girl Maya had met one snowy week—the girl with storm-grey eyes and a mind that shimmered with fury and brilliance in equal measure.

Maya had lived through duels, survived harsh military training, outwitted seasoned diplomats. But nothing had prepared her for Alcina Dimitrescu.

Not for the way she stood—like something carved, not born.

Not for the way she looked at Maya—not like a man would, full of conquest, but like a mirror, quietly reflecting every unspoken truth Maya had buried deep inside her.

And not for what Maya had dared to say—softly, but with conviction—as they stood in the shadowed greenhouse, pressed too close, trembling beneath the weight of want.

“You wear your anger like a dress.”
“Beautiful. Unapologetic. Deadly.”

She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. But it had slipped free. Because Alcina made her bold.

Now, her own reflection in the frosted glass looked like a stranger.

She turned from the window and crossed to her desk, her footsteps silent over fur-lined rugs. The top of the desk was crowded with parchment—supply reports, diplomatic correspondence, an official invitation to attend the Winter Tribunal alongside her uncle.

All carefully stamped. All cold. All heavy.

She ignored them.

Her hand slid into the drawer, fingers finding the folded parchment she kept hidden beneath ledgers and ink pots. The edges were soft from use. The words, rewritten countless times. Still imperfect.

Still unsent.

But this time, she opened it, reading over the lines not as a baroness or strategist, but simply—as herself.

Alcina,

There are nights I still wake from dreams of your voice, only to find silence colder than snow.

You were the first person to see me—not as a nobleman's niece, not as a trade tool or a mouthpiece in someone else’s politics. You saw something I was afraid to name.

I left that morning with my heart clawing at my ribs. I told myself I was preserving my name, my place, my usefulness. Here in Kazan, if I do not offer something of value, I become disposable. I know you understand that, even if your prison has different walls.

But Alcina—
I think about your hands when you released mine from my gloves that night. I think about the wine on your breath and the way your eyes didn’t look away, even when mine did. You made me brave. Even if only for a little while.

And now, in a world that demands I be quiet and composed, I can’t help but long for the girl I was when I stood beside you.

I miss her.
And I miss you.

I hope you kept the scarf. That, at least, was honest.

Yours,

Maya

She folded it again, this time more carefully.

She would send it.

Even if Alcina never replied. Even if it reached her too late. Even if Kazan’s court whispered behind her back.

She had played the dutiful baroness long enough.

A knock echoed from the door.

“Baroness,” her maid called softly. “Your uncle wishes to speak with you. He says the Dimitrescu girl has taken the title. They’re watching her now. Deciding whether she’s a threat or a pawn.”

Maya’s heart twisted. Of course they were watching her.

“Tell him I’ll be down shortly,” she said.

As the footsteps faded, she turned to the hearth and stared at the sword above the mantle—a family relic, too heavy to wield delicately. Like her name.

She would carry both.

But Alcina’s name—that, she would carry in secret. With reverence.

For now.

Chapter Text

The snow in Kazan had turned to ash-colored slush, fouled with soot and the bootprints of guards returning from border patrol. In the city center, smoke rose from the chimneys of forges and state bakeries alike. Even the domes of the old cathedrals wept meltwater under the iron-gray sky.

Maya sat at the long stone table of Kazan’s Winter Council, composed but still—every inch the falcon her uncle had raised.

She wore her finest diplomatic coat today. Midnight blue, lined with white ermine, gold threading curling like vines down her sleeves. The cold metal of her signet ring pressed against her knuckle as she gripped her quill, pretending to take notes on grain tariffs while her mind wandered miles south.

To a woman with storm-grey eyes and a castle too proud to fall.

She’s Countess now.

Across the table, her uncle cleared his throat.

“Maya,” he said, in the bored tone he reserved for conversations that veered too close to emotion. “The Dimitrescu girl has taken power after her father’s death. The estate sits at the northern edge of the trade corridor. With the mountain routes beginning to thaw, now is the time to secure diplomatic leverage.”

“Leverage,” she repeated flatly. “You mean control.”

“I mean foresight,” he replied, eyes narrowing. “She’s unwed. Young. Inexperienced. Her mother’s blood was southern stock, no true noble lines. She’ll be out of her depth if you press her correctly.”

Maya’s grip on her quill tightened.

“You want me to press her?”

“You’ll travel under the pretense of grain and ore logistics. But your real task is to understand how loyal she is to the old families. If she plans to act with independence, we need to know. And if she’s foolish enough to be sentimental—” he waved his hand, “—you will make her trust you.”

Maya said nothing.

If he noticed her silence, he didn’t care. He returned to reading dispatches, gesturing lazily for an attendant to begin outlining a trade agreement.

She stared at the words on the parchment in front of her.

Make her trust you.

As if I ever stopped.

That night, Maya packed her traveling satchel herself.

She left behind the furs with her family crest, choosing instead a sleeker coat in charcoal wool with Kazan's colors only in the lining—just enough to be polite. She packed one formal gown, several clean copies of the treaty drafts, and the letter she still hadn’t sent.

She didn’t need to bring the scarf.

It was with Alcina.

I hope she still has it. I hope she touched it once, after I left. I hope she hated me for a moment. Then missed me.

She paused at the mirror.

The scar above her brow was faint now, but still there. She let it show tonight, brushing her hair back deliberately. The scar had been a truth she earned. Alcina had admired it once. Admired her.

And Kazan—Kazan did not reward honesty. Only efficiency.

She would have to wear both faces now: the one her uncle trained, and the one Alcina had kissed with her eyes.

Before dawn, the frost bit through the window panes.

Maya stood alone in her study. The rest of the house still slept, but she was wide awake—half-dressed, hair unbraided, standing over her desk like she might devour it whole.

The ink bottle was open. Her gloves lay discarded on the floor.

One page rested before her—new parchment, her finest penmanship. A few inkblots betrayed the earlier drafts she had torn apart.

This one she would keep.

And send.

Alcina,

I imagine you’re standing somewhere tall, unsmiling, judging the world from a window that desperately needs cleaning. Or perhaps you’ve already chased every old man from the hall and claimed your father’s chair with that patented glare that could probably melt stone.

If so—good. You were born for that throne. I knew it the second I saw you tell that smug wine steward to choke on his own grapes.

I’m writing (finally, yes—I know) because I’m heading south. Officially for trade negotiations, of course. Unofficially… well, let’s call it unfinished business.

I never did get to finish that kiss you nearly gave me.

I’m sure you’ve grown colder, sharper, taller (as if that was possible), and even more impossible to deal with. I look forward to it.

Try not to have me arrested when I arrive. Or do. I’ve heard your dungeons are charming this time of year.

Yours,

Maya
(P.S. If you didn’t keep the scarf, lie to me. I’m in no mood for heartbreak.)

She read it once more—then twice, for good measure.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips.

“She’ll hate it,” Maya muttered. “She’ll love it.”

She sealed it in a red wax envelope and marked it with her crest. Then she rang the bell.

“Have this delivered by hand,” she told her courier, “and do not let them give it to anyone but the Countess herself. Tell them it’s... personal.”

Her carriage waited.

The guards prepared the route down through the mountain pass, and the diplomats filed their reports into sealed leather folders. The escort was small but formal enough to be noticed.

As Maya climbed into the carriage.

The wheels began to turn.

Snow crunched beneath them. Wind swept down the hills.

And the baroness from Kazan was on her way to Dimitrescu Castle—for business, yes. But for something more dangerous than politics.

For truth.

For a name that had never quite left her lips.

For a woman she had tried, and failed, to forget.