Chapter One: The Edge of the World
The wind was always cruel on the northern cliffs.
It tore at the edges of Lady Evelyne Fairmoor’s dark gown as she stood alone upon the highest terrace of Fairmoor Estate — her estate — the last stone sentinel before the endless, grey sea.
Below her, the waves crashed mercilessly against jagged rock — spray rising like ghostly hands from the deep.
This was the place she came when the walls of Fairmoor grew too heavy. When the candlelit halls whispered memories, she could not bear to name.
Here, at the very edge of the world, the sea sang of grief and longing. It sang of loss.
It sang of her.
She folded her arms across her waist — not from the cold, but from habit — the armour a lonely woman learned to wear long after tears had dried.
Some nights, she imagined what others might say of her.
Lady Evelyne Fairmoor — the Ice Rose of the North Coast.
Untouchable. Unyielding. Alone.
They did not know her. None of them did.
She had once loved.
Fiercely. Recklessly.
But love was a cruel thing — like the sea. Beautiful from a distance. Deadly when it pulled you beneath.
Her gaze drifted to the horizon, where the last sliver of sun bled into the waves — crimson and gold fading to storm-cloud grey.
James had loved the sea.
Loved her.
And now he belonged to neither.
Dead three years come spring — lost to a sailing accident when the tide turned faster than even his skilled hands could command.
Her heart had drowned with him that day.
No other man had dared approach since.
None had stirred even the faintest ache of longing.
Until tonight.
A rustle of fabric behind her — the quiet, careful step of someone used to finding her here.
Mrs. Calder — her housekeeper of fifteen years — small, sharp-eyed, motherly in the way Evelyne allowed.
“My lady,” the older woman said gently. “Forgive the intrusion.”
Evelyne did not turn.
“Speak.”
Mrs. Calder hesitated only a moment. “Word has arrived from the Duke of Greymarsh. Your cousin sends a... solution to our recent troubles.”
Evelyne’s lips thinned.
Pirate raids had grown bolder in recent months — driven inland by rough seas and desperate hunger. Her estate had withstood worse. But the Duke had insisted.
“A solution,” she repeated coolly. “How quaint.”
Mrs. Calder’s voice lowered. “A man, my lady. A former naval captain. Rhys Calder, by name. Scarred from battle, they say. Commanded men on the northern seas.”
Scarred.
Evelyne’s fingers tightened against her arms.
“We are all carved by war in our own fashion,” she murmured. “Some on the skin. Some... where no one can see.”
She closed her eyes briefly — breathed in the salt and wind — then turned.
“Ensure his quarters are ready. Inform the guard. I expect discipline. Nothing less.”
Mrs. Calder gave a small nod, lips pressed thin — but Evelyne saw the worry in her eyes.
“What is it?”
The older woman hesitated. “Men like him, my lady... they are not of our world. He may not bend easily to the rules of court.”
Evelyne’s mouth curved — not quite a smile.
“Then let us hope,” she said softly, “he knows how to stand.”
Later, as Evelyne descended the stone steps of the terrace, the wind trailing behind her like a forgotten sigh, she could not shake the strange quickening of her heart.
A man scarred by war.
A man not of her world.
For the first time in three long years, something stirred beneath the ice.
Dangerous.
Unfamiliar.
And as the sea howled behind her, Lady Evelyne Fairmoor — so sure of her solitude — could not help but wonder if she was truly ready to be disturbed.