The Duchess of Ash and Thorn

A Return to Routine

The halls of Blackthorn Manor were quiet, cold, and familiar — just as they had always been.

Tristan preferred it that way.

He had returned to the North days ago, and since then, he had buried himself in routine. His steward and estate manager were promptly summoned each morning. Letters were written, contracts reviewed, and ledgers balanced with the meticulous precision he was known for. He inspected the stables, oversaw the harvesting preparations, and approved several plans for repairs on the tenant cottages.

Every hour of his day was filled — deliberately so.

He rose before the sun, worked until the light failed, and allowed no idle chatter to interrupt his focus. The servants noticed the change; Rowan noticed most of all. But none dared question him.

Except, of course, Rowan.

The young man stood just outside Tristan's study now, arms crossed and expression tight with concern.

"You know," he began carefully, "you've gone through nearly every estate document we have, including ones that haven't needed reviewing in two years."

Tristan didn't look up from the parchment he was marking. "Then perhaps they'll be thoroughly in order for the next two years."

Rowan sighed, stepping further into the room. "You're trying to forget her."

That made Tristan pause. The quill in his hand stilled, and for a brief moment, the only sound in the study was the ticking of the grandfather clock by the fireplace.

He didn't respond.

Rowan continued, his voice quieter now. "You're trying to forget Seraphina Ashbourne."

Tristan sat back in his chair, expression unreadable. "She made her choice. And I have obligations that far outweigh one woman's rejection."

"You offered her marriage."

"I offered her practicality. She declined. That is the end of it."

But even as he said it, his mind betrayed him. He could still see her — standing in that sunlit drawing room, chin lifted in proud defiance, her eyes bright with something he hadn't quite been able to name.

He had half expected her refusal, and yet... he had not expected it to linger so sharply.

Tristan rose abruptly from his chair and moved to the window, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked out across the frostbitten grounds.

"She is not what I need," he muttered more to himself than to Rowan. "Too proud. Too stubborn. She believes in fairy tales."

Rowan tilted his head. "And yet, you're standing here thinking about her while your tea's gone cold."

Tristan's lips curved — not into a smile, not quite — but something flickered in his eyes.

"Leave me, Rowan."

Rowan bowed slightly. "Of course, Your Grace."

Once the door clicked shut behind him, Tristan remained where he was, gaze distant as the wind rattled against the glass panes.

He had returned to order. To solitude. To a life that made sense.

But every now and then — when the work fell quiet, when the corridors echoed just a moment too long — he found her there. In the edges of his thoughts. In the ache beneath his ribs that had no name.

And that, he could not seem to will away.