Chapter Text
𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎 | 𝚊𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝙴𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚊, 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚝 𝙾𝚏 𝚃𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚝, 𝙻𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝟷𝟾𝟷𝟸
‧₊˚🌙 ༉‧₊˚.⋆🏹˚.⋆ꪆৎ
𝚃𝙷𝙴 sweltering heat of the summer months has never been kind to you.
Eldia—an island kingdom cast too close to the sun on the globe's equator—bakes beneath its own isolation, its southern terrain thick with tropical air. The district of Trost, far from the frosted northern mountains where winter is said to linger eternally, offers no such mercy. And it is here you find yourself today, struggling to breathe—partly from the oppressive humidity, but mostly from the impossibly tight corset caging you in.
As if the heat were not punishment enough, you have been wrapped in layers upon layers of black cloth—mourning dress. Black, the color of grief and reverence in the Kingdom of Eldia, drinks in the sun's rays without restraint, turning each passing moment into quiet torture. The fabric clings, traps warmth, and with every breath reminds you that sorrow is meant to be displayed for everyone to see, not merely felt.
Church bells toll somewhere beyond the stone walls, their echoes dull and distant as you press your back flat against the cool bricks of a nearby building, hiding in the shade it provides.
The funeral itself had been long—drawn out by ritual and obligation rather than love. Your mother sat in perfect silence, as she always does, and the newly appointed Viscount Hawthorne—your distant cousin, little more than a name to you at this point—seemed scarcely more present than the rest of the assembled mourners. Eyes wandering. Minds adrift. Grief performed rather than truly felt.
It made your absence that much easier.
No one thought to look for—or pay much mind to—the late Viscount's only child, least of all a daughter who had yet to make her formal debut into society. You slipped away murmuring something about the chamber pot, your mother offering nothing more than a distracted nod as you rose and hurried off.
But not toward the ladies' room.
You had far different intentions.
Today may well be the only chance you will ever have to set foot upon the grounds of the Royal Academy of Trost—one of the most prestigious institutions of higher learning in the entire kingdom. And like every academy across Eldia, it was a place rarely—if ever—graced by women. Attendance was unthinkable. Entry without chaperone or cause, nearly unheard of. Yet fortune, in its rare indulgence, had granted you an opening: your late father's closest friend—the Dean himself—had insisted the funeral be held at the cathedral situated on academy grounds.
Your father had been a peculiar man according to many.
He had no fondness for hunting or drink, nor for the hollow pursuits so many noblemen prized. His affections lay elsewhere—with the arts, with astronomy, with law and politics and literature and medicine. Interests considered admirable—enlightened, even—in a man of his standing. In a woman, however, they were indulgences at best. Delusions at worst.
A shame, then, that you had inherited his passions.
A shame that you were not docile, nor pliant, nor content to be shaped into whatever your mother wished you to become. You were your father's daughter—strong-minded and every bit as unyielding as he had once been. A blessing, perhaps, in his eyes. But according to society, very much a curse.
Not long before his sudden death, your father had promised to bring you here—to this very campus. He wished to show you the wonders of a world so freely offered to men, yet denied to women even in thought. He had planned it carefully. A tour, just the two of you, beginning with his three most beloved places.
The first of them awaited you now.
The observatory.
You move quickly and quietly across the courtyard, glancing about for witnesses. What you are about to attempt may result in your ruin. With the semester ended and students long since gone to visit their families, the grounds are mercifully empty. The timing could not have been more perfect.
With a fluttering heart, you step from the shadows and, after a slow, steadying breath, push the doors of the observatory open.
The doors yield with a quiet groan, hinges protesting softly as you push with all your strength.
The hinges protest softly.
Inside, the air is cooler—blessedly so—air that should allow for you to breathe properly for the first time in days.
And yet despite it all, your breath catches all the same.
The observatory is vast. Larger than you had ever imagined, its ceiling soaring overhead in a great circular dome, so immense it leaves you feeling impossibly small beneath it. Every inch of the curved roof is painted with painstaking devotion. The solar system unfurls above you in breathtaking detail: Saturn's rings rendered in pale gold, Jupiter's storms frozen mid-swirl, distant planets marked with elegant script. Star charts bleed seamlessly into constellations—hunters, maidens, beasts—immortalized in starlight.
The walls mirror the same reverence. Celestial coordinates. Astronomical annotations in neat, slanted handwriting. The heavens catalogued and contained as best mortal hands could manage.
At the center of the room stands the telescope.
It is a marvel—towering, polished brass catching the sunlight filtering through the narrow windows of the dome. Its body is etched with fine engravings, symbols you do not fully understand but recognize as important all the same. This instrument was not made for idle curiosity. It was built for distance. For depth. For reaching beyond what the human eye was ever meant to see.
Your steps slow as you approach, heels clicking far too loudly against the wooden floor. The sight of it draws forth the memory of the small telescope your father once gifted you—how he had woken you from sleep one night with hushed laughter and a conspiratorial smile, warning you not to wake your mother. How you'd both laughed in his study, struggling to see past the moon even on the clearest nights.
Still, you had cherished it.
But this—this was something else entirely.
This had been designed to see everything. Planets. Stars. Worlds so far away they might as well have been part of foolish dreams.
You stop just short of it. And you most definitely do not reach out to feel the cool metal.
Your fingers curl into your palms instead, heart pounding violently as the weight of the room settles over you. Standing beneath the painted heavens, you are struck with a sharp, breathless ache of memory. Of him.
Aim higher, my little dreamer, he had told you once, voice warm with certainty as he adjusted the telescope beside you. The stars do not belong only to those close enough to touch them. They burn for those brave enough to keep looking up—even when the world insists you keep your eyes down.
Your vision swims.
You blink hard, swallowing past the tightness in your throat, but it is no use. Tears spill over, hot and unwelcome, slipping silently down your cheeks. He should be here. He should have brought you himself. He should be standing beside you now—explaining each constellation, reminding you, as he always did, that your wanting had never been foolish.
You lift a trembling hand to your mouth, stifling a sound as another tear falls when you suddenly hear the unmistakable sound of the door creaking open behind you.
Every muscle in your body stiffens, essentially freezing you in place, unable to move.
The individual clears their throat behind you.
Soft and deliberate and almost... polite?
Your stomach drops.
For a brief, dizzying moment, your mind races ahead of itself—visions of a professor with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, of whispered speculation spreading through drawing rooms and tea tables like rot. You imagine your name spoken with thinly veiled judgment. The once-sparkling Hawthorne legacy sullied. Your mother's disappointment. Your father's memory forever tarnished by your recklessness.
You are undone.
Slowly—far too slowly—you turn your head, bracing yourself for the ruin that now feels inevitable.
Instead, you find yourself staring at a stranger.
A handsome stranger.
He is tall—taller than most men you have known—broad-shouldered with a build that speaks not of indulgence, but of use. Strength that has been earned, not inherited. His presence fills the doorway with startling ease, as though the room itself belongs to him—which, of course, it does in this situation. Between the two of you, he is the man.
His face looks as though it has been carved by the hands of the most talented sculptor. Strong lines softened by an almost unfair symmetry. There is nothing harsh about him, despite the severity of his features.
It is his eyes that draw you in first. Small. Intent. A warm, honeyed brown fixed upon you—far too observant for comfort. They study you not rudely, but thoroughly, as though you are something unexpected rather than something caught.
His hair is the first thing that feels wrong—or perhaps, intriguingly so. Ash brown and grown well past what propriety would allow, it falls in an unfashionably deliberate style not often seen among men of noble standing. Shorter at the crown, longer at the nape, curling just enough to suggest neglect rather than rebellion. In sharp contrast to the unkempt mess of his hair, a neatly kept goatee frames his jaw, lending him an air of maturity many men strive for—and few ever truly carry.
He is dressed simply, though carelessly so. A white dress shirt clings to him in all the right places, the top few buttons undone as though he had forgotten himself mid-task. His sleeves are rolled past his elbows, revealing forearms marked with streaks of paint—dark blues and muted blacks, smeared carelessly across skin and fabric alike.
Most striking of all is the faint smudge of deep blue paint along his cheekbone, just beneath his left eye—somehow drawing out the warmth of his gaze even more.
In a way, he looks almost as out of place among the star maps and sacred instruments of the observatory as you.
And yet—unlike you—he also looks as though he belongs.
For a heartbeat, neither of you speak.
Then his gaze flicks briefly to the telescope at the center of the room, to the constellations arched overhead, before returning to you—something unreadable passing through his expression as his eyes linger on the tears staining your face.
You catch the subtle bob of his Adam's apple.
"Forgive me," he says at last, voice low and even. Not accusatory. Not even alarmed by your presence. "I did not realize anyone else was here."
Your heart is still pounding against the walls of your chest far too fast.
You straighten instinctively, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your glove, suddenly—and painfully—aware of how you must look. Clad in mourning black. Eyes glassy. Caught somewhere no woman is meant to be.
"I—" You hesitate, words tangling on your tongue. It is not like you to be speechless. In fact, this may be the first time in nearly twenty years that such a thing has ever occurred. "Neither did I."
The corner of his mouth lifts—just slightly. Not quite a smile.
"Then," he begins, stepping fully into the room as the door shuts softly behind him, "it appears we are both trespassers."
"Both trespassers?" you repeat, more a question than a challenge.
He dips his head in a shallow nod. "Both trespassers."
You exhale softly through your nose. It is not a laugh. Not quite a scoff either—just breath forced out to keep something steadier inside you from unraveling.
"That is generous of you."
His brows furrow—not offended by your tone, rather he seems puzzled. "It it?"
"No," you reply. "It is entirely inaccurate."
Your words seem to capture his attention.
He straightens slightly, weight shifting as though bracing himself for an argument he had not intended to start. "You seem fairly certain of that."
"I am," You confirm, eyes narrowing. "Because when you are found here, it will be overlooked. What I am—" You stop short, jaw tightening. "It will not."
Understanding flickers across his face, slow and incomplete.
He glances at your mourning dress then, at the gloves still clenched in your hands. "You've come here for the funeral."
"Perhaps."
"And I take it that you did not wander into this building on accident?"
His words are neutral. Simply observational.
And yet they still make your chest twist with that familiar anger.
"No," you answer, trying your very best to not portray your growing frustration because you know very well where this conversation is going. "I did not."
A long moment of silence passes, where his eyes remain trained on you, practically glowing with curiosity.
"Then why come at all?" He asks.
There is no accusation in his voice. No judgment. Only the same curiosity reflected in his eyes.
You hesitate. Again—something entirely unlike you, usually sharp-tongued and quicker to speak than to think. This time, it is not because you lack an answer, but because the truth feels far too intimate to offer a mere stranger who stands so comfortably where you do not.
"Because I was meant to see it," you say at last.
His gaze flicks to the telescope, then back to you. "You do not need to sneak in to look at things," he says. "You simply could have asked for a tour."
His words create a bitter taste in your mouth.
Of course he would not understand. It is entirely possible for any man to understand what it is to be a women.
Your grip tightens on your gloves.
"That," you reply carefully, "is unfortunately not how this place works."
He frowns. "Isn't it?"
"No," you mirror his expression. "Not for me. Not for a woman."
He considers this, head tilting upward as his eyes trace the painted constellations above. "Still," he presses, pragmatic as ever, "it's not much use to you. You can't operate it. And even if you could—" His shoulders lift in a small shrug. "They wouldn't let you."
There is no cruelty in his words. Only certainty.
Something inside you goes cold. The fire that has always refused to die falters, just slightly.
You swallow. Once. "You speak as though permission is the same as capability."
"I speak as someone who's watched many men waste time wanting what they will never be given," he replies. "It's easier not to build your life around maybes."
The words cut deeper than you expect—not because they are wrong, but because they echo something you have been trying desperately not to believe. Especially today. Of all days.
"My father built his entire life on maybeys," the words leave your lips quietly.
You turn your gaze away, unwilling to see the look that might cross his face if he realizes who your father was.
"He believed," you continue, voice tightening despite your effort to keep it steady, "that wanting something deeply enough mattered. That it justified the wanting."
Silence stretched thick between you.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Look," he says, more roughly now, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation has taken. "I'm not saying it's fair. Nothing in life ever is. I'm just saying—it's reality."
"Reality," you repeat softly, not giving yourself a chance to think of what you are about to say as if you do there is a small chance you may hesitate and not say it at all. And you know that you would regret not saying it. "is often just the name people give to the world they have decided not to challenge."
His jaw tightens. "Or the world they've learned will not move."
Without meaning to, you take a step back.
Not because you are afraid—you would never fear a man—but because you recognize the line you are about to cross if you stay. If you continue to argue with yet another man whose mind has already been made, and who will never be forced to see what does not affect him.
"I should leave," you say.
He looks startled. You do not miss the way his body reacts—how he flinches, as though he might reach for you before thinking better of it. "I did not mean any offense."
"You have not offended me." you reply honestly. It would be foolish to take offense at something you have heard your entire life. "You have simply reminded me of something I was trying very hard to not think of today."
He watches you—searching now, as though belatedly realizing there is more at stake than a debate he never meant to start.
"Then at least tell me your name," He asks, voice softening.
The request is simple. Reasonable.
You swallow and straighten, stepping toward him. You notice the way he mirrors the movement instinctively, his posture going rigid as you close the distance—pink lips parting, chest rising and falling faster than before.
You stop a few feet from him.
"No," you say gently. "That would only make this worse for both of us."
He frowns, disappointment clear. "How so?"
You take one last step, stopping directly before the door. Your hand closes around the cool metal knob.
Before you push it open, you glance back at him once—only once.
"Because you would remember me," you say. "And I would much rather be forgotten than explained."
If you know my name, you cease to be a moment. You become a problem.
You do not wait for his reply.
You push the door open and step out of the observatory, the weight in your chest settling heavier with each breath you take. The door shuts softly behind you, sealing him alone beneath the painted stars—stars he has never once questioned his right to stand beneath.
In the distance, the church bells begin to ring once more, slow and solemn, signaling that the burial is about to commence. Your throat tightens. You swallow hard, forcing down that familiar fire that refuses to die, and straighten your back all the same. Grief, you have learned from your mother, is not an excuse for collapse—at least not in public.
You turn toward the cathedral you were never meant to leave.
The rush of mourners spills out just as you arrive, black-clad figures flooding the courtyard in murmured conversation and practiced solemnity. Faces blur together—expressions appropriately grave, eyes already drifting toward the next obligation, the next engagement, the next moment that will demand their attention.
You spot your mother first.
She stands rigid and immaculate as always, spine straight, gloved hands folded neatly at her front. Beside her is your distant cousin—the newly appointed Viscount Hawthorne, Lord Marco Bodt. He stands with an easy, practiced attentiveness, shoulders squared not from stiffness but from habit. There is no restlessness in him, only focus.
Dark hair neatly kept frames a face softened by a scattering of freckles across lightly tanned skin, a reminder of days spent outdoors rather than in drawing rooms. His brown eyes move calmly over the gathered mourners, observant and composed, already assessing what must be done next rather than wishing himself elsewhere. He looks younger than the title suggests—and yet entirely suited to it.
Where others might wear duty like a weight, Marco carries it like a responsibility he understands.
Your mother turns at the sound of your steps.
Her eyes flick over you in a single, assessing glance. No relief. No concern. Only a subtle tightening of her mouth.
"You disappeared," she notes quietly.
"I needed air," you reply, the lie slipping out with ease.
Her gaze lingers a moment longer—on your flushed cheeks, your slightly uneven breath—as though she senses something amiss but cannot quite place it.
"See that you do not again," she says at last. "People notice these things."
You nod.
Marco clears his throat, offering you a gentle smile. "It is time," he tells you, brown eyes softening as they meet your. "We should proceed."
The bells fall silent.
‧₊˚🌙 ༉‧₊˚.⋆🏹˚.⋆ꪆৎ