As the first light of dawn crept into the silent Duke’s castle, Charles was already awake, the events of the previous night weighing on his mind. He straightened his wrinkled clothes and, crossing the room, picked up a pen to draw a line across the calendar hanging on the wall.

"Three days left until the initiation ceremony."

A firm knock interrupted the quiet. Charles straightened up and called out, “Come in!”

As he opened the door, he saw the Duke seated neatly at his desk, the morning newspaper folded in one hand.

"Father, did you want to see me?" Charles asked, bowing slightly.

The room surprised him—it was nothing like the lavish quarters of his siblings. The Duke’s space was austere: a sturdy desk, a large bed, a shelf packed with books, and a wardrobe. Charles rarely entered his father’s room; he hadn’t been here since he was very young.

Recently, his father’s attitude had shifted, though—first giving him a fiancée, now summoning him alone. It was a stark change from the Duke’s usual disregard.

The Duke set the paper down, fingers resting on his golden eagle badge, gleaming in the morning sun. He took a sip of tea before looking up, seeming to notice Charles for the first time.

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“You’re here, Charles,” he said in a calm, resonant voice.

Charles bit back the urge to retort, settling for a polite, “Yes, Father. How can I assist you?”

The Duke steepled his fingers, his piercing blue gaze studying Charles. “The Wilton family has a rich history,” he began, “and their young lady is a well-educated aristocrat.”

Charles stifled a sigh. So that was it—his father was preparing him to marry Miss Wilton without disgracing the family. He was only twelve, though! Wasn’t it a little early?

“Father, I am only…”

“I know,” the Duke interrupted, his tone as firm as iron. “You’ll marry Miss Wilton when you turn eighteen.”

Eighteen? Charles’s brow furrowed. His elder brother had married at twenty-two, and even his sister Freya’s wedding was planned for her twenty-second birthday. Why was his marriage scheduled so early?

The Duke seemed to sense his question. “The West and Wilton families both need this marriage, urgently. Waiting until you’re eighteen is already a concession.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, something big was happening behind the scenes, and this wedding was part of a larger scheme. Six years. He had six years to prepare.

The Duke gave a dismissive wave, as though realizing he’d said too much. “That’s all, Charles.”

Charles looked up, studying his father’s face in the golden light streaming through the window. His father’s long, golden hair shimmered softly in the sunlight, almost ethereal.

“Father,” he ventured cautiously, “may I know the name of the young lady?”

The Duke regarded him thoughtfully, a rare softness in his gaze as he replied, “Her name is Issa Wilton. Don’t worry—you’ll meet her soon.”