The Duke And His Beauty

After what felt like an eternity of struggle, the three noble ladies finally reached the grand entrance of the temple.

The Hall of Devotion loomed ahead, its white stone walls exuding an air of sanctity and reverence.

Their delicate bodies, unaccustomed to such exertion, ached from the strenuous climb.

Elizabeth collapsed onto Margaret, who hurriedly fanned her while offering a glass of water.

"Who would have thought that sincerity requires this much suffering?" She lamented.

"I swear," Elizabeth gasped between deep breaths, "if I had known the temple was going to test my devotion like this, I would have sent my prayers from home."

Celestine, though equally out of breath, managed a tired nod. "Definitely," she muttered. "Next time, I'll just make a larger donation and call it a day."

Rosellene chuckled softly, though more composed she felt the strain in her legs. Her pale complexion betrayed her exhaustion as she gently fanned herself.

From the corner of her eye, she subtly observed Margaret, who, despite being a mere maid, seemed unfazed by the climb. Interesting.

Just as they were regaining their composure, a group of temple attendants appeared, dressed in pristine robes. With graceful bows, one of them stepped forward.

"My ladies," he greeted with a calm and pleasant voice, "The temple welcomes you. The climb is strenuous, we have prepared a resting place in the Hall of Devotion before you proceed further. Please, allow us to escort you."

The three ladies exchanged glances, momentarily stunned.

Elizabeth, still fanning herself, blinked in surprise. "Since when did the temple become so considerate?" she whispered to Celestine.

Celestine raised a delicate brow but said nothing, while Rosellene merely lowered her fan.

"Regardless," Rosellene said smoothly, stepping forward "we appreciate the courtesy."

With that, they followed the attendants inside.

They were guided on the side of the hall, the room was a space of quiet elegance.

The walls were adorned with simple yet intricate carvings, with high ceilings and large windows that allowed the golden sunlight to filter through as it cast a warm glow on the smooth stone floors.

Beyond the open balcony, a breathtaking view of the temple grounds stretched beneath the clear sky.

A cool breeze swept through, offering relief from the climb. The fresh breeze carried a faint scent of incense, adding to the tranquil atmosphere.

The chaise lounges were placed thoughtfully, accompanied by a modest table with refreshments. Their personal maids stood attentively nearby, ready to assist.

Elizabeth immediately sank onto the chaise, exhaling dramatically. "I could stay here for the rest of the trip."

Celestine rolled her eyes, sitting down gracefully beside her. "You do realize the gods might strike you down for this level of laziness?"

"If the gods truly disapproved," Elizabeth sighed, "they wouldn't have given me Margaret to carry me through these hardships."

Margaret, still fanning her lady, blinked. "My lady, I fear that's not how divinity works."

Elizabeth groaned. "If I had known we'd be treated this well, I would have at least pretended to climb with dignity."

Celestine smirked. "Dignity was never an option for you, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth lifted her head just enough to glare at her. "I should hope the temple accepts confessions because I have a list of grievances against you."

Rosellene chuckled softly, tapping her fan lightly against her palm.

She stood near the balcony, letting the breeze cool her flushed skin. She closed her eyes momentarily, enjoying the fleeting moment of peace in their brief respite.

Beyond the tranquil hall where the noble ladies rested, the rhythmic sound of hooves pounded against the earth.

The sharp neigh of a horse pierced the stillness of the temple grounds, heralding an arrival of significance before the rider himself came into view.

A cloud of dust rose in the distance before settling, revealing a majestic white horse with a sturdy frame, its silky coat shimmering under the sun and its powerful muscles flexing with every movement.

Duke Azriel clad in a deep black uniform adorned with silver embroidery, moved with seamless grace. His polished boots struck against the stone as he landed, a figure of discipline and restrained power.

"Your Highness." The two knights waiting upon him bowed respectfully.

Azriel nodded barely as acknowledgement as he handed off the reins, his expression composed. Behind him, Fedric, his trusted aide, dismounted and followed closely, nodding toward the two elite captains standing in wait.

While Fedric took the reins and led the horse away to be tended. Nearby, one of the elite captains, Gareth Marceau, approached Azriel with a respectful nod, holding a stack of reports.

"The training at the northern barracks has been progressing steadily, Your Highness," Gareth reported, falling into step beside him as they moved forward through the temple's inner pathways.

"The recruits have shown remarkable improvement," Gareth continued, keeping pace. "Though a few still struggle with close-combat formations."

Azriel strode forward while removing his gloves, revealing long and structured fingers. He flexed them absently as he listened. He nodded once, signaling for more details.

"Which units require further refinement?" His voice was deep, calm, laced with the quiet sharpness of someone accustomed to command.

"The third and fifth, primarily. The recruits from the western region are skilled on horseback but lack proper discipline on foot," Gareth replied. "We've increased their sparring drills to correct it."

Azriel gave a curt nod. "Have them train under Captain Rhyse. He's the best at handling undisciplined foot soldiers."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Azriel hummed in acknowledgement, his attention still on the report until, quite unintentionally, his gaze drifted.

Through the open archway of the Hall of Devotion, he saw her.

She stood on the balcony, a picture of delicate elegance. The sunlight bathed the scene before him in a soft, golden glow.

Her dark lashes cast delicate shadows on her pale skin, her delicate fingers casually rested lightly on the carved wood as she leaned forward with her eyes closed as if savouring the cool mountain breeze.

Strands of her dark hair fluttered in the wind, a striking contrast against her skin.

Azriel found himself lingering.

Gareth, having finished his report, noticed the silence that followed. When no response came, he instinctively turned to observe his superior, only to find his commander's gaze locked onto the balcony.

Following his line of sight, Gareth took one look at the figure standing there and dismissed it without a second thought.

After all, an iron tree like Azriel had never shown interest in blooming flowers.

"Commander?" he prompted.

Azriel, slowly drawing his attention back, gave a small nod to Gareth, signaling for him to continue.

"Continue with the report." Azriel's gaze flickered away as if nothing had happened.

But as the briefing continued, his attention kept drifting back to her unconsciously.

Meanwhile, on the balcony, Rosellene suddenly felt an unfamiliar weight of attention on her.

Her lashes fluttered open, adjusting against the golden morning light.

Her cold gaze naturally followed her senses, until she met the golden warmth of his.

For a brief moment, her breathed was caught.

As if time had turn around and he is still him, looking at her from a distant like he always did.

Azriel stood in the garden below, his features were striking, perfectly balanced between regal elegance and military sharpness.

The auspicious sunlight shimmered over his figure, his uniform crisp and his presence undeniable.

Clad in his military attire. He was tall and unwavering, a black leather belt fastened his sword at his side, the hilt gleaming under the sunlight.

The high collar of his coat framed his sharp jawline, and the long cloak draped over one shoulder only added to his imposing presence.

Rosellene blinked.

Azriel held her gaze for a fraction longer before, as if by mere coincidence, with the effortless grace of a nobleman he inclined his head in a small gesture of greeting.

A gesture both polite and detached.

Rosellene's fingers instinctively tightened around the handle of her fan. She put up a veil of silk and poised.

She adjusted the delicate fan in her hand, tilting it slightly to veil the lower half of her face.

With measured grace, she dipped into a curtsy, the very picture of polite indifference.

The elegant movement masked the sudden erratic beat of her heart, her expression as unreadable as ever.

The breeze carried the faint rustling of leaves, but neither of them spoke.

Rosellene turned away first adjusting the lace of her sleeve, allowing the wind to carry away the moment as she stepped further into the shade of the hall.

Azriel said nothing. But as he continued forward, his fingers brushed against his gloves once more, a subtle motion, but telling nonetheless.

The moment faded like a ripple in still water, passing, yet leaving behind an undeniable trace.

The air, once stirred by the wind, settled again, yet the faint scent of gardenia lingered as if refusing to be forgotten.

The fleeting image of her, bathed in sunlight, remained etched in the quiet corners of his mind.