you do not know me but rest assured i know you, SIR DOMINGO âDOMâ ALVARADO you are the YOUNGER BROTHER TO THE BARON, KNIGHT BACHELOR & DIPLOMAT. you maybe be known for your AMBITION but it is only a mask for the true nature of your OBSESSIVE ways. however, i am not here to spread slander on the queenâs jewels, though i suspect you are her BENITOITE. the ton says your name reminds them of PERFECT HANDWRITING, SALT AIR FROM DISTANT SHORES, A TORN HEART, A DESIRE FOR MARRIAGE BASED ON DUTY. how scandalous! you have been warned, dear reader, that i will prove if this is true and share every last detail.
wc.
tldr:
Domingo âDomâ Alvarado is a knight and diplomat, known for his intelligence, ambition, and strategic mind. As the younger brother of a Baron, he has spent his life proving himself beyond his birth order, excelling in academics, diplomacy, and combat. A polyglot and skilled negotiator, he became a trusted envoy of the Crown at a young age, earning favor through his sharp wit and precise diplomacy. He fought in the war not for glory, but for understanding, ensuring his experience extended beyond negotiation tables. His knighthood was earned through merit rather than privilege. Once engaged to Ela Kara, their betrothal ended when her family deemed marriage too taxing on her healthâa loss that left him wary of love. Recently recalled from a diplomatic mission in Spain, he returns to London amid societal expectations that he will finally take a wife. Though the Ton views him as a prime match, Domingo remains calculated in his decisions, unwilling to be forced into a union that does not serve his own carefully measured plans.
basics
full name:Â domingo alvaradoÂ
nicknames:Â Â dom (among friends typically)Â
gender:Â Â cismaleÂ
pronouns:Â Â he/himÂ
sexuality:Â Â heterosexual? (might change later)Â
age:Â thirty-oneÂ
date of birth:Â Â December 25th Â
zodiac sign:Â Â Capricorn Â
occupation:Â Â knight and diplomat Â
appearance:
faceclaim:Â josĂŠ ramĂłn barretoÂ
height:Â Â 5â11 (180.34 cm)
build:Â lean, broad shouldered but not bulkyÂ
eyes:Â dark brownÂ
hair:Â dark brownÂ
other distinguishing features:Â Â dimples, war scars scattered across his bodyÂ
style: understated and impeccably refined, favors dark, tailored coats with subtly embroidery to hint at his noble status without being obnoxious. always wears his familyâs signet ring on his right hand.Â
labels / tropes:Â child genius, the dashing diplomat, heir and the spare, the protector, the overachiever, the stoic with a soft side, the self-made nobleman, the queenâs favorite. Â
likes:Â foreign foods, intellectual conversations, chess, wine, gossip (when itâs not about him), traditions, learning new languages, the ocean, and mystery novels.Â
dislikes: noise, disorganization, unnecessary conflict, manipulation, sudden physical touch, the cold, weak handshakes, wasting time, and overly sweet scents.
fears:Â losing his influence/position, being forgotten, not finding loveÂ
skills:Â diplomacy, multilingual, weaponry (swords/guns), public speaking, leadership, economics, etiquette, horsemanship, problem-solving, conflict resolution, and persuasion.Â
quirks:Â excessively punctual, occasionally slips into other languages when distracted, always has a notebook on him, gives unexpected thoughtful gifts, night owl. Â
pet peeves: being interrupted, poor planning, excessive flattery, and uninformed opinionsÂ
relationships:
mother:Â Â baroness unnamed alavarado (deceased)
father:Â Â baroness unnamed alavarado (deceased)
siblings:Â open alvarado (older sister), open alvarado (younger sister)Â
spouse / lover:Â Â none, unmarried no ties (for now)
children: none that he is aware of.
pets: two parakeets, Pearl and Homer, gifted to him by a French nobleman.
best friend:Â tbd.Â
rival:Â tbd.Â
crushing on:Â tbd.Â
nemesis:Â tbd.Â
origins:
There are men who move through life like a tempestâloud, reckless, impossible to ignore. Domingo Alvarado is not one of them. He is the quiet storm, the slow-moving tide, the knife that slides between the ribs before one even realizes they are bleeding. He does not beg for attention. He commands it in the silence between words, in the sharp tilt of his gaze, in the weight of his name spoken in hushed admiration.Â
He was born the second son of Baron Alvarado, and from the very beginning, that titleâsecondâbecame both his curse and his fire. Domingo was everything a second son should not beâbrilliant to the point of arrogance, restless, and determined to be more than the title he had been given. He would not be content to stand in anotherâs shadow. If he could not inherit, he would carve out a legacy of his own.Â
And so, he did.Â
Domingoâs childhood was a lesson in relentless excellence. He read before other children could form their letters. His tutors struggled to stay ahead of him, and by the age of twelve, he had outgrown them entirely. By fourteen, he walked the halls of Oxford, a boy among men, his sharp mind cutting through the centuries-old institution like a blade through silk. He studied philosophy, politics, languagesâabsorbing knowledge as if he feared it would one day be taken from him. He spoke Spanish and English as fluently as breath, but that was not enough. He mastered French, Latin, and Italian, each language another weapon in his growing arsenal. He understood that power was not always won through battle, but through persuasion, through carefully chosen words that could shape the course of history. The Monarchy took notice. How could they not?Â
At seventeen, Domingo was sent on his first diplomatic missionâan unheard-of honor for a man so young. But he did not falter. He stood in rooms filled with men twice his age, twice his experience, and he did not bow. He was charming when it suited him, sharp when it was required, a man who could shift between roles with the ease of an actor. His success made him a favored jewel of the crown, a man whispered about in both admiration and envy.Â
And then came war.Â
Most men in his position would have remained behind, safe in the drawing rooms and court chambers, but Domingo was not most men. He knew that words could only take one so far. A diplomat must understand war as intimately as he understands peace. And so, he fought. Domingo was on frontlines, at sea, wherever and whatever was needed of him, he did. He was not reckless, nor was he the kind of man who threw himself into battle for the sake of glory. He fought with the same calculated precision he had applied to everything in his life. His sword was an extension of his will, his movements sharp and deliberate. He did not waste energy. He did not waste words. He was relentless. The war shaped him, but it did not soften him. If anything, it sharpened his edges. His knighthood was not a courtesy, not a political favor, but an earned honor, carved out of sweat, blood, and the quiet ruthlessness of a man who refused to be lesser than those who stood beside him.Â
Then there was Ela Kara. A match arranged by duty, accepted without complaint. She was not the woman society would have expected for himâa delicate creature, prone to illness, a contrast to his unyielding ambition. And yet, inexplicably, she fascinated him. There was something in her that unsettled him, a quiet defiance wrapped in frailty, an understanding that she saw through the layers he so carefully maintained. He had not thought himself capable of sentiment, and yet when she fell ill, when their engagement was dissolved against his will, he felt the loss keenly. Love, he decided, was a dangerous thing.Â
And now, the war is over. The world has shifted into peace, and with it comes the expectations of society. Domingo, the Queenâs favored diplomat, the ever-elusive knight, must take a wife. It's why he's returned from his diplomatic mission in Spain early, arriving late in the marriage market but only by the Queen's request. The Ton watches him like hawks, their daughters presented like treasures to be claimed. But he is not a man so easily ensnared. He is still the second son, still the man who refuses to accept a life dictated by others. If he is to marry, it will be on his terms, and no amount of scheming mothers or whispered gossip will change that. He enters the marriage market as one enters a battlefieldâwith purpose, with strategy, with an unshakable sense of inevitability. The only question that remains is this: will he choose a bride, or will she be the one to capture him?Â
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Domingo Alvarado stood near the gilded windows of the estateâs grand ballroom, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow over the polished parquet beneath his boots. His dark eyes followed the swirling crowd with the practiced calm of a man who had long learned to navigate societyâs shifting tidesâeach smile measured, each gesture precise. Yet beneath the surface, a quiet storm raged. He caught sight of her then: Lady Theodosia Symonds. Her presence pulled at him like a sudden, unwelcome current, stirring memories he had tried to bury beneath duty and discipline. The delicate glint of her wedding ring, a cold band of gold catching the light, seemed to mock the brief sanctuary they had once found in one anotherâan urgency born of warâs cruelty, silent promises whispered in the shadows of a battlefield hospital. Nothing permanent, never meant to last. But lasting it had, in a way that no man could fully escape. Domingo squared his shoulders, smoothing the crease of his coat, and approached with the ease of a diplomat yet the careful restraint of a man aware of delicate ground. His voice, when he spoke, was low and steady, laced with the same tact he wielded so deftly in politics. âLady Symonds. I trust the evening finds you well.â His eyes searched hers brieflyâreserved, cautiousâbefore he continued, âIt is⌠a rare thing, to see you here. I hope the transition into this next chapter of your life has been kinder than the war allowed us.â There was no invitation for sentiment, only the quiet acknowledgment of a past that lingered between them like smoke in an empty room.
Who: @agildedecho for one, Mister Domingo Alvarado
Admittedly, Atticus was not having the best few days. His mind lingered not in the present but to the past, to a place in the woods where he and Josephine had shared yet another moment. Something that just left him more and more in a whirlwind of confusion. Each time he thought he had come to a conclusion, it fell apart. Each rationale seemed stranger and more far-fetched than the last. Then again, so did the event that began it all seemed just as far-fetched. To go from turned away confessions to kissing him in the woods was justâŚbaffling to Atticus. More and more lately did the temptation to leave burned in him. A rare feeling.
Maybe that is why he was so close to the horses, watching them get outfitted for the races. Maybe that is why he did not notice the other until he practically walked into him. And maybe once more fate was pulling a cruel joke on him to run into, of all people, Josephineâs match- not that he knew of that part. Yet. âOh. My apologies, I was not paying attention to where it was I was walking. My sincerest of apologies. I hope I didnât spill anything on you.â
Domingo had not seen him approachânot truly. His mind had been elsewhere, as it often was when among crowds where masks outnumbered faces. He stood near the edge of the stables, gloved hands clasped neatly behind his back, eyes narrowed not with irritation but calculation as he observed the horses, their grooms, the quiet dealings behind the racing spectacle. It was only when a man nearly collided with him that Domingo turned his head, the motion unhurried, his expression unreadable. He did not stumble, nor startle. He rarely did. Atticus Sinclair. Domingo recognized the faceâthough more in theory than in familiarity. A name spoken in half-whispers at functions, often followed by the word unfortunate. The Sinclairs had seen better days, and the Ton never forgot such things.
Atticus spokeârushed, polite, the kind of apology made by someone too used to bracing for disdain. Domingoâs gaze settled on him, quiet and discerning, the way one might study a painting whose brushstrokes revealed more upon closer inspection. âNo harm done,â he said at last, his voice even, low, and marked with a cool civility that neither invited warmth nor dismissed it. âIâve endured worse on Parliament floor.â A beat passed. He made no move to step away, nor to press the conversation forward. Simply existed thereâtall, composed, a man formed by iron disciplines and velvet secrets. âI donât believe weâve been properly introduced,â he added, with that same restrained courtesy. âSir Domingo Alvarado.â He offered his hand, firm and formalâthe gesture of a man raised on decorum and diplomacy, but not untouched by steel. His dark eyes flicked across Atticusâs faceânot in disdain, nor challenge, but with a quiet, appraising intelligence. âAnd you areâŚ?â A pause. Then, with the faintest trace of wryness: âForgive me. Iâve heard the name Sinclair, of course. I imagine most have.â
Marjorie felt her heartbeat quicken as she heard his words.
A warm smile as well as a demure gaze washing over her features as she spoke.
"Thank you Sir Domingo. And I am proud to know that I gave you something and someone to trust in during your time away. I sincerely hope my words served to be your light in such times, for your words served to be my light." Marjorie replied thoughtfully, gazing at him with a meaningful look in her eyes.
She cocked her head to the side slightly as she gazed at him, listening intently to what he had to say, and upon hearing it she couldn't help but smile shyly.
How many times at night would she read his letters when she should have been asleep? How many times had she laid awake at night not only wishing to see him but also wondering if anything could ever possibly come from two souls baring themselves to each other in written words from a long distance? Her heart would be set ablaze at the mere thought only for her to calm it down out of not wanting to get her hopes up, something she had done many times before whenever she laid awake at night, thinking of his lovely words that he had written her.
"Yes, the marriage market is relentless... though it is not relentless for me, I don't have very many suitors this season. For the two gentlemen I have spoken to previously, are now merely friends to me and nothing more than that. I am still waiting for my match this season. Many have asked what my dream match would be this season, yet so far no gentleman in the Ton seems to meet those expectations, for they were quite keen on wasting my time... that, and... I wish to give my heart to someone deserving of it and receive their heart in return because they deem me worthy of having it... and that hasn't happened yet... but, I'm hoping it will." Marjorie answered gently with determination lining her tone as she looked at him directly in his eyes.
She felt her heartbeat quicken again as she mentally kept reminding herself to breathe as her gaze never left him.
Domingo had been trained to maintain his composure under pressureâdiplomatic rooms tense with politics, war councils burdened with the weight of lives, duels fought not with swords but with glances and innuendo. And yet, here in a quiet cafĂŠ tucked off a cobbled London street, with the scent of lavender tea curling in the air and the soft warmth of Marjorieâs gaze resting so steadily upon himâhe found himself grasping for stillness, for control, and failing quietly. Her words landed not like arrows, but like candlelightâquiet, gentle, and impossible to ignore. He could have said something clever. Should have. That was always his shield: charm. But when he looked at her nowâtruly lookedâall that rose within him was not practiced wit but something far less rehearsed. And far more dangerous. There was a flicker behind his eyes, like the flint of a storm in an otherwise calm sky. He glanced down for the briefest moment, gathering himself, then returned his gaze to hers. Steady. Measured. But not cold. âI do not often envy men,â he began slowly, voice low and tempered like a blade being sheathed. âMost chase what they do not understand. And so few ever see what is in front of them.â He paused, fingers brushing the rim of his cup though he did not drink. âBut if youâve truly sat through this season unnoticed... then I fear the men of the Ton are even more blind than I gave them credit for. Or perhaps they are simply cowards.â The corner of his mouth twitched upwardâtoo small to be a smile, but too real to be anything else. âYou say youâve been waiting for someone who might deem you worthy of their heart⌠but I cannot help but wonder, Marjorieâhas it not occurred to you that your worth might be so great it simply frightened the wrong men away?â It was too much. Too close to sentiment. He heard it in his own voice, felt the soft tremor of vulnerability he had long ago taught himself to deny. And yet, he did not step back from it. Not this time. He leaned slightly forward, just enough that the soft hum of the cafĂŠ fell away behind them, and the air between them felt suspended.
Bastien turned his head slightly, the cool breeze lifting a few strands of hair across his forehead. His eyes â those soft, searching eyes â lingered not on Domingo but on the distant line where the water kissed the sky, as if he could find an answer there that continued to elude him. For a long moment, he said nothing. Silence was safer. Silence could not betray him the way his voice might. At last, with a breath so light it barely stirred the air between them, he spoke. "I do not know if I believe you," Bastien said quietly, not in accusation, but with a gentleness that was almost more wounding. His accent curled around the words, giving them a softness, a vulnerability he could not hide even if he wished to. "It is not... personal. I find it difficult to trust the intentions of anyone who knows my father's name before they know mine." A small, mirthless smile tugged at his lips, though it faded almost instantly. "Even kindness feels suspect, sometimes."
He pressed a hand to the edge of the stone wall by the water, grounding himself with the roughness beneath his palm. His slender frame, so carefully composed, betrayed the exhaustion he tried to hide. "I am not like you, Domingo. You, you move through the world with such...certainty. I have no such gift. I am an interloper here. A curiosity at best, an obligation at worst." He shook his head slowly, his gaze dropping to the stones at his feet. "My presence in London is a favor. A debt being paid. You are here because of duty â and perhaps, perhaps a sliver of pity. It is all right. I do not resent it. I have long made my peace with being someone's burden."
He lifted his head again, the faintest trace of color warming his otherwise pale cheeks. "But I do appreciate the offer," Bastien said, voice low, almost fragile. "To walk beside me...even if you are only humoring a lonely boy who does not quite know how to be a man yet." He gave a ghost of a smile, but there was a sadness behind it that could not be disguised. "I will not ask for more than you are willing to give. I have learned better than to beg for permanence from those who were only meant to pass through." And with that, Bastien returned his gaze to the horizon â not dismissing Domingo, but rather, allowing him the choice to stay or go without expectation. It was all Bastien could offer: a steady, wounded heart, and a silence filled with all the words he did not know how to speak.
Domingo did not move immediately, nor did he rush to fill the silence Bastien left in the air between them. He had spent his life in rooms where silence meant weakness, where hesitation was swiftly punished. But here, with this boyâno, this young man who mistook himself for fragile porcelainâsilence was a kind of offering. A space to breathe. To be. Domingo understood the weight of expectation too well to trample upon anotherâs quiet with platitudes. Instead, he stepped to Bastienâs side, slow and deliberate, letting his presence be felt but not forced. The wind swept across the water, the sky overhead bleeding lavender into the coming dusk. Domingoâs voice, when it came, was quiet and measured, not for the sake of diplomacy this time, but for the sake of the person beside him. âThen let us begin thereâwith disbelief,â he said, eyes not on Bastien, but on the same line of sky and sea the boy had stared at moments before. âIt is an honest place. And there are too few of those left in this world.â He clasped his hands loosely before him, posture relaxed, gaze distant but unfixed, as though watching a memory unspool behind his eyes. âYour father is a formidable man. A friend. One of the few whose loyalty I trust without doubt. But I do not seek you because of him, Bastien. I was asked to watch over you, yesâbut not for him. I agreed because I find you⌠curious.â His eyes flicked to Bastien thenânot sharp, not dissecting, but steady. Present. âThere is strength in you, though I suspect youâve grown tired of hearing that word thrown at you like armor you did not ask to wear. Thereâs also uncertainty, yes, and pain... but that doesnât make you lesser. It makes you aware. And that is far more dangerousâand far more rareâthan certainty.â A pause. âI do not pity you.â The words were not tender, but they were clean. Honed to a bladeâs edge, as all of Domingoâs words were, yet delivered not to wound but to cut away the lies Bastien had wrapped around himself. âI have no use for pity. Nor for performance when it serves no purpose.â
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If this were simply a match that her mother had arranged, Josephine would have told her no. There would be no way that she would court Domingo Alvarado. But this was the Queens will and she knew, if nothing else, that she needed to at least make a show of it. She had her position because of the Queens good will, she needn't mess it all up now. But could she not have picked someone that she could stand to be around a little more? Josephine thought that Domingo was a worthy opponent - she respected him for that, at the very least. If nothing else, this situation wasn't going to be boring.
Like him, Josephine showed nothing of the discomfort which she felt beneath the surface - except, perhaps, the slight tension in her shoulders. She raised an eyebrow at his compliment. Well, he certainly played the part very well, "Thank you Sir Domingo. That is kind of you to say." Did her tone sound as awkward and forced as she thought that it did? She certainly hoped not. "I cannot take all of the credit, though. My sisters help. They keep me strong." She shrugged. She almost definitely would have crumbled under the pressure of the whole situation if it weren't for her siblings. They were everything to her - anyone who knew her well enough, knew that. She was a strong woman, yes but she was also comfortable enough to realise that she needed the people around her for that to be true. If Josephine stopped to think about things a little more - she'd realise that the two of them were more alike than they realised. Similar to Domingo, whilst she gave the image of cool and collected, her mind was buzzing with what was going to come next. She gave a huff of a laugh as the others mentioned the matchmaking, "I think that theatrical is probably the best word for it. Or the only word to be said that won't get me into too much trouble." A smirk slipped onto her lips for the merest of moment before she spoke again, "It's certainly an interesting predicament to find one self in. I do wonder how successful it will actually be."
Josephine Hermance walked with the kind of effortless grace that bespoke breeding and practice rather than ease. Her expression was sculpted into neutrality, but he had studied enough faces, defused enough tense councils, to recognize the tight set of her jaw and the flicker of irony in her voice. A lesser man might have flinched. He did not. "You underestimate the weight of a compliment, Lady Hermance," Domingo replied, his voice smooth, low, threaded with diplomacy and something softer, carefully placed. "It was not flattery. I have seen nobler titles buckle under far less strain. If your sisters lend you strength, then they are as formidable as their reputation suggests." There. Not too warm, not too distantâenough respect to maintain rapport, enough ambiguity to preserve the illusion. The Queen was watching them both. Even now, perhaps.
A hawk circled high above the hedgerows. Domingoâs eyes followed it for a beat longer than necessary. "You speak of theatrics," he said eventually, tone almost amused. "I would offer a different termâperformance. The court is full of it, after all. This match... it is a stage, is it not?" He turned his head just slightly toward her, dark eyes studying her profile as though she were a cipher he had yet to fully decode. "The Queen pens the script. We play our parts." He paused at a bend in the path, letting his gaze drift toward the pond glimmering in the distance. The sun caught the surface in sharp, fractured lightâlike a smile that didnât reach the eyes. "I imagine," he continued, "that you dislike being directed. As do I." There was a faint twist to his mouthâsomething between amusement and resignation. "And yet, here we are. Actors under command." His voice gentled, not out of fondness, but out of habitâlike she were a delegate from a precarious nation he must neither insult nor encourage. "We are not so different, you and I. I wonder if that will make this easier... or far more difficult." Then, as if heâd said nothing at all, he resumed their walk. Leaves whispered above them; the wind carried with it the scent of lilacs and the not-so-distant sound of carriage wheels.
Marjorie curtsied respectfully, a shiver running down her spine as she not only heard his voice for the first time but also savored his touch and the electrifying feel of his lips on the back of her hand.
She smiled warmly at him, her eyes gazing at him with warmth as she took in his smile. Everything about him absolutely captivated her, she nearly forgot how to speak for a moment.
Fortunately, she finally found her voice.
"Oh, n-no it is quite alright. You certainly didn't keep me waiting. For they say absence makes the heart grow fonder." She answered with a shy smile accompanied with a soft and demure gaze as she blushed.
As he spoke, she felt as if she had to remind herself to breathe.
"I feel the same, for your words to me were beyond any that anyone has ever spoken to me. They were ethereal and beautiful. Your letters became a part of my life too, and I'm overjoyed and very touched to know that my words to you did the same." She whispered back, her shyness momentarily melting away, gazing upon him as if no one else were there in the establishment with them, her eyes shining dreamily.
There was something special there that she felt, and she was glad to share it with him. She wasn't sure exactly what she felt in that moment, but she simply couldn't look away from him.
Marjorie knew she had to say something though.
"I've... never written so many letters to someone I have only just seen in person. It is as if we've known each other for years but only just now know what the other looks like. In my dreams you looked as if you were from a valiant portrait... but I was mistaken, you are far more handsome than any portrait." Marjorie said, still in awe with simply being in his presence after so long and after so many letters that laid their souls bare had been exchanged between the two of them.
Domingo offered a slight smile at her words, though he quickly lowered his gaze, careful to rein in the sudden surge of emotion that threatened to betray him. He had spent so long mastering restraint that moments like these felt almost foreign, dangerous even. When he finally spoke, his voice was even, low, and measured, as if he were discussing something far more mundane than the vulnerable weight of their long correspondence. âYou are very kind, Lady Marjorie,â he said quietly, the formality slipping in almost unconsciously, a shield he often wore in unfamiliar terrain. âI admit, I questioned whether this meeting would diminish what we had built with ink and parchment. It is easier, sometimes, to believe in illusions.â His gaze lifted to meet hers, more steady than warm, though there was a trace of something deeper beneath the surfaceâsomething he was not yet ready to name. âBut standing here, I find no illusion at all. Only⌠something I am glad to have trusted in.â
He folded his hands on the table to keep them from fidgeting, a habit he had learned to suppress early in his career. There were many things he could sayâwords of admiration, of longingâbut Domingo was a cautious man, and this meeting was still precarious, no matter how familiar she felt. Instead, he allowed a more practical thought to slip forward, one that had been quietly gnawing at him since his return. âI have been absent for much of the season,â he said, tone shifting toward the conversational, though his eyes remained keenly observant. âSpain kept me longer than intended. I wonder if, in my absence, you have found yourself caught up in all the usual expectations. The marriage market is rather relentless, I hear.â He spoke it lightly, almost detached, but there was a weight behind the questionâa quiet, unspoken hope that he might not be too late. Though he did not say it aloud, Domingo knew he was no easy prize. He came with shadows, ambitions, and loyalties that would demand much of any woman who dared love him. But for the first time in a long while, he found himself hoping, however cautiously, that perhaps she might yet choose to.
The gravel crunched softly under Domingoâs polished boots as he walked along the tree-lined promenade, hands loosely clasped behind his back in a posture of careful leisure. Outwardly, he appeared every inch the composed knight and diplomat the court had come to expect â tailored, solemn, and deeply self-possessed. His face, carved in quiet, thoughtful lines, betrayed none of the tension simmering beneath his calm exterior. He stole a glance at Josephine Hermance walking beside him, with the confidence of a woman who had long since learned she could trust no one but herself. Domingo could admire that, even respect it. And yet, admiration did not make this situation any less precarious. They were political rivals, after all, though circumstance, the Queenâs meddling hand, had now forced them into the farcical dance of courtship.
Domingoâs voice, when he spoke, was smooth and low, honed by years of diplomatic service. âI must commend you, Lady Hermance. Few would carry the weight you bear with such elegance.â A diplomatic truth â but it was a truth nonetheless. âNot many find themselves head of a house so young and remain standing.â He offered her a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable. âIt is no small feat.â He allowed a beat of silence to stretch between them, the crisp spring air stirring the leaves overhead. Inwardly, his mind moved at a different pace entirely: calculating, cautious, wary of every word spoken and unspoken. He knew better than to underestimate her. Domingoâs tone grew lighter as he continued, feigning casual conversation with the effortless grace of a man used to hiding anything important. âI wonder, Miss Hermance⌠do you find this matchmaking scheme as curious as I do? It seems almost⌠theatrical.â A wry glint, so faint it might be missed, flickered in his eyes. He slowed his pace deliberately, offering her the illusion of control over their path, but never once relaxing his vigilance. In matters of politics, and, he suspected, in matters of the heart, Josephine Hermance would be a formidable opponent. Or perhaps, God help them both, something far more dangerous.
Ela blinked against the dim light, the golden dusk filtering through tall windows catching the dust motes in the air like drifting stars. Sheâd fallen asleep againâshe could feel it in the slight ache in her neck, in the way her cheek had creased against the edge of her open book. But it wasnât the light or the chill of the library that woke her. It was his voice. Her eyes fluttered open fully, and there he stoodâDomingo. Her breath caught, just for a second. The years fell away in that one glance. He looked exactly as she remembered and not at all the same. The weight of time sat on his shoulders now, but his eyesâoh, those eyes still held a kindness that made her heart ache.
She straightened abruptly, pushing back her hair in a flurry of embarrassmentâonly to see what he was looking at. That book. How to Be a Good Wife. Elaâs entire body went hot. âOh,â she breathed, cheeks going crimson as she snatched the book up and clutched it tightly to her chest, like that might somehow erase its presence. âThatâsâumâthat isnâtâI meanâŚâ She buried her face in one hand, letting out a mortified little laugh. âI fell asleep,â she mumbled into her palm. âI wasnât⌠I wasnât expecting anyone to see.â
Her voice was soft, fluttering at the edges, but she forced herself to peek at him through her fingers, her heart racing with a helpless blend of shame and old affection. âItâs not what you think,â she added quickly. âI was only trying to prepare myself. For⌠Mister Kensington. I just thoughtâI mean, one must be ready, mustnât one? I didnât have anyone to ask, not really.â she admitted, voice faltering. âMama is gone. My sister would laugh, or worse, scold me. And my friendsâwell, itâs not something one brings up over tea. Not when theyâre all so sure of themselves and IâI still feel as though Iâm pretending to be a grown woman some days.â She glanced down at her hands, twisting the hem of her sleeve, her voice growing softer still. âAnd then thereâs the curse.â She didnât have to explain it. Domingo knew. She looks down at the book, disappointment written on her face. âIt felt safer to read. Even if the book is mostly nonsense about not speaking out of turn and keeping oneâs hair tidy.â She gave a feeble smile, eyes dipping downward. âIt doesnât say anything about how to make a husband happy. Not truly. Not how to be⌠close. Or warm. Orââ her voice faltered, face burning anew ââor the other things.â
She closed her eyes, trying to will the embarrassment away, trying to pretend he wasnât her former fiancĂŠ, the one who had once been meant to hold these answers for her. The silence pressed close. She peeked at him again, heart skipping, wonderingâWhat is he thinking? Does he pity me? Is he laughing inside? Does he remember how it once was, when it was supposed to be us? The ache that flickered in her chest surprised her. She was engaged now. She had moved on. But part of her still wanted to know what Domingo saw when he looked at her nowâfragile, flustered, and trying so very hard to be something she wasnât sure she could be.
Domingo's gaze lingered on Ela, the silence between them settling into something fragile, weighted with old memories. Her vulnerability, the way she clung to that bookâHow to Be a Good Wifeâwas a painful reminder of everything they had lost. His heart twinged, ached with the weight of what they had once been. He wanted to reassure her, but he didnât quite know how. Not without digging up memories best left buried. With a careful breath, Domingo straightened, his jaw tightening with resolve. âWait here,â he said quietly, his voice soft but firm. Domingo moved away from her with the grace of someone accustomed to both command and quiet reflection. His footsteps were measured, deliberate, as if the weight of the moment settled on him like the layers of dust in the library. Elaâs words had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. The vulnerability she laid bare, the depth of her uncertainty, was a cruel reminder of everything they had been to each otherâof everything they had lost. His throat tightened, but he swallowed the feeling. It was easier, safer, to act with the detached precision of a knight than to dwell on the hurt she stirred in him.
He found the row of books he was searching for without much effort. It had always been tucked away, hidden in plain sight behind far more reputable texts. He had come here more than once, when the need for a distraction was at its worst, when his thoughts of her grew too unbearable. The same book had caught his eye then, and though it had seemed absurd at the time, it was something he felt might be helpful now. Not that he expected it to be a magic solution to anything, but it could, perhaps, answer some of the questions Ela had that she had no one else to ask.
The spine of the book was worn, the leather faded with age. Matters of Intimacy, it read, a title that alone would have caused a stir if anyone were to see it. Domingoâs fingers brushed over it, a flicker of unease passing through him. The memories of his younger selfâthe ones where this book had been a joke, a game to some of the men, a matter of curiosity to othersânow felt absurd. It hadnât been a joke when it was first offered to him, and it certainly wasnât one now. He tucked the book under his arm and made his way back to Ela, the weight of it somehow heavier than the burden of what they had once shared.
When he returned to her, he could see the way she clutched the How to Be a Good Wife book to her chest, as though it were some sort of shield. Her eyes met his in a mix of embarrassment and longing, and it stung him to see her like that. He wasnât sure if he was helping, or making things worse, but he knew he had to at least try. With a steadying breath, he offered her the book, holding it out toward her with care, as though offering something fragile.
"This," he said softly, his voice low and calm, "is not what you were looking for in that book." His fingers brushed against hers again as she took it, a touch that was all too familiar, all too painful. "But," he continued, stepping back just enough to give her space, "it might help you understand the things youâre concerned about. Though I will say thisâno book, no matter how detailed, will ever prepare you for the real thing." He met her gaze then, his expression solemn. "A book can tell you what to expect, what to do, but it cannot teach you the intimacy that exists between two peopleâespecially not the kind of intimacy you want with a husband, with someone you care about deeply." His voice softened, his eyes growing distant for a moment before he returned his attention fully to her. Ela had once been the center of his worldâhe didnât want her to think she had to be anything less than herself. "Intimacy is not something you can read about," he said gently, his tone almost apologetic. "Itâs something you have to feel, something you grow into. Itâs messy, itâs imperfect, and itâs not always what you expect it to be. But itâs real, and itâs something you cannot learn from a book."
She couldn't have been more nervous than she was right now. She would be finally meeting him face to face. She wasn't sure what he looked like exactly but she was sure he would be handsome.
Marjorie stepped out of the carriage and took a deep breath. Did she look alright? Did she look nervous? She hoped he would like her. Would she know where he was in Gunter's?
Marjorie walked in, her servant behind her as her eyes scanned the establishment before landing on a face, a handsome face. His eyes were just as she had pictured, his face was youthful yet rugged, his posture was certainly not rigid but he was far from slouching, and his smile was ultimately captivating.
Domingo...
Marjorie's breath caught in her throat briefly before she willed herself to breathe. She approached him with a gaze as if they were the only two people in Gunter's.
"Sir Domingo Alvarado, I... I am so happy to finally meet you face to face. It's me Lady Marjorie Hermance." She said, trying to contain her excitement and nervousness as she elegantly curtsied to him before holding her hand out for him to kiss.
She smiled at him as she drank in the sight of him. It was surreal to finally see him after all of the letters they had exchanged.
Domingo stood in quiet admiration as Marjorie entered the room, his eyes momentarily betraying the calm, composed mask he so often wore. The moment he saw her, everything seemed to shift, the space between them narrowing as his gaze moved over her with the precision of a man who had spent months imagining her, only to find that no amount of words could truly prepare him for the real thing. She was more captivating in person, her elegance and grace manifesting in every movement. Her beauty wasnât just in her features, but in the way she carried herselfâlike a woman who had lived in the world of her own thoughts, just as he had, but who was now standing in front of him as if out of a dream. âLady Marjorie,â Domingo greeted her with a slight bow, his voice rich with a warmth that hadnât quite made its way into his words before. His hand gently took hers, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand with the kind of respectful, deliberate care that only someone used to diplomacy could muster. There was a moment of stillness as he lingered there, his gaze never leaving her face, and he couldnât help but allow himself a rare, genuine smile. âThe pleasure is mine, more than you can know.â His tone was soft, his words careful, but there was an undeniable pull in his expression as he studied her. The letters they had exchanged, the words that had haunted his thoughts, now felt distant and almost irrelevant, for what he saw in front of him was more than he ever imagined. He exhaled slowly, as though catching his breath, before his smile turned slightly rueful. âI must apologize for not meeting you sooner. Spain required a delicate hand, and Iâve been caught in matters of state. But, as they say, better late than never,â he continued, his voice tinged with both the regret of the delay and the sincerity of his words. âI hope I have not kept you waiting too long.â As he spoke, he stepped just a little closer, the warmth of his presence filling the space between them. His eyes softened, and for a brief moment, he let down his guard completely. âItâs a rare thing, to meet someone whose words have become such a part of oneâs life,â he said, his voice barely above a whisper, and for a fleeting second, the diplomat and the knight both faded, leaving only the man who had longed for this moment.
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The water had always soothed him. Bastienâs boots whispered along the wooden boards of the pier, his hands tucked neatly behind his back, posture composed though his thoughts were anything but. The salt air curled into his lungs, cool and bracing, tangling itself with the scent of old rope and sun-warmed tar. The sky was the colour of tarnished silver, and the water below mirrored itâquiet, glassy, endless. He liked the way it made him feel small. Not insignificant, precisely, but unburdened of importance. Just a man. Just one set of eyes, observing. He slowed, then stopped near the edge, letting the wind bite softly at his cheeks, tousle a curl loose from its pin. He could have stayed there for hours if left uninterrupted.
But he wasnât alone.
He didnât turn his headâdidnât need to. The weight of being watched had become familiar in recent days, like an ill-fitting coat he could not quite shed. Bastien gave it a breath, a count of three, then sighed. His voice, when it came, was soft but carried clearly on the breeze. âDomingo,â he said, not unkindly, âif you insist on shadowing me, the least you can do is walk beside me.â A pause. Then, quieterâalmost an afterthoughtââI might even be grateful for it.â He turned at last, and there he was. Of course. Tall and composed, as always. One of the only familiar figures in London, and perhaps the one person who knew him before he became thisâbefore letters and bloodlines and unravelled truths had shifted the shape of him. Bastienâs mouth tilted in a small, tired smile, more weary than warm, but genuine for all that. âOr is it my father who sent you again?â he asked, voice mild, the words wrapped in velvet despite the sting underneath. âI do wonder if he thinks I might float away if left untethered.â
Domingoâs eyes lingered on Bastien, the young man standing with his back to the water, looking as though he sought peace in the endless horizon. There was a familiarity to Bastienâs posture, a subtle weariness to his soul that Domingo had come to recognize. He knew all too well what it was like to wear that heaviness, to try and escape the past without truly succeeding. For a moment, Domingo stood there in silence, watching him, before Bastienâs soft voice cut through the air, pulling him from his thoughts. âAh, Bastien,â Domingo began, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though it was tempered by something far more serious in his tone. He took a step forward, his voice steady as he responded, âIf I had wanted to shadow you, I would have done so without announcing it. But I am no stranger to your fatherâs concerns.â He chuckled lightly, though it was more out of amusement at the situation than any genuine humor. âFrancis may think Iâm your keeper, but I assure you, Iâm simply... here.â His words trailed off for a moment as he regarded Bastien, his gaze softer. âAnd yes, I would be honored to walk beside you.â Domingo took another step, closing the distance between them, his presence calm but steady, like a weight settling beside Bastien. His tone grew more serious, the guarded edges of his demeanor slipping away as he spoke. âI know what itâs like to bear the weight of a name, a legacy that follows you, whether you ask for it or not. You donât have to carry it alone, though. You may think the past defines you, but itâs the choices you make now that will determine who you truly are.â His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of something warmer beneath itâperhaps a reminder that even the most reserved among them needed a little tethering now and then. âIâm not here as your fatherâs envoy, Bastien. Iâm here as a man who understands what it means to be untethered. Iâm simply offering to walk beside youâfor however long you need it.â
Edith was about to respond - she could understand how it would feel to a little out of place in the city. When she had gone away, she had thought that she would come back and it would all be pretty similar to how it had been before. She couldn't have been more wrong. She was about to tell him that London would forever be shifting and changing ... when he repeated that name again and she couldn't think straight. Arthur Knight.
The night that she had agreed to marry Arthur hadn't been anything extraordinary. They were sat by a lake, her head in his lap. "I could spend my entire life like this. With you." She had said. "So why don't you?" Arthur had responded. And the conversation had gone from there. Once Edith realised that he was truly serious - that he already had a ring - she had happily accepted. It was nothing spectacular but it was truly the best night of her life. He had been gone a few days later. "I will return soon and we will get married." He had promised. It was a promise that was never supposed to be kept.
She snapped back to Domingo with a sudden realisation that she had let his words hang for a little too long. Though she was struggling to get her words out. It felt like all the wind had been knocked out of her. "Sorry..." She muttered, shaking her head a little. She quickly blinked back the tears. She did not want to make a scene, not here. The sudden mention of her love was not something that she was prepared for. "You knew him..." Edith choked out. "He told you about me?" There hadn't been a day since he had left her that she hadn't thought about him. She hadn't thought that she would have bumped into someone who knew him, who knew her by association. "Sorry." She coughed, trying to get her voice back to normal. "Wait..." Edith muttered. She was trying to remember a small detail. "Dom - do you - would he have called you Dom?" She looked up at Domingo, her eyes wide, searching. How she wished that they could have this conversation anywhere that wasn't here.
Domingo could feel the weight of the moment pressing on him. Seeing Edithâs painâher shockâwas like a sudden, sharp stab to his chest. Arthurâs memory was something he tried to keep buried, but the mention of his name always had the power to pull it all to the surface. He had lost count of the nights he had spent alone, haunted by thoughts of his fallen friend, wondering what might have been had the war not stolen him away so suddenly. Arthur had been more than a comrade; he had been a brother. And in many ways, it felt as though a part of Domingo had died with him.
He watched Edith carefully, a deep ache welling inside him as she struggled to collect herself. Her pain mirrored his, though he would never admit to her how much it still hurt. He had promised himself that he would never let Arthurâs death break him, but standing in front of Edith, with her wide, searching eyes, all the defenses heâd built up seemed to crumble. He took a step closer to her, not to comfort, but simply to bridge the distance, feeling the pull of something unspoken between them. His voice, though soft, was firm with purpose. âIf youâd like, we can speak about this somewhere private. I know this is not easy, not here.â His eyes met hers, a flash of something tender and conflicted flickering within them. âArthur spoke of you often... He... he had great affection for you.â
Domingo paused, his fingers instinctively flexing as he carefully considered his next words. âAnd yes, he would have called me Dom,â he added, the familiarity of the nickname both a comfort and a burden. The memory of Arthurâs voice calling him that echoed in his mind, and he quickly shook it off, as if to prevent the grief from swallowing him whole. "I know this is sudden, Edith, and Iâm sorry to stir up old memories, but if you need to speak, truly speak, Iâm here. I owe it to both you and Arthur to give you that much." His gaze softened, but the stoic mask he wore never fully lifted. He was a diplomat, after allâever the strategist. And yet, in moments like this, even he couldnât fully shield himself from the weight of the past.
Guntherâs was abuzz with polite laughter and the delicate clink of fine porcelain, the usual symphony of Mayfairâs midday hours. Domingo Alvarado sat at a small table near the window, a modest cup of chocolate growing cold before him. His coat was immaculateânavy trimmed with silver, a diplomatâs wardrobe carefully selected to impress but not boastâbut his posture gave him away. Not rigid, not looseâsuspended. As though he were caught between tension and hope. He was early. Far too early, if he were honest. But punctuality had long been a shield he wore like armor, and he needed all the armor he could summon today.
In the quiet space between the ticking of the cafĂŠâs grand clock and the distant roll of carriage wheels, Domingo allowed his mind to wanderâto her. To the way her pen curled her thoughts into sentences that felt too good for this world. Letters from Marjorie had found him in the filth of the trenches, and somehow never felt out of place. Her words didnât speak to rank, or war, or politicsâthey spoke to the man beneath the uniform. And though he knew it had started by accidentâa misaddressed envelope, a forgotten detailâhe had answered. And kept answering.
His fingers tapped the edge of the table now, betraying him. Domingo Alvarado, Knight of the Realm, diplomat of repute, veteran of bloodied campaigns⌠nervous. Truly nervous. Because words on a page were one thing, but seeing herâŚWould she laugh the way he imagined? Would she look disappointed? Would she recognize him, this carefully composed stranger who only seemed to bare his soul with ink and paper? Domingo sat back, drawing a quiet breath as he caught his reflection in the cafĂŠâs glass pane. His face was serious by natureâhigh cheekbones, furrowed brow, lips pressed into thoughtâbut today, a rare and unpracticed smile hovered at the corners. Excitementâwarm, almost boyishâwas winning out against the usual solemnity. He straightened as the bell above the door gave a gentle chime.
closed starter @agildedecho // the oxford university library
Ela's head was heavy with the weight of too many books, her eyelids fluttering closed as the quiet of the library wrapped around her like a soft, comforting blanket. The pages of the open books before her blurred into an indistinct haze. She had been reading, and reading, trying desperately to absorb the knowledge her tutors insisted she needed. But the more she tried, the more the words melted into an indecipherable jumble. It was peaceful hereâso peaceful, in fact, that her exhaustion slowly overtook her, and she drifted into a light sleep, surrounded by the towering mountains of books she had yet to conquer.
The tap of a finger against her shoulder startled her awake. She blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting to the dimming light of the library as the world slowly came back into focus. She could feel a slight disorientation, the soft murmur of the libraryâs silence broken by the quiet hum of her own thoughts. Her hand instinctively went to her eyes, rubbing them as she tried to make sense of the figure standing before her. The quiet rustle of paper and the distant ticking of a clock echoed in her ears as she slowly lifted her gaze. The figureâs presence was gentle but undeniably real, and Elaâs breath caught in her chest, her heart racing a little faster than she would have liked.
Domingo had always felt a deep affection for Oxford, a place that had shaped much of who he had becomeâhis intellect, his ambition, and the core of his character. It was a sanctuary of quiet, one he could always rely on to pull him back to simpler times, when life wasnât so complicated. On this particular evening, as the students dispersed to enjoy their weekend, he found solace in the near-empty library. The soft murmur of turning pages and the scent of old leather bound volumes felt like a familiar embrace, and he was lost in the peace of it all when something caught his eye. There, nestled among the towering stacks, sat Elaâsleeping, surrounded by an array of textbooks. The sight of her, so still, so innocent in her slumber, stirred something deep within him. For a moment, she looked exactly as she had years ago, when they would wander the halls of Oxford together, exchanging ideas and dreams that felt so distant now.
Her soft breathing, the way her head rested on her hand, the gentle fall of her hairâit was all too familiar. He stood there, unmoving, for longer than he cared to admit, until Ela stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she was disoriented, confused by the dimming light and the quiet of the library. The moment their gazes met, Domingoâs breath caught in his chest. There was no denying the impact she had on him, even after all these years. The weight of time seemed to fall away as she rubbed her eyes and tried to collect herself. The quiet tension between them was palpable, but Domingo, ever the tactician, chose not to acknowledge the sudden rush of old feelings. Instead, he allowed himself the quiet pleasure of watching her, her graceful movements as natural as ever.
His gaze, however, was drawn to the books she had been reading, each one more advanced than the last. It was no surpriseâEla had always been a brilliant mind, capable of diving into subjects that most would shy away from. But one book, in particular, made him pauseâa title that seemed oddly out of place among the other scholarly texts. How to Be a Good Wife. His lips twitched into a smile before he could stop himself, and a soft laugh escaped him, quickly stifled as he cleared his throat. His eyes flicked back to Ela, a playful gleam hiding beneath his stoic demeanor. "Even Oxford has its peculiarities," he remarked, his voice warm yet teasing. "It seems the university offers more than just knowledge on war strategy and politics."
Edward leaned back in his chair, the flickering lamplight casting playful shadows across his features as he watched Domingo take his first sip of the brandy. There was a familiar warmth in the air between them, thick with camaraderie and unspoken understanding, like a well-worn coat that fit just right. The years had passed, the world outside their little bubble of friendship had shifted, but here they were again, two old soldiers in a dimly lit inn that smelled faintly of brandy and mischief. The sharp glint in Domingoâs eyes, that ever-present mix of mockery and meaning, was something Edward had come to treasure. It reminded him of the days on the battlefieldâwhere life was simple, and survival depended on oneâs ability to read the room, to turn on a dime, and to speak plainly. Not that Edward ever had any trouble with speaking plainly; it was something heâd perfected years ago, especially when it came to dishing out insults and threats with a half-grin.
âAh, Domingo, always with the words,â Edward chuckled, lifting his glass and swirling the brandy. The amber liquid caught the light, refracting it into a thousand little sparks that danced in his eyes. âThreatening to shoot you is how I show it. Love. Iâd be sparing you from the mess youâve returned too,â he added, the sarcasm rich in his voice. âBut youâre right about one thingâthis place, this little corner of London, does tend to attract the scent of scandal. But, well, I did build it that way.â He grinned, knowing full well that Domingo would understand the unspoken meaning behind that. The Silver Lantern wasnât just an inn. It was a carefully constructed web of whispered deals and clandestine meetings. Edward had made it a sanctuary for the misfits and outcasts, where everything could be bought, sold, or bartered, as long as you knew the right people and werenât too squeamish about your morals.
Domingoâs praise made Edward pause for a moment. There was something about the way his old comrade spoke, something that made Edwardâs chest tighten with an emotion he never allowed himself to acknowledge. Pride? Perhaps. But Edward had never been good with words when it came to matters of the heart. So, he laughed it off, raising his glass in a mock salute. âDone well?â Edward repeated, a self-deprecating grin pulling at his lips. âIâve managed not to burn the place down or start an outright war with the peerage, so I suppose that counts for something, doesnât it? And as for your familyâs nameâdonât worry, Iâve kept it out of the gossip rags. For now.â His tone was light, but inside, a small part of him did care. Domingo had always been an anchor, even if he never said as much. Edward could navigate the noble world with all the finesse of a fox, but without Domingoâs steady hand, heâd likely have tripped up long ago.
âAnd London has not, as you put it, burned down in your absence,â Edward continued, his voice dropping a little. âBut donât think I havenât been keeping my eyes peeled for any new distractions. Not much ever changes around hereâsave for the latest trend that has nobles falling in love with their staff. Ridiculous, isnât it? And yet, theyâre all a part of it, prancing about, as if their affections could ever be more than a fleeting fancy.â He chuckled darkly, the sharpness in his eyes betraying the edge of bitterness that had always clung to him, even in moments of levity. Nobles had a way of twisting everything to suit their whims, and Edward wasnât blind to their hypocrisy. Still, he played along, for it served him well to do so.
But then, at the mention of a gift, his expression softened. There was no denying the genuine spark of excitement in his eyes, no matter how much he tried to mask it with a roguish grin. Domingo was the only person Edward trusted enough to let his guard down with, even if heâd never admit it aloud. The thought of a giftâof something more tangible than the usual witty repartee or shared battle scarsâstruck a chord deep inside him. âYou brought me something?â Edward raised an eyebrow, a glint of mischief flickering in his gaze. âWell, donât leave me hanging now, my dear friend. What is it? Something extravagant, no doubt, to tempt me into making terrible decisions?â He leaned forward slightly, the anticipation lighting up his face. âBut, mind you, Iâm not falling for any nobleâs ridiculous courtship. If thatâs your game, youâll be sorely disappointed.â He winked, his tone playful but carrying an underlying edge of truth. He was not one for noble titles or the trappings of their affections. If any noble tried to entertain such nonsense with him, they would be met with nothing more than a sharp laugh and a swift retreat.
Domingo let the familiar din of the Silver Lantern fade into the background as he reached into his coat and withdrew a slim parcel, wrapped in dark cloth and tied with a simple leather cord. He laid it on the table between them with deliberate care, the worn grain of the wood catching the faint gleam of metal beneath. There was a pause, almost reverent, before he nudged it slightly toward Edward. âFor you,â he said simply, his voice low and even, lacking any fanfare but heavy with meaning. When Edward pulled the cloth away, a knife revealed itselfâSpanish steel, finely crafted, sharp as memory. The hilt was smooth, built for speed and balance, forged with elegance but meant for use. Along the flat of the blade, clean and deliberate, was an engraving: A travĂŠs del fuego, juntos. Through fire, together. Beneath the phrase were the initials E.S.G. Domingo watched his friendâs expression carefully, though his own remained composed. âItâs from Toledo,â he said after a beat. âBalanced to your grip. You lost the last one saving my life, if memory serves. Thought it only fair.â There was a flicker of amusement in his eyesâwarm, rare. âBesides, even bastards like you deserve something that reminds them they were never alone out there.â Edwardâs inevitable flirtation earned a quiet snort from Domingo, who leaned back with the ease of someone well used to navigating his friendâs sharp tongue and softer truths. âYou wouldnât survive the heartbreak,â he said, a dry note in his tone. âAnd we both know Iâm not in the habit of seducing disasters Iâd also need to clean up after.â His gaze sharpened slightly, a flicker of steel behind the charm. âBut friendship⌠real friendship⌠Thatâs rarer than gold. You stood by me when it counted, Edward. Not many can say that. Thisââhe nodded to the bladeââisnât a gift. Itâs a marker. A memory, forged in fire.â His voice dropped, quieter, like something pulled from a deeper part of him. âWhatever the world makes of us now⌠I remember who we were.â
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this was a dance, one that natasha practiced until she perfected it. it wasn't so unlike how the young men and women performed during the season. everything was carefully crafted to have a specific end result, whether it was money, love, or something much darker. the man in front of her was yet another dance partner to entertain. natasha took in his features, his dark hair, tanned skin. something about him nagged at the back of her mind. for the moment, she pushed it down to focus on her work.
lips curled into a smile. "thank you, and yes, yes it is an honor" she replies with a slight laugh. natasha observed him carefully. by now, some customers would have had their hands all over her, and yet, he merely watched her. natasha watched him in return. her fingers played with the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck.
his voice was rich like honey, something natasha could get used to if she weren't too careful. it would be easy to melt into him like candle wax to an open flame. "desire?" she repeats, a brow raised. a hum of approval. "what is it you desire, rafael?" dark eyes peered at him from over her veil, inching to get him to confess. as he leans in, natasha stays put, eyes flickering to his lips. "power can be found in even the most...surprising places or the most surprising people."
Domingoâs gaze remained steady, his attention unwavering, as he studied the woman before him. There was something intoxicating in the way she carried herself, a careful balance of allure and mystery, as though she were constantly playing a game he hadnât quite learned the rules to. He had to admit, it fascinated him. She was a puzzleâone he was eager to solve, though not without caution. His experiences had taught him that every situation could be a trap if one wasnât careful, and the glint of the mask she wore only added to the intrigue. Her touch, light and deliberate as it was, sent a subtle tension through him. He allowed himself to lean into her fingers, his own hand moving to trace the delicate curve of her arm, but never enough to give away the full measure of his own desire. He had to stay vigilant, always observing, never losing control of the situation. Her words were laced with wit and challenge, pulling him in further. "Power," he repeated with a small, measured smile, his voice low and thoughtful. "Perhaps it can be found in many places, but itâs the people who wield it that interest me most." He shifted slightly, closing the distance between them just enough to feel the heat of her proximity, but not enough to fully cross into dangerous territory. His fingers grazed the edge of her jaw, careful, as though he were testing the waters, waiting for her to make the first move in this delicate dance they were both engaged in. Her veiled words were a game he knew all too well, one he had played with others in far different circumstances. Still, he was intrigued by the way she twisted power into a weapon, how easily she could manipulate it without even fully revealing herself. He was no stranger to intrigue, and certainly no stranger to playing his part in a dance of wit and will. But he wasnât just here for the game. "And what do you desire, Jade?" he asked softly, a question that lingered between them, sharp and weighted, as though it might unlock the last secret sheâd been keeping from him. His fingers drifted lower, just a whisper of touch, testing the limits she would set for him. He could already tell: she was no simple woman, and that, more than anything, made her worth pursuing.
Ela had not expected her hands to tremble. But they did. The moment she heard his voiceâlow, familiar, edged with something both fond and sorrowfulâher heart gave a flutter that made her feel as though the years had folded in on themselves. Her eyes lifted slowly from the worn spine of her book, and there he was. Domingo. A gust of wind stirred the leaves above them, casting dappled light across his face. She was glad for it, for it gave her a moment to look at him properly without the whole world seeing the truth in her gaze. He looked older, somehowâmore solid, more distantâbut his presence was still a kind of gravity that pulled her inward. She clutched the book to her chest. âDomâŚâ she whispered, before catching herself. âMr. Alvarado.â Her tone was soft, halting, but it carried warmth beneath its polish, like sunlight through thin curtains. âYouâre not interrupting. Not at all. Iâthis tree never felt quite right without you beneath it.â A small smile ghosted across her lips, full of something wistful. âI think itâs missed you.â
Then, with a gentle shift of her hand, she lifted the book from her lap and held it out just slightly. âIâve been reading aloud again. This oneâs poetryâthough it wanders into philosophy at times. I rather like when poems do that, donât you? When they ask questions no oneâs meant to answer?â Her voice trembled with the eagerness of an old selfâone he would remember. âDo you know the writer? His name is Hartley. Not especially popular, but I find him⌠thoughtful.â She hesitated, lashes fluttering. Her gaze lingered on his face, unsure of how close she could tread without falling through the remnants of what they once were. âI was about to read a passage aloud. Would you⌠would you like me to?â Her words held a nervous tenderness, as though she feared the answer. âJust for a little while. Just as we used to.â Ela tried to still the fluttering in her chest, the ache that came with his nearness. She did not speak of Kensington. She did not speak of rings or promises or what her future had become. In this moment, beneath the cathedral of leaves, she wanted only to borrow a little bit of yesterday. She smoothed the page, her fingers trailing across the lines, and said gently, âIf youâd like, Iâll read it to you. I remember you used to close your eyes when I read⌠like you were listening with your heart instead of your ears.â Her voice faltered at the endânot quite a question. But the hope in it was clear.
Domingo had not expected the sight of her to unravel him. He had rehearsed this moment in his mindâwhat he might say, how he would measure his tone, the exact way he would incline his head to keep the past from spilling through the present. And yet nothing could have braced him for the quiet ache that bloomed at the sound of his name on her lipsâDom, then Mr. Alvarado, like a door opening and shutting all at once. There was no use pretending he did not hear the warmth beneath her formality, or the way her smile wrapped around his ribs and pulled. âIâve missed the tree,â he said finally, voice low, reverent, as though speaking too loudly might break whatever fragile peace theyâd stumbled into. His eyes dropped briefly to the book in her hands, recognizing the familiar curl of her fingers around the spine, the way she always held literature like it might carry her away if she let it. âYou always had a talent for choosing the exact passage the soul didnât know it needed.â His smile was faint, as if he were trying to resist it, but he did not look away. âRead to me, Ela. Just for a little while.â He sat beside her in the dappled hush, legs stretched long, hands clasped loosely over his knee. As her voice rose againâsoft, melodic, stirring something long-buriedâhe let his eyes drift closed, the way they always had. Not out of disinterest, but because with her, listening had never been passive. It was immersion. It was surrender. He didnât need to speak of what had been lost between them. Not yet. In this moment, beneath their old tree and wrapped in the cadence of her voice, he allowed himself to remember that onceâbefore duty, before war, before her absenceâhe had been known. And even now, her voice found the parts of him the world had tried to bury.
