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C irrus sat on the frozen shore, his fingers sifting through smooth pebbles before hurling them into the restless waves. The cold bit through his coat, but he welcomed it. Anything was better than the heat of the rainforest, the choking vines, the scent of everburn and blood. Wait.

The realization struck hard, sending his pulse racing. The misty shoreline, the sky-high cliffs, the estate perched behind him—this was Roanthe. Home. How the hell am I here?

He turned, and there she was—his mother, draped in a heavy woolen shawl, her pale hair fluttering in the salty wind. She walked toward him with a measured grace, her turquoise eyes full of concern and something sharper. Pity.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she said, settling beside him on the frigid sand.

Of course, she did. This was his place. The stretch of beach he retreated to when the world had gone to the everdark. The northeastern coast of Roanthe was never warm, never inviting. The skies were always gray, the water an unyielding slate of steel. People didn’t come here to swim or picnic. They came here to wallow.

His mother smoothed her white-blonde hair over her shoulder, studying him the way she always did, like he was a puzzle she hadn’t quite solved. “I’m sorry about Vivienne.”

Cirrus’ heart slammed against his ribs as his hands balled into fists.

“Has something happened to her?” he demanded, adrenaline pulsing through his body.

She let out a tired sigh, brushing a comforting hand over his arm. “Still in denial, I see.”

“Denial about what?” His breath came faster, his gut twisting. “Is she okay?”

“I’m sure she’s fine after stomping all over my baby boy’s heart for the second time.”

The second time? Cirrus’ thoughts raced. If breaking off our engagement was the first time… Did she leave me again?

He forced himself to swallow, his throat dry. “A second time?”

His mother gave him a look, her lips pursed in delicate disapproval. “Have you been out in the cold too long? That heartless harpy ended your second engagement. At least she returned the ring. Grandmamie would have caused a scene.”

We got engaged again. And she ended it.

His stomach twisted into the recognizable knots of rejection and heartbreak. He tried to summon the memory, but there was nothing.

“Don’t call her a harpy,” he chided in a sharper tone than he’d intended. “When did this happen?”

“You don’t remember?” Panic flickered in her eyes, her posture tightening. “You finished that dreadful journey to all those islands and decided to settle here,” she continued, watching him with concern. “We planned a gorgeous winter wedding near the cliffs of Beaumontis. King Balthasar even offered the castle’s ballroom for the reception.”

He narrowed his eyes. Since when do the Theodosias have a connection to Roanthe’s ruler?

“You and Vivienne were always arguing.” She shook her head. “Fighting, making up, fighting again.”

Cirrus let out a breathless, fond chuckle. Sounds like my Banns.

Her voice turned colder than the wind. “Two weeks before the wedding, she vanished in the dead of night. Left you a note and the ring.”

He took a pained inhale, and his lungs suddenly felt too small. Sounds like my Banns. His fingers curled into the icy sand. She really left again?

“She didn’t even have the decency to speak with you first,” she continued, her voice laced with quiet fury.

Cirrus stared at the waves, his pulse a riot in his veins. It made sense. Of course, she ran. Vivienne sprinted toward adventure, but she bolted from conversations about feelings, about permanence.

“Do you think it’s too late?” His voice was quiet, raw.

His mother stiffened. “Cirrus Cornelius Theodosia.”

Shit. Full name.

“You have laid yourself bare for this woman for years.” Disapproval dripped from every syllable. “Stop torturing yourself.”

She gripped his shoulder, gentle but firm. “You’ve spent enough time on your little ships and chasing after her. It’s time to come home for good.”

And there it is. The conversation they always arrived at, no matter how far he ran from it. From the moment he was born, his fate was decided. Lord of Claringbold. A title, an estate. A life he never wanted.

He gritted his teeth. “Mother, we’ve been over this. I have no interest in being a lord. Give the title to Cecile or Adalie?—”

“Your younger sisters?” her voice sharpened. “No, Cirrus. The Lordship is yours by birth order and by right.”

By duty. His jaw tensed, but he said nothing. There’s no point in saying anything.

Cirrus stood abruptly, shaking off the shackles of the conversation, of his family’s expectations. There was only one place she wouldn’t follow, one place where the cold could drown out all of the noise and all of the emotions he didn’t want to feel.

Without another word, he sprinted toward the water, diving into the glacial waves.