The servants said the marriage made sense on paper and nothing about the man inside silk. In the north wing of House Castaneda, where tapestries wore the salt of years and the lamps were gilded like small suns, gossip moved through corridors faster than the winter wind. Footmen lingered by stairwells with steaming mugs, a maid unfolded a perfumed sheet as if it were news, and an old valet had the cheek to clap his hands at midnight like a priestless blessing. They called it a necessary union. They called it a mercy. No one asked Mason Davies where mercy left him. He sat very still beneath a red veil the color of an old bruise. The veil smelled of camphor and orange oil; the silk scraped his cheek with a hundred whispered seconds. He’d rehearsed a thousand polite expressions for this night—stoic, grateful, dutiful—but rehearsals don’t stop the pulse in your throat when the bed settles and the house goes quiet. Beside him a body was pale as poured milk, wrapped in the Castaneda linens that cost more than half a village. A smile—maybe pretend, maybe habit—tucked at the man's mouth. His brow was too thin; the bridge of his nose sat fragile as bone. Mason could see the faint tremor in the fingers that rested at his hip. The servants had said "fragile heir" and "delicate constitution" like that excused a house from caring for its own. The Royal Medical Guild