Chapter 82
By the time Draven’s carriage passed through the tall wrought-iron gates of Westmarch Castle, the morning sun had climbed higher in the sky.
He had not returned in months, yet stepping back into the place did little to remind him of the time that had passed. It looked almost exactly as he remembered it, as though the years had moved on everywhere else but left this place untouched. Very little had changed since his childhood.
The thought accompanied him as the carriage had climbed the winding road toward the castle, though he did not allow himself to dwell on it.
There had always been reasons for his absence. Matters in the Caldor demanded his attention, his duty as a statesman and military affairs kept him occupied, and there was rarely a shortage of responsibilities waiting for the Duke.
Yet beneath all those practical excuses lay a far simpler truth. He had grown accustomed to living away from home. After becoming a duke at eighteen following his father’s death, Westmarch had become a place he could hardly bear to face, a wound that had never truly healed. Behind those thick stone walls lived the ghosts of his past, the choices he regretted, and the mistakes he had spent years trying to outrun.
The castle rose above the surrounding countryside, its ancient stone walls catching the afternoon light. It was still an imposing structure even after centuries.
Long before it had become a family residence, the fortress had served as a military stronghold, its thick walls and towers built to withstand threats that had long since passed. The Montagues had preserved it rather than allowing time to consume it, and successive generations had added comforts without destroying the character and charm of the old fortress.
From the carriage window, Draven could see the broad sweep of green surrounding it, the carefully maintained grounds stretching beyond the inner walls toward the distant hills. The sight stirred something familiar in him, something akin to nostalgia but more potent.
A barrage of fond memories swarmed him.
He had spent much of his childhood within those walls.
His father had taught him to ride on the grounds. His mother had once complained that he was forever tracking mud through the corridors after returning from the stables. Eugenia, his younger sister by nearly a decade, had followed him everywhere when they were children, until he had finally threatened to lock her in the library if she did not stop pestering him.
But not all the memories were pleasant, for some of them were of his older brother, Gareth.
The carriage came to a halt before the main entrance.
A footman hurried forward to open the door, but Draven had barely stepped onto the gravel before he saw the two figures waiting at the top of the steps.
His mother stood with one hand resting lightly upon the stone balustrade, while Eugenia hovered beside her.
Lady Octavia Montague had the sort of beauty that was striking and age had only enhanced it. Her dark hair, still remarkably thick, was threaded with silver at the temples, and her deep blue eyes were the same ones Draven saw whenever he looked into a mirror.
Beside her, Eugenia was almost an echo of both her parents. She had inherited her mother’s dark hair while her brown eyes came from her father.
There was enough of her father’s gentler coloring in her features to distinguish her from Octavia, but the resemblance between mother and daughter was still plain for all to see.
The moment Draven reached the steps, Eugenia abandoned whatever calm she had been attempting to maintain.
"Draven!" She called, beaming brightly.
She hurried down the steps and threw her arms around him.
He barely had time to wrap his arms around her before she squeezed him hard enough to make breathing temporarily inconvenient.
"It is good to see you too, Genie." He laughed, embracing her just as tightly.
"It has been ages."
"It has not been that long." He argued, face aching from how wide he was smiling.
"It has." She whined.
They stayed that way for sometime longer before he disentangled himself from her embrace. "You have become terribly dramatic."
"I learned from Mother," she whispered conspiratorially, casting a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure their mother was not within earshot.
From behind them came a soft, offended sound.
Octavia descended the remaining steps with considerably more grace than her daughter had managed.
"Welcome home, darling." The warmth and joy in her voice softened something in him.
Draven stepped forward and embraced his mother, holding her for a moment before pressing a kiss to her cheek. She touched his face briefly when they parted, looking him over with that particular scrutinizing gaze she had perfected over the years.
"You really shouldn’t stay away for so long. This place is unbearably dull without you." She murmured, the corners of her lips lifting when Eugenia gave an indignant squawk.
"How have you been?" Draven asked.
"Better now that you have finally remembered the road home. Genie and I were even planning a trip to Caldor in case you didn’t come back like you said you would."
There was no genuine reprimand in her words; he knew her well enough to hear the affection in her gentle teasing.
Draven offered her his arm. "Then I shall endeavor not to forget again."
"See that you do." She sniffed haughtily.
She slipped her hand through his arm, and together they began walking toward the entrance, with Genie following close behind them.
The moment he stepped farther into the house, a loud bark rang through the entrance hall, followed by the unmistakable sound of paws thudding rapidly across the floor.
Draven barely had time to release his mother before a large, dark shape came barreling toward him.
"Bran!" Draven called excitedly.
He crouched just as the old hound reached him, spreading his arms wide enough to catch the animal as Bran bounded against his chest.