Under the Oak Tree - Riftan's POV - Multiverse

Chapter 40: The Proposal

With the first snows of Paxias drifting across Anatol, Riftan knew the time had come. His castle walls still rose jagged and incomplete, but his coffers didn't longer stretched thin. Waiting any longer would only risk losing her. An engagement could drag on for a year or more, and by then his keep would be steadied. He needed to stake his claim now—before someone else dared to.

He gathered six of his most trusted men for the journey to Croix Castle. Before departing, he made arrangements for his stepfather and his family, assuring himself they would live safely within Anatol's walls under his care. A modest house was prepared for them, close to the castle grounds, where they could live comfortable without overworking themselves. Riftan promised his half-siblings would be treated as kin, his word carrying the weight of iron.

Carriages and horses stood ready by dawn, breath of men and beasts mingling in the frosty air. Yet Riftan had only one destination in his mind: Maximilian.

The moment he saw her that morning, all resolve faltered. He swept her into his arms as if it had been months, not a fortnight, since last he held her. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent like a starving man.

"I've asked your father for an audience," he murmured against her temple, his voice low, taut with barely leashed nerves. "Tomorrow morning. I will speak to him."

She pulled back, her eyes wide. At first her face blanched, lips parting with dread. But slowly, excitement flickered in her gaze, burning brighter than fear. She clutched at his tunic, her voice trembling.

"Y-you... y-you truly mean to...?"

Riftan cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin. "I will not hide it any longer. You'll be mine, Maxi. No one else's."

Her breath hitched, tears springing to her eyes, and Riftan sealed her mouth with a kiss that was both promise and farewell. When he left her chamber, he told her quietly, "Tomorrow, I'll return. Tomorrow, everything changes."

That afternoon, he sought out his stepfather, who stood with his wife and children, their meager belongings already packed. The older man's weathered face softened as Riftan approached, but the knight kept his tone brisk, firm, explaining where they would live, how they would be provided for, what safety they could expect under his roof. It was more than he had ever been given in his youth, and Riftan felt a grim satisfaction in offering it now. When they departed, he clasped his stepfather's shoulder and vowed, "I'll catch up with you soon. Anatol will be your home."

That night, sleep eluded him. He lay awake staring at the ceiling of his chamber, his heart pounding with both dread and anticipation. Every word he meant to say to the Duke churned in his mind, none seeming strong enough. By dawn, his jaw was set, his decision carved in stone.

The Duke of Croix received him in his study, reclining with a glass of wine in hand, his eyes glinting like cold steel. Riftan stood before him, shoulders squared, though his chest burned with nerves.

"What is it?" the Duke asked curtly, suspicion sharpening his tone.

"...I have a personal request to ask of you, Your Grace," Riftan said. His voice was steady, though his throat felt parched.

Croix's brows furrowed, his lip curling faintly. "Tell me."

The words lodged in Riftan's throat. He had faced monsters, kings, and endless battlefields, but never had he felt such weight pressing against his chest. Finally, he forced the words out, each one like a blade drawn.

"I would like to dedicate my geth to your eldest daughter," Riftan said at last, his voice low but unwavering. "I would like to ask her hand in marriage."

For a moment, silence pressed against the chamber like a vice. The Duke's eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed into slits of fury. His grip tightened around the stem of his goblet until the crystal creaked.

"...Do you realize what you are saying?" Croix's voice was a snarl. "You, who crawled out of filth, dare to speak my daughter's name in such a request?"

Riftan's shoulders squared, though his chest thundered with heat. "A knight may speak his geth but once in his lifetime. I offer mine to her. My intent is clear and honorable. I want to married her"

Croix barked a sharp, bitter laugh ... "Honor," Croix went on lazily, swirling his wine, "can only be passed down through generations. You are no noble. Just because you can swing a sword does not mean you carry honor. It cannot be bought, nor gifted overnight. What I see is ambition. You seek to claw your way up from the gutter on my daughter's back. Do not insult me by pretending this is honor. This is greed."

"That is not—" Riftan began, but the Duke slammed his goblet down on the table, cutting him off.

"You are trash who stumbled into knighthood by the King's whim! Nothing more than a mongrel trained to bare his teeth when commanded. And now you think to bind yourself to the Croix line?" His lip curled in disgust. "I have already a suitor in mind—young Sir Kuehl, a man of blood and breeding. He alone is worthy of her hand. Not you."

The words struck harder than steel. Riftan's fists clenched at his sides, his nails biting into flesh. His breath came hard and hot, the urge to draw his sword clawing at his restraint.

"I am a knight consecrated before the church, granted title by Whedon's crown," he ground out through gritted teeth. "You will not call me unworthy."

Croix sneered, his voice dripping venom. "Your title is borrowed honor, nothing more. You think yourself a knight? To me, you will always be the bastard son of a harlot. My daughter will never be yours. Not while I draw breath."

The silence that followed was deafening. Riftan's vision blurred with the force of his rage, his whole body trembling. For a heartbeat, he thought he might strike the Duke down where he sat. Instead, with a rigid bow born of sheer will, he turned sharply and stormed from the chamber.

He descended the staircase like a man burning alive. But midway down, he stopped dead.

At the base of the stairs stood Maximilian. She froze as their eyes locked, her face pale, her lips parted as if she had heard every word. Pain and confusion shadowed her gaze, but not fear of him. Her hand twitched upward—hesitant, trembling—longing to reach for him.

But the corridor was full of eyes. Servants lingered at the corners, knights stood watch, and the weight of her father's wrath hung thick in the air. Her hand faltered, falling back to her side, her whole body rigid with restraint.

Riftan's chest constricted. He longed to go to her, to tear her away, to take her into his arms and shield her from it all. But humiliation chained his limbs. His jaw locked, his heart crumbling under the force of her nearness.

Without a word, he moved past her, every step heavier than the last.

He felt like a beggar cast into the street, humiliated and empty-handed—his soul left in ruins at her feet.