The Reluctant Blessing

Arthur stood on the impossibly manicured lawn, the emerald blades of grass so perfectly uniform they looked like they’d been painted by a particularly meticulous gnome. He smoothed down his tunic, a garment that had seen better days, and possibly a few fewer moths, than Arthur cared to admit. It was a far cry from the shimmering silks and velvets he’d glimpsed through the towering, ornate gates of this… this *estate*. Seraphina’s estate. His Seraphina’s estate. The thought still sent a dizzying swirl through his gut, a mix of wonder and a creeping dread that felt suspiciously like indigestion.

He’d been summoned. Summoned, like a particularly wayward house elf, by a stern-faced butler whose silver uniform gleamed with an almost aggressive polish. The summons had been delivered by a raven, a creature so large it looked like it had been dipped in obsidian and then cross-hatched with pure moonlight. It had perched on his windowsill, croaked a single, imperious word – “Estate.” – and then flown off, leaving Arthur gaping and slightly singed by the sheer aura of importance it exuded.

Now, he was here, standing on the precipice of a world so alien to his own that he half-expected a dragon to swoop down and demand his taxes. He’d spent the last few days in a fog of bewildered apology and heartfelt declarations. Seraphina, bless her earnest little heart, had been a whirlwind of explanations, her eyes wide and earnest as she’d tried to bridge the chasm of her secret life with his own perpetually threadbare one. She’d spoken of her parents, the Duke and Duchess, her voice tinged with a mixture of apprehension and a desperate hope that Arthur might, somehow, understand.