Chapter 142: The Worries Of A Duchess.

Chapter 142

Leo raised an eyebrow. "Of course Duchess."

"Do you possess any insight regarding the Silver Mantle?" Sigrid’s crimson eyes narrowed sharply, her attention focused entirely on leo her scribe. "What do you know of them, Leo?"

The boy swallowed nervously. "Only that they are whispered of among underground circles, Your Grace. They are not a publicly registered guild, but rather Arkovia’s most lethal and exclusive mercenary collective—mercenaries who accept contracts exclusively from immensely wealthy patrons and noble houses seeking absolute discretion."

Sigrid hummed thoughtfully, recognizing the confirmation of Alistair’s confession. "You are remarkably well-informed of matters that are supposed to be secret."

Leo offered a sheepish, knowing smirk. "A proper scribe must always keep his ears open to the secrets of the world even unconventional places."

Sigrid gently patted the top of his head. "See that your secrets do not attract the wrong sort of gallows, boy." Leo nodded quickly and departed, closing the heavy door behind him.

Almost immediately, a second knock echoed through the study, and Nyla ushered in a travel-worn imperial messenger accompanied by Lilith. The courier bowed low and presented a thick, heavily sealed envelope bearing the unmistakable wax crest of the Northern Army.

Sigrid could not prevent the traitorous, brilliant smile that bloomed across her face as she broke the seal, unfolding the heavy parchment to reveal Soren’s familiar, uncompromising handwriting. She devoured every line detailing the grim realities of the southern campaign, the grueling engagements, and his unwavering tactical focus. When she finished, a warm, tender feeling blossomed in her chest. Pulling a clean sheet of parchment toward her, she began drafting a comprehensive reply—recounting the upcoming public royal apology mandated in two days, the political hurdles overcome in championing Caspian’s Chancellorship, and the dark webs uncovered within the palace walls. True to her private ritual, she pressed the edge of the parchment lightly against her lips, leaving a distinct, elegant crimson stain of lip-stain upon the lower corner before sealing it. She handed the missive back to the waiting courier, who bowed deeply and vanished into the night.

Turning back to her desk, Sigrid spent the next hour reviewing historical ledgers of former Supreme Ministers, drafting policies, and thinking her next offensive against Viscount Edric and Marquess Tristan. She considered writing directly to Marquess Caspian to summon him to the fortress for a strategy session regarding Professor Alistair’s confession, but quickly scrapped the notion. No, she decided, her eyes flashing coldly. I shall ride directly to his estate tomorrow; some matters require personal, unwritten coordination.

Restless energy still humming through her veins, she rose from her chair and began pacing the length of her chamber. Lilith, observing her mistress’s uncharacteristic agitation from the corner of the room, stepped forward with quiet concern. "Forgive my presumption, Your Grace," Lilith ventured softly, "but you appear profoundly distressed. Does this anxiety pertain to the Crown’s mandated public apology two days hence?"

Sigrid let out a dry, dismissive scoff, though her fingers tightened slightly into the fabric of her sleeves. "What could possibly make you imagine I am harboring anxiety, Lilith?"

Lilith met her gaze unflinchingly. "I have served you long enough to recognize the signs, my lady. I can sense it."

Sigrid stared at her head maid in mild astonishment before letting out a soft, defeated sigh. "I suppose I have grown far too unguarded in your presence, forgetting to maintain my emotional armor."

Lilith offered a gentle, reassuring smile. "You are merely human beneath the titles, Duchess. But tell me—what troubles you so?"

Sigrid turned toward the frosted window, her voice dropping to a low, troubled register. "I am troubled by the Crown’s absolute, deafening silence—particularly Queen Evelyn. A wounded viper does not curl up in quiet submission; it waits for the moment to strike."

Lilith frowned deeply. "Do you suspect an ambush or a trap during the public apology?"

"I am certain of it," Sigrid murmured grimly.

For a long moment, silence stretched across the room. Sigrid retreated inward, her thoughts plummeting into the dark, haunting abyss of her previous life. I am acting the fool, she castigated herself bitterly within the sanctuary of her mind. In my past life, I wasted precious years consumed by trivial anxieties—worrying over whether Queen Evelyn approved of me, agonizing over Ragnar’s fading affections, terrified that I would lose my crown and die in disgrace until that nightmare became a reality and I was executed by the man I once loved or so I thought. Even after my rebirth, armed with foresight, tactical brilliance, and the power of the Sight, I find myself still shackled by fear. I worry for Soren upon the blood-soaked southern front; I worry that Caspian’s Chancellorship might slip through our fingers; I worry that my grand designs will be shattered by some petty court conspiracy. Above all, I harbor the paralyzing terror that my worst nightmares will repeat themselves—that despite all my striving, I shall fail to protect what is mine and be dragged down into ruin once again.

So deep was her introspection that she entirely failed to notice Lilith stepping closer, calling her name repeatedly until the maid raised her voice with urgent affection. "Your Grace! Duchess Sigrid!"

Sigrid blinked hard, snapping out of her dark trance as she focused her crimson eyes upon her servant. "Are you well, my lady?" Lilith asked, her tone filled with genuine worry.

Sigrid offered a tired, fragile smile. "Yes... I am merely reflecting."

Lilith studied her expression thoughtfully before speaking with quiet insight. "So that is the true core of it. The reason you project such an impenetrable, overconfident armor to the world... you worry relentlessly, yet you mask it entirely with absolute audacity, willing your desires into reality as though sheer force of will can rewrite fate."

Sigrid opened her mouth to issue a sharp denial, but the words died in her throat. Her crimson eyes widened slightly as she recognized the undeniable truth in Lilith’s observation. She is entirely correct, Sigrid admitted silently, a heavy weight lifting from her chest. That is the primary catalyst driving my ambition for the Supreme Ministry. It is not merely a lust for political dominance or a petty desire to punish Maria and Ragnar. It is the absolute necessity for administrative supremacy—power so absolute that no royal decree, no hidden conspiracy, and no capricious monarch can ever reduce me to a helpless victim again and so she can help Soren.

A soft, genuine laugh escaped Sigrid’s lips—a sound devoid of sarcasm or cold calculation. "You see right through me, Lilith. In the end, my grand crusade to become Supreme Minister is entirely selfish. I seek supreme power to protect myself and my own."

Lilith smiled warmly, stepping forward to adjust the collar of Sigrid’s tunic. "There is no shame in selfishness when the world has taught you to survive, Your Grace. Nor is there any dishonor in carrying fear, so long as you do not let it command your sword."

Sigrid looked into her head maid’s loyal, unwavering eyes, a profound sense of gratitude washing over her. "Thank you, Lilith."

Lilith offered a cocky, affectionate smirk. "Is it not written in the unstated duties of a head maid to keep her master from losing her mind?" Both women shared a quiet, grounding smile as the shadows of the northern night closed in around the fortress, preparing them for the coming storm.