Chapter 147: A Deceitful Embrace.

Chapter 147

The heavy oak doors of the royal bedchambers clicked shut, sealing Crown Princess Maria within the quiet sanctuary of her private chambers. Dismissing her trembling maids with a sharp, imperceptible wave of her hand, she watched them scurry from the room without uttering a single sound.

The moment the latch fell into place, the carefully curated mask of gentle, sorrowful grace shattered entirely. Maria let out a long, strangled shriek of unadulterated fury, her chest heaving as she began to huff and puff, pacing frantically across the plush imported carpets.

Her wide, frantic eyes burned with a volatile mixture of humiliation and blinding rage. "How did this happen?" she whispered fiercely to the empty room, her fingernails digging deep into the soft fabric of her velvet skirts. "Everything was meticulously calculated, every piece moved precisely according to plan! Everything! And yet she... she simply had to step in and ruin it all, exactly as she has always done since we were children!"

A chilling shudder wracked her frame as a sudden, vivid memory forced its way to the surface of her mind. She could still see the piercing, crystalline intensity of Sigrid’s crimson eyes staring down at her in the throne room. For the first time in her life, Maria had felt a paralyzing spike of genuine fear—a terrifying sensation that whispered uncomfortably in the back of her consciousness, suggesting that Sigrid somehow possessed the ability to read her deepest, darkest thoughts as if turning the pages of an open book.

That was what Maria loathed most about her step-sister. Ever since they were small, no matter how profoundly lacking in social standing or favor young Sigrid had appeared, she had never once worn the burden of her insecurity. Sigrid had always looked upon Maria with a quiet, impenetrable disinterest, as though Maria and her petty machinations simply did not matter in the grand scheme of the world. That unwavering indifference had stoked a roaring inferno of resentment within Maria’s heart. No matter how many times Maria had forced herself to wear a sickeningly sweet smile, no matter how many times she had monopolized their father’s attention and affection, Sigrid had never acted as though she cared.

Worse still, Sigrid had always carried herself with the unspoken, infuriating aura of someone inherently superior. Maria knew the bitter, deeply guarded truth that fueled her own relentless ambition despite her mother’s marriage to Duke Vesper, Maria remained fundamentally tied to her commoner blood. In the unspoken hierarchy of the high court, in the cold eyes of Queen Evelyn, Prince Ragnar, and most intolerably of all, Sigrid herself, Maria would always bear the unseen stigma of a commoner’s daughter.

That agonizing realization had driven Maria to orchestrate the grand deception of marrying the Crown Prince, vowing that once she finally ascended the throne as Queen, no one on this earth would ever dare look at her with that cold, dismissive disinterest again. She had determined to show Sigrid the absolute height of her importance. Every detail had been aligned for her triumph, yet Sigrid had brazenly shattered the board once more. To add insult to injury, Sigrid had married the infamous, terrifying Monster of the North, catapulting herself to the very center of the realm’s attention when it was supposed to be Maria’s time to bask in the radiant light of public adoration.

For the first time since their childhood, Maria had actually witnessed a genuine, softening warmth in Sigrid’s demeanor. Throughout their entire lives, Sigrid had never smiled—not with genuine joy. Even when a smirk touched her lips, it had always been dripping with sarcasm, mockery, or cryptic menace. Yet, when Sigrid interacted with Duke Soren—most notably during that fateful, suffocating dinner at the palace prior to the royal wedding—she had actually smiled. She had conversed with the brutal, blood-drenched northern warlord as though he were an ordinary man, completely unbothered by his terrifying reputation, while Maria’s own domestic reality was an unmitigated disaster. She and Ragnar did not even share the same bed, their days consumed by bitter squabbles and mounting resentment. It was never supposed to unfold this way, Maria thought bitterly, hot tears of frustration blurring her vision.

In the prophetic visions of my future, Ragnar and Sigrid never fought; Sigrid had always stood proud and untouchable, revealing not a single fracture of weakness. So why was it not the same for her and Sigrid didn’t even need to fake sweetness and innocence.

"It is not fair!" Maria cried out into the quiet chamber, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned bone-white. Today was meant to mark the absolute destruction of both the Duchess and her savage husband, yet she twisted the narrative and trampled my plans into the dust! Even the way the King looked at her—he has never once looked at me with an ounce of genuine devotion, not even as a daughter in law or a subject.

Maria’s blue eyes burned with a blistering, unholy fury at the sheer, agonizing unfairness of the universe. Every single misfortune, every obstacle, every lingering shadow over her life could be traced directly back to the existence of Duchess Sigrid Aethermor. Restless and consumed by her rage, Maria whirled around the perimeter of the room, her thoughts crystallizing into a dark, unyielding resolution. It matters not. I shall still become Queen; I am legally bound to the future monarch. She and that wretched northern brute will be brought low together, utterly destroyed under the weight of fabricated charges of impending treason. I shall ensure they are eradicated down to the last trace, and once they are gone, I shall finally find peace. No one will ever look at me with disinterest again, and I shall prove to the entire realm that I am vastly superior to Sigrid, social standing be damned.

Before Maria could delve deeper into her murderous daydreams, the heavy mahogany doors of her antechamber swung open with a resounding, violent bang. Crown Prince Ragnar strode into the bedchambers, his face deeply contorted in an ugly mask of wounded pride and incandescent rage. "That insolent fiend!" Ragnar bellowed, slamming his fist against a nearby table. "Does she truly forget herself entirely? Does she not comprehend who I am? I am the Crown Prince, the future King of Arkovia, yet she publicly slanders my name and degrades my authority—all to protect some crude, Monstrous northern bastard of a Duke!"

Maria instantly smoothed her expression, casting aside her solitary rage as she glided gracefully across the room to intercept him. Placing a gentle, soothing hand upon his heaving chest, she adopted her most dulcet, sympathetic tone. "Calm yourself, my love, pray be tranquil. Everything shall be set right in time."

Ragnar shook his head violently, wrenching away from her touch as he paced the length of the room. "No, it will not be fine! Time and time again, that woman treats me with less than a fraction of the respect due to my station as Crown Prince, while she publicly defends him and parades him around Duke Soren, affording him a reverence I have never once received!"

Maria’s brow furrowed slightly in genuine curiosity, a subtle shadow passing over her features as she watched her husband’s explosive reaction. Throughout all their months together, she had occasionally noted Ragnar’s deep-seated bitterness toward the northern commander, but the sheer, visceral venom behind his words felt entirely disproportionate to mere political rivalry. "My love," Maria inquired softly, tilting her head with manufactured innocence, "why do you harbor such profound, consuming hatred for the Duke of the North?"

For a fleeting second, Ragnar’s unbridled anger seemed to stall, a strange, haunted look flashing across his eyes—the weight of a buried agony he refused to articulate. But the flicker vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a cold, hardened malice. "He is a monster," Ragnar spat out, his voice dropping into a harsh, grating whisper laden with a strange, personal dread. "A ruthless butcher utterly undeserving of affection or mercy. He is a plague upon this realm."

Maria’s blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she absorbed the intensity of his hatred, recognizing immediately that it stemmed from something far darker than standard court rivalry. Knowing precisely how to manipulate his fragile ego, she stepped back into his space, letting her voice drip with sympathetic outrage. "You are entirely in the right, my love. Duchess Sigrid has continually humiliated both you and me, dragging the dignity of the crown through the mud. She and her brute of a husband must be dealt with swiftly."

Ragnar stopped pacing, looking down at her with a fierce, approving glint in his eye. "Indeed. They must be crushed."

Maria offered a sweet, encouraging smile, though her mind raced with dark calculation. It was because of her interference that the Queen expressed such displeasure toward you, my dear prince; it is because of her and the Duke that the commoners and scandalous gazettes now look upon us with disappointment. Aloud, she murmured, "This is the absolute most opportune moment to strike while the court is still reelinga and the Duke is still at war." And the beauty of it all, Maria reflected privately with a devilish inward smile, is that I shall use Prince Ragnar as my blunt instrument to obliterate Sigrid, keeping my own hands entirely unsullied.

Ragnar frowned, his momentary bloodlust dampening as reality intruded upon his rage. "Yet... we cannot simply move against an Aethermor without definitive proof of treason; the King remains far too protective of their lineage for some apparent reason."

Maria stepped closer, offering a soft, conspiratorial giggle as she intertwined her fingers with his. "We need not move against her directly, my love. There are far more subtle, devastating ways to ensure the Northern Fortress falls into ruin."

Ragnar smiled slowly, leaning down to press a passionate, possessive kiss against her lips, entirely unaware of the intricate spider’s web being spun around him. "We shall make them pay dearly," Ragnar growled, pulling her close.

As Maria returned his embrace, a cold, calculating satisfaction bloomed in her chest, though a faint note of annoyance lingered in her thoughts: Sigrid had thoroughly consumed the Prince’s fragile mind today, but once the Duchess and her savage Duke were permanently disposed of, Maria would have all the time in the world to slowly, systematically reshape Ragnar’s thoughts entirely around her own desires.