Chapter 148: Unknown Missive [2]

Chapter 148

The heavy silence of the ducal chambers offered a stark contrast to the lingering fury that still hummed beneath Sigrid’s skin. Standing beside her polished mahogany desk, she looked down at the ominous, completely unembossed black envelope resting upon her palm. It bore no wax seal, no heraldic stamp, and not a single line of ink to indicate its origin or intended recipient. Turning it over in her hands, she noted the unusual texture of the parchment—it felt remarkably heavy, woven from fibers far coarser and darker than anything standardly produced within the domestic mills of Arkovia.

She frowned, a deep sense of caution settling over her thoughts as she prepared to slide her finger beneath the folded flap to break the seal.

Before she could open the envelope, a sharp, polite knock sounded upon her chamber door. "Milady?" Lilith’s voice called softly from the corridor. "You have a visitor waiting downstairs in the receiving parlor."

Sigrid paused, lowering the black letter back onto the desk. "Who has arrived at this hour, Lilith?" she called out, striding toward the door and pulling it open.

"It is Lady Beatrice, Your Grace," Lilith replied with a slight, knowing tilt of her head.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Sigrid tucked the mysterious black envelope into the pocket of her crimson overcoat and descended the sweeping stone staircase. Stepping into the warmly lit parlor, she found Lady Beatrice pacing near the hearth. The moment Beatrice spotted her, a radiant smile bloomed across her face, and she rushed forward, throwing her arms around Sigrid in an affectionate embrace. "Sigrid, my dearest friend!" Beatrice greeted warmly.

Sigrid returned the hug with a genuine, softening smile, pulling back to study her visitor. "Beatrice, what brings you all the way to the Northern Fortress on such a bitter evening?"

Beatrice beamed, stepping back to adjust her cloak. "The capital is practically vibrating with energy! You would not believe the sheer chaos echoing through the upper districts."

Sigrid raised an eyebrow, gesturing for her to take a seat upon the velvet settee as she joined her. "What do you mean?"

Beatrice’s eyes danced with excitement as she produced four distinct newspapers and political gazettes from her embroidered handbag, spreading them across the table. "I mean that your public apology —or what the common gazettes are boldly calling a brilliant masterclass in political defense—has set the entire city ablaze! The way you dismantled the Crown’s accusations has every noble household in the capital praising your absolute prowess, though, naturally, quite a few are seething with resentment."

A cool, razor-thin smirk touched Sigrid’s lips. "Oh, really? And who might those disgruntled souls be?"

Beatrice tapped her chin thoughtfully. "The entire traditionalist faction, of course—those rigid traditionalists who still revere the royal family as though they were walking gods."

At the mention of them, a fleeting, heavy thought drifted through Sigrid’s mind. The god... or whatever higher entity permitted me to be pulled back across the threshold of time prior to my execution—they have remained deafeningly silent ever since the first few weeks of my rebirth. She briefly wondered why the architect of her second chance had never offered a sign, but she quickly snapped herself out of the introspective thought, refocusing entirely on the present. "Pay them no mind, Beatrice," Sigrid dismissed smoothly. "I care little for the whispers of fools."

Beatrice leaned closer, her expression suddenly turning grave as she reached out to gently clasp Sigrid’s hands between her own. "Do be exceedingly careful, nonetheless, Sigrid. The Queen is utterly infamous for her boundless pride, and she must be positively livid over the humiliation the gazettes are broadcasting across the realm. If you ever require shadow assets or capital intelligence or just help, do not hesitate to reach out to me."

Sigrid looked down at their joined hands, a wave of profound appreciation washing over her. "You truly carry yourself with the absolute loyalty of a devoted friend, Beatrice."

Beatrice blinked in genuine confusion, pulling back slightly with a puzzled frown. "I know not what strange phrasing you are using, Sigrid. I am already your friend—and I shall forever cherish being so."

A rare, soft laugh escaped Sigrid’s lips. "Thank you, Beatrice. Truly."

Beatrice beamed brightly, her brief confusion vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. She opened her mouth to speak, but her gaze suddenly dropped downward, locking onto the corner of the heavy black envelope protruding slightly from the pocket of Sigrid’s coat. "What is that?" Beatrice asked, pointing a gloved finger toward the parchment.

Sigrid pulled the mysterious letter out, turning it over in the light. "It was handed to me by Chester the moment I arrived back from the capital. It bears no name, no seal, and no return address."

Beatrice’s eyes widened with sudden, sharp recognition. "Wait... let me see that." Sigrid handed the envelope over without hesitation. Beatrice traced her fingers across the dark, textured grain of the paper, her features tightening. "I am certain of it. This specific type of dark, heavy-pressed parchment... it is manufactured exclusively within the distant kingdom of Noravelle."

Sigrid’s eyes widened in sudden, ecstatic surprise. "Are you absolutely certain of your assessment, Beatrice?"

"Positive," Beatrice insisted, rising from her seat. "Come with me; we must verify it."

Puzzled by her sudden urgency, Sigrid followed as Beatrice practically sprinted down the familiar corridors toward the fortress’s grand ancestral library, with Lilith trailing close behind. Reaching the towering spires of mahogany bookshelves, Beatrice scanned the rows with practiced precision until she declared, "Ah-ha!"

Snatching a thick, leather-bound volume from the shelf, she flipped open the old pages.

"When I was a young girl—and even now—I harbored an intense fascination with foreign lands and distant borders and what they each had to offer, jewelry for example," Beatrice explained rapidly, flipping through the maps and historical registries. "Out of all the neighboring realms, Noravelle always captivated my mind the most because it is a vastly more advanced, diverse, and out of the ordinary kingdom. I read every available manuscript concerning their customs." She pointed triumphantly to a detailed page, thrusting the book into Sigrid’s hands.

Sigrid looked down at the illuminated text. The passage explicitly detailed that jet-black, heavy-pressed envelopes of this exact grain were forged solely within the industrial and academic guilds of Noravelle, utilized almost exclusively among their highest-ranking nobility and the royal inner circle.

Sigrid let out a slow, heavy breath, dropping her hand to her side. "You were entirely correct, Beatrice."

Beatrice puffed out her chest with justifiable pride, while Sigrid stared at the dark parchment with a swirling whirlpool of turbulent thoughts.

Too many disparate threads were violently tangling themselves around the name of Noravelle. First, she had discovered that her late mother possessed goods and artifacts originating directly from that distant northern kingdom; subsequently, she had uncovered that her maternal grandmother hailed from Noravelle, which satisfactorily explained her mother’s deep-rooted ties to the foreign land. But now, receiving an anonymous, foreign-crafted missive bearing no seal within the secure confines of the Arkovian capital transcended the realm of mere coincidence. It was becoming glaringly apparent that this mysterious correspondence might hold the ultimate key to unlocking the buried truths of her mother’s past.

With a steady, deliberate motion, Sigrid slid her thumb beneath the folded edge and tore the black paper open, pulling out the single sheet of parchment housed within. Her crimson eyes locked onto the sparse lines of ink, and her breath hitched in absolute astonishment as she read the brief, chilling message:

Dear Sigrid,

I will come after you.

The note ended there, completely abrupt, devoid of any signature, demand, or explanation. Sigrid stared at the jagged handwriting, a profound wave of irritation and deep puzzlement washing over her. "Who is the absolute lunatic that penned such a thoroughly useless, melodramatic threat?" she muttered aloud, letting out a sharp breath of disbelief.

Deciding that immediate investigation was paramount, she straightened her posture. "I shall dispatch a swift messenger to the Marquess’s estate at first light; Caspian’s intelligence network must investigate the origin of this dispatch."

Beatrice shook her head, offering a sympathetic grimace. "You cannot reach the Marquess at the moment, Sigrid. He departed the capital early this morning on urgent, confidential estate business."

Sigrid paused, a sudden spark of sharp suspicion flaring within her crimson eyes as she narrowed her gaze at her friend. "Oh? And pray tell, how is it that you are so intimately acquainted with the Marquess’s personal schedule, Beatrice?"

Beatrice’s cheeks instantly flushed a brilliant, undeniable crimson. She stammered slightly, averting her eyes. "W-well... he happened to mention it in passing when we spoke at the jewelry quarter!" Beatrice suddenly giggled, clapping her hands together to change the subject with transparent desperation. "In any case, I have far too much exciting gossip to share with you! I have already instructed my personal maid to retrieve my traveling trunks—you and I are having a proper, uninterrupted sleepover tonight, Your Grace!"

Before Sigrid could interject or voice her lingering suspicions regarding Beatrice’s sudden fluency in Caspian’s whereabouts, the cheerful noblewoman grabbed her arm, dragging her away from the towering bookshelves as they swept out of the library together, leaving the ominous Noravelle letter resting quietly upon the wooden table behind them.