Chapter 24: Whom Ragnar despised.

Chapter 24

The smooth, sycophantic resonance of Prince Ragnar’s voice struck Sigrid like a physical blow, freezing the blood in her veins before it began to burn with a resurrected, ancient fire. She turned fully to face him, the motion slow and deliberate, a sovereign grace masking the absolute torrent of hatred that threatened to split her composure apart.

In that singular instant, as her crimson eyes locked onto his golden, practiced smile, the floodgates of her past life burst open, and memories she had violently repressed came rushing back with the force of a physical execution. The grand ballroom seemed to recede into a suffocating blur as fragments of the forgotten timeline assaulted her mind: the memory of her younger self dancing with Ragnar beneath these very same chandeliers, her heart fluttering with a naive, foolish triumph when he had chosen her to be his wife. She remembered the blinding arrogance of that girl, a girl who truly believed she had claimed the ultimate Treasure trove, a royal savior who would allow her to leave the neglect of House Beaufort behind and ascend to the highest seat in the realm.

She had been so blindingly ignorant of the pristine, gilded hell that awaited her beyond the threshold of the imperial palace. The memories shifted rapidly, turning darker and heavier, dripping with the cold reality of her married life—the endless, hollow nights spent waiting in a bedchamber that felt more like a tomb, the never-ending stream of quiet degradations whispered by a court that took its cues from her husband’s absolute indifference. Ragnar had masked his cruelty in polished neglect, leaving her to drown in isolation while he dismantled her dignity piece by piece.

Yet the deepest, most poisonous dagger in her recollections was not his coldness, but his ultimate betrayal: the sight of Ragnar colluding in the shadows with her stepsister, Maria, to orchestrate her final downfall and Allowing her into his bed. The prince had willingly, eagerly chosen another woman over his own wedded wife, casting Sigrid aside like refuse to elevate a puppet more suited to his manufactured virtues.

The overwhelming weight of the disgust nearly choked her, but Sigrid forced the trauma down into the deepest recesses of her soul, converting the agony into a weapon of pure, unadulterated malice. A crooked, deceptively beautiful smirk touched her lips as she gathered the heavy folds of her crimson gown, lowering herself into a flawless, calculated curtsy that captured the undivided attention of the surrounding nobility.

She could feel his predatory eyes tracking the smooth curve of her neck, a hunter admiring a rare beast, completely unaware that the beast had already tasted his blood. "May the heavens grant Your Imperial Highness an eternal reign." Sigrid murmured, her voice a melodious chime that carried just enough courtly reverence to satisfy the onlookers while dripping with a hidden, lethal irony.

When she rose from her curtsy, Ragnar was still smiling, his gaze bright with the thrill of a pursuit he believed he was destined to win. He extended a gloved hand toward her once more, his posture the absolute epitome of imperial gallantry. "Will you bestow upon me the honor of your hand, Lady Sigrid, and allow me to escort you to the floor?" he requested, the smooth cadence of his voice perfectly matching the fake, benevolent facade she had so tragically fallen for in her youth.

Sigrid stared at his outstretched palm, and for a fleeting, dangerous fraction of a second, her original plot tempted her. She had entered this ballroom intending to ensnare him again, to marry him, to ruin his reputation from the interior of the palace, and ultimately to end his wretched existence with her own two hands. But as she looked past his shoulder and caught sight of Maria’s pale, trembling form, a grander, far more devastating realization took root in her mind.

To bind herself to Ragnar again would be an unnecessary risk, and worse, a swift assassination would leave Maria largely untouched by the true depth of the misery she deserved. Sigrid’s gaze hardened into absolute ice as she deliberately stepped backward, letting her hand remain firmly at her side as she turned her back on the heir to the throne. "The court must find its entertainment elsewhere tonight, Your Imperial Highness," she stated with an elegant, detached finality, pivoting on her heel to walk directly into the dense, parting crowd.

As she navigated the sea of whispering lords and ladies, her internal monologue chanted a new, wicked creed. She wanted everyone who had a hand in her execution to taste the slow, agonizing poison of ruin. Her strategy had to evolve; she would not bind herself to the monster a second time. Instead, she would let Maria have him. She would allow her stepsister to achieve her grand ambition, to marry the Crown Prince, and to discover firsthand the hollow, abusive nightmare that lay beneath his golden exterior.

Sigrid intended to make Ragnar yearn for the one woman he could never possess, forcing him to taste the bitter rejection he had once inflicted upon her. She would become his obsession, an unattainable phantom, while her parents deluded themselves into believing she was casting herself out of social favor. In reality, she was moving toward a far more terrifying alliance. Her steps led her deeper into the dim, aristocratic periphery of the grand hall, away from the glittering center, toward the specific individual she had been hunting since the moment she crossed the threshold. She sought the man whom Ragnar despised above all others—the lord who had brought the empire to its knees through rebellion, and the very shadow behind the fabricated letters that had condemned her to the Chopping board.

Prince Ragnar followed her through the crowd like a duck enchanted by a dangerous lure, his golden composure fracturing into a tight, frustrated frown as he witnessed a mere daughter of a Duke dismiss his royal advance.

The court held its collective breath, trailing the bizarre procession until Sigrid finally halted before a secluded, candlelit alcove where a lone figure sat, draped in dark, severe fabrics that stood out like a stain against the palace luxury. Sigrid did not hesitate; she stepped directly into his space and offered a low, mesmerizing curtsy, her crimson eyes locking onto the man before her. "Would Duke Aethermor bestow upon me the honor of the first dance?" she asked, her voice ringing clearly across the quieted perimeter.

A collective gasp of genuine terror rippled through the grand ballroom, the music faltering as the high society of Arkovia realized the sheer gravity of what the eldest Beaufort daughter had just done. Ragnar froze several paces behind her, his handsome face twisting into a mask of shock and unbridled anger at the public insult of being passed over for a notorious traitor.

Across the floor, Maria’s eyes fixed upon them in paralyzed shock, her carefully constructed understanding of the timeline completely shattered by this monstrous deviation.

Yet Sigrid paid no attention to the prince or her fractured family; her entire world narrowed to the formidable man rising from the shadows before her. Duke Soren Aethermor, the singular, untamable force whom she could never truly leash during her brief, disastrous reign as queen, stood to his full, imposing height. His striking blue eyes shone like frozen stars beneath the artificial light of the palace, never leaving her face for a single second, recognizing the sudden, dangerous storm that had just walked into his grasp.

Sigrid looked directly into those piercing blue depths, finding an unspoken, volatile understanding reflecting back at her. This was the man who had once sought the complete and utter ruin of the imperial crown, a ruthless warlord who had commanded armies in defiance of the throne and whose very name sent tremors of fear through the weak-willed courtiers of Arkovia.

In her past life, she had viewed him as an unpredictable threat, an enemy to be managed and feared, but now, with the clarity of a woman resurrected from the ashes of betrayal, she saw him for what he truly was: the perfect anvil upon which she would forge her vengeance. By aligning herself with the throne’s greatest adversary, she would not only completely dismantle Ragnar’s fragile sense of security, but she would also ensure that every single person who had contributed to her suffering—from her treacherous family to the deceitful prince—would watch in helpless horror as their world was torn apart from the roots up.