Chapter 25: Tragic imbecile.

Chapter 25

The sharp, collective inhalation of a thousand horrified nobles rippled through the grand imperial ballroom, a wave of sheer terror that crashed against the polished marble walls and caused the court musicians to completely falter upon their strings.

In the complex, tradition-bound high society of Arkovia, it was an unwritten decree that a gentleman of high standing must initiate the first dance as a profound declaration of interest, signaling to the court that a formal alliance or courtship was about to be forged between powerful houses. For a lady to boldly bypass the crown prince, cross the floor, and demand the first dance from a man herself was an act nothing short of a scandalous abomination, a flagrant defiance of noble decorum that bordered on social suicide.

Yet Sigrid and Duke Soren Aethermor remained utterly frozen in their shared space, their locked gazes refusing to break despite the heavy, suffocating atmosphere that descended upon the imperial hall. The whispers around them mutated into a tense, frightened silence, but before the Duke could offer his reply, a raspy, infuriated growl cutting through the periphery drew everyone’s attention back to the royal presence.

Prince Ragnar moved forward with stiff, aggressive strides, his flawless, golden countenance entirely replaced by a mask of unbridled, aristocratic rage as he marched directly toward the alcove. "How dare you," the prince hissed, his regal voice shaking with a lethal mixture of wounded pride and genuine disbelief at the sheer insolence of a mere duke’s daughter publicly casting him aside. He halted mere inches from Sigrid, his burning gaze drilling into her silver hair as he continued to vent his frustration before the gathered high society. "How dare you ignore my imperial invitation, turning your back upon the crown itself, only to grovel and request a waltz from this wretched outcast?"

A flicker of genuine confusion temporarily pierced through Sigrid’s internal malice; she knew in the future like her last life, Duke Soren would emerge as a devastating, unpredictable wild card who would lead armies against the capital. Yet as she stared at the trembling prince and then glanced back at Soren, she realized she had paid far too little attention to the political undercurrents of the high court during her brief, disastrous past life as a duchess’s daughter, having entirely forgotten or ignored whatever scandalous history had currently labeled the powerful warlord an outcast.

Duke Soren, however, remained entirely unbothered by the royal insult, standing in absolute, majestic stillness as if the heir to the throne were nothing more than a buzzing insect interrupting his evening. Sigrid swiftly recovered her sharp composure, tilting her head with a chilling, elegant disdain that matched the elevated dialogue of the grand court. "And what business is it of yours, Your Imperial Highness, with whom I choose to share the opening measure of the evening?" she countered smoothly, her tone devoid of any courtly fear.

Ragnar’s face flushed a dangerous, violent crimson, his hands clenching into tight fists beneath his white silk gloves as her defiance pushed him to the brink of public humiliation. "You deliberately disregarded my extended hand," he snarled, to which Sigrid merely offered a soft, mocking laugh that echoed gracefully across the silent hall. "I merely stated that I could not fulfill your particular request at this moment, Your Highness. Pray, tell me, is it a binding imperial edict that every lady in Arkovia must abandon her free will the moment you deign to glance in her direction? You cannot wage a war of anger against me simply because I possess the right to choose my own partner, and tonight, my choice rests solely upon Duke Soren."

Turning her back on the furious prince once more, Sigrid offered the silent warlord a brilliant, calculated smile, her crimson eyes flashing with an implicit invitation. "What say you, Duke Aethermor? Shall we grant this desperate assembly something truly spectacular to whisper about, or shall you deny me this dance?"

Just as the formidable duke parted his lips to deliver his response, another voice broke through the tension—this one lacking any shred of aristocratic dignity, vibrating with a nervous, trembling cadence that made Sigrid internally groan with profound frustration.

She turned her head toward the interruption and found a man of remarkably short stature scurrying toward them, his posture slouched, his formal garments unkept and smelling faintly of stale sweat, and his weird, shifting eyes betraying a profound lack of confidence. Sigrid frowned deeply, immediately presuming this pathetic excuse of a nobleman to be some tragic imbecile, but before she could question his identity, the overly cheery, high-pitched voice of her stepsister sliced through the air.

Maria Beaufort hurried forward with a beautifully manufactured look of sorrow draped across her angelic features, lowering herself into a graceful, trembling bow before the enraged prince. "Please, I beg of you to forgive my elder sister’s unspeakable insolence, Your Imperial Highness," Maria pleaded sweetly, her eyes welling with tears as she cast a disparaging look toward Sigrid. "She can be incredibly brass and unguided sometimes, forgetting the heavy weight of her duties to the crown."

Duke Vesper quickly stepped into the alcove alongside his wife and stepdaughter, his face twisted in a desperate attempt to appease the royal family while completely alienating his eldest child. "My beautiful daughter Maria speaks the absolute truth, Your Highness," the Duke interjected smoothly, offering a deep bow of apology. "Sigrid has been entirely irrational as of late, driven mad by her own internal delusions. We humbly request that you forget her standard offense entirely; after all, we have already finalized a proper, arranged marriage for her that will remove her from the capital permanently."

A sudden, horrifying realization dawned within Sigrid’s mind as her eyes snapped from her treacherous father back to the unkempt, sniveling man standing awkwardly near the edge of the alcove.

So, this must be the grotesque arranged husband my parents secretly bartered me away to, she thought to herself, her blood running cold with a mixture of disgust and dark amusement. She could not recall this pathetic arrangement ever occurring in her previous life, but she quickly accepted that her own altered, aggressive behavior upon returning to the estate had inadvertently shifted the events, forcing her panicked stepfamily to accelerate their wicked plots to dispose of her.

Duchess Genevieve stepped forward to seal the deception, casting a doting, proud look toward Maria while completely dismissing Sigrid as a broken entity. "Yes, Your Imperial Highness, you should not waste another breath upon Sigrid," the Duchess hissed with a sharp, venomous smile. "Losing her birth mother— the former Duchess Sigrid at such a tender age has clearly unhinged her mind. Why don’t you direct your magnificent attention toward my own sweet Maria instead? She is a true angel, pristine in her virtue, and entirely fit for a man of your exalted standing."

Sigrid let out a loud, mocking scoff that instantly shattered the delicate illusion her family was attempting to weave, drawing every eye back to her radiant, crimson form. "I have truly never encountered individuals as thoroughly shameless as the three of you," she declared, her melodic laughter cutting through their frantic lies like a sharpened blade. "You shamelessly utilize my presence as a mere stepping stone to thrust your golden puppet into the prince’s bed. Not that I care for your desperate social climbing, but I warn you now, Duchess—do not let my mother’s sacred name ever cross your foul lips again."

Genevieve let out a sharp, horrified shriek at the blatant insult, and Maria, instantly slipping into her role as the defensive, weeping protector, threw herself in front of her mother. "Do not be so needlessly harsh, sister!" Maria cried out, her voice trembling with synthetic grief. "Mother and Father are only doing what is best for your future!" Maria then turned her adoring gaze back to Prince Ragnar, her fingers slyly reaching out to brush against his arm in a display of practiced comfort. "Please, Your Majesty, look upon our family with mercy. My parents have already secured her future with this noble gentleman."

"Are you attempting to dictate the actions of the crown, girl?" Ragnar suddenly boomed, his lethal, icy tone instantly causing Maria to shriek in genuine terror as she realized she had overstepped her bounds. She began to stammer incoherently, her body trembling as she instinctively pressed closer to him, her low-cut gown shifting in a manner that caused the prince’s predatory gaze to temporarily drop down toward her exposed chest.

Sigrid scoffed under her breath, a look of profound amusement crossing her features as she muttered quietly to herself, "You really have always been a desperate, wanton creature, Maria." Turning her sharp, lethal attention back toward her trembling family, Sigrid stepped toward the unkempt suitor who had remained silent. "I have already made my position abundantly clear to you, Father. I will not shackle myself to this pathetic imbecile. Did you truly believe my worth to be so remarkably low that you sought out a man who cannot even keep his foul, nauseating stench from offending my senses?"

"You will do exactly as you are commanded, girl!" Duke Vesper roared, his authority openly challenged before the entire empire.

But as Sigrid locked her gaze onto the cowering, strange-looking man, the dark embers of her judgment sight suddenly swirled within her crimson eyes, forcing a violent, psychic vision to assault her mind. In an instant, she saw fragments of this man’s horrific secrets: she saw him smirking evilly in the damp dark of a hidden dungeon, surrounded by innocent women who were stripped, beaten, and bound tightly to heavy iron chains. She heard their agonizing cries and desperate pleas for mercy, all of which fell upon his deaf, sadistic ears.

A wave of profound, absolute disgust washed over Sigrid as the vision faded, realizing the monstrous depths to which her family had sunk just to destroy her. "You truly believe me to be nothing, Father," Sigrid whispered, her voice carrying a terrifying, quiet weight that silenced the immediate crowd. "You deliberately sought out a vile, underground criminal so that I might be discarded into his possession as a mere sex slave."

The entire ballroom gasped in utter horror at the severe, unvarnished accusation, the scandalous reality of the situation laying bare the corruption of House Beaufort. The unkempt man’s face contorted into a malicious sneer as he took a bold step forward, his lack of confidence briefly replaced by the arrogance of a predator. "Do not be so hasty, my beautiful future wife," he sneered, his voice dripping with an oily, repulsive familiarity.

"Wife?" Sigrid snapped, her voice dropping to a dangerous, freezing whisper as she stepped directly into his personal space, her crimson eyes flashing with absolute death. "Do not ever use that sacred word to address me again, you disgusting, wretched seed-breeder."

The sheer, venomous intensity of her whispered insult caused a look of profound, paralyzing horror to wash across the man’s face as he realized she somehow knew his deepest, darkest secrets. Sigrid offered him a beautiful, terrifying smile, her voice dropping to a low, commanding murmur that only he could hear. "You will publicly break this farce of a marriage right now. You will never come near my presence again, and you will fall to your knees to confess your vile crimes before this entire court this very instant, or I promise you, I will ensure the remainder of your miserable life is an unending eternity of agony."

"No!" the man shrieked in a panic, his voice cracking as he violently turned on his heel to flee the grand ballroom. But before he could take a single step toward the heavy oak doors, a sudden, invisible force of crushing, agonizing pain seized his entire body. He let out a blood-curdling scream, collapsing heavily onto the polished marble floor as he writhed in absolute torment, his lungs gasping for air while his limbs convulsed violently beneath him.

Sigrid merely stood in absolute, untroubled stillness, her arms crossed elegantly as she looked down at the pathetic, screaming creature with a gaze of profound, detached amusement. The imbecile managed to lift his sweat-slicked head, glaring up at her with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred through his tears of agony, yet Sigrid’s smile only broadened. She did not need to look back to know that the rest of the room was paralyzed in terror; she could still feel the intense, burning weight of Duke Soren’s deep blue eyes resting firmly upon her spine, his unwavering gaze never leaving her for a single, magnificent second.