Chapter 28: Jobless Matriarch.

Chapter 28

The violent echo of the clattering oak doors had barely faded before the woman crossed the threshold, her presence immediately filling the bedchamber with an oppressive, stifling hostility. A tall, scowling woman stepped fully into the room, her heavy obsidian silk skirts rustling sharply against the stone floor. Brown hair was bound in a severe, unyielding crown atop her head, and her sharp, hawkish eyes flashed with a cold, aristocratic rage.

Sigrid stared at her from the velvet pillows, her mind instantly flashing back to the fragmented vision her judgment sight had revealed within the imperial ballroom. This was the very matriarch who had fiercely berated the Duke within the walls, demanding he secure a highborn bride from Arkovia to so as to not be perceived as a threat to preserve their northern autonomy.

Yet, a flicker of cold amusement stirred beneath Sigrid’s detached exterior. It was entirely absurd; why would this woman manifest such venomous fury toward the very bride she had coerced Soren into bringing home?

Steeling her features into a mask of serene, unyielding composure, Sigrid adjusted the posture of her shoulders, refusing to allow this sudden invasion to disrupt her royal dignity. "Good day, Your Grace," she spoke, her voice dropping into a flawless, measured register of courtly elegance. She inclined her head with a deliberate, calculated degree of deference; though this elder woman clearly intended to make herself a constant nuisance, Sigrid was a resurrected queen who understood that titles must still be answered with proper protocol. Her crimson eyes locked directly onto the woman’s piercing glare as she continued, her tone laced with a freezing finality. "Allow me to correct your assumptions on two distinct accounts. Firstly, I am not desperate. Secondly, I am not reckless."

The matriarch’s left eye twitched imperceptibly, a brief fracture in her haughty facade that betrayed her utter astonishment at the young lady’s audacity to speak back. "Stand up and address me properly," the older woman commanded, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. "Who do you think you are, girl? I am the matriarch of this household, the sovereign guardian of the Aethermor lineage, and you expect me to stand while you remain reposing in luxury? For what possible reason should I tolerate such insolence?"

From her low stool, Lilith trembled, her protective instincts overriding her fear as she tentatively sought to intercede on her mistress’s behalf. "Madam, if I may... Milady is grievously injured from the events of the high court—"

"Silence, Lilith," Sigrid interrupted smoothly, raising a solitary hand to halt her maid’s desperate explanation. She did not require a servant to fight her battles, nor would she permit anyone to see her as a fragile creature wrapped in bandages. Ignoring the white-hot flash of agony that shot up the back of her heel, Sigrid swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, and though the split skin at her heel throbbed unmercifully, she bore through the physical torment without allowing a single tremor to alter her expression. Standing to her full height, she smoothed the linen of her nightgown and executed a slow, perfectly balanced curtsey that belonged to the grand chambers of royalty.

Rising gracefully, a crooked, faint smile touched her lips, though her gaze remained utterly devoid of warmth. "Do not belittle me, Your Grace, nor dare to place me upon the same pedestal as the common ladies you are accustomed to trampling beneath your slippers," Sigrid warned softly. She looked upon the ancient matriarch with an expression of profound insignificance, internally drawing a sharp comparison between this bitter woman and her own wretched stepmother, Maria’s mother. It caused her to silently wonder why all elderly noblewomen of high society seemed so completely jobless that they made it their life’s sole mission to ruin her peace. A soft, weary sigh escaped her lips as she broke her gaze, glancing toward the towering arched windows.

"Who do you think you are sighing at?" the matriarch hissed, stepping closer as her pale cheeks flushed with a dark, mottled anger.

Sigrid turned her head back slowly, her crimson eyes glittering with a detached, predator-like amusement. "Whoever you wish it to be, Your Grace," she replied smoothly, her words dripping with a polite, aristocratic venom. "It could be directed at Lilith, at my current physical situation, at myself, at your wandering maids outside, or quite possibly at you. One can never truly tell the direction of a sigh, can they?"

The matriarch’s countenance twisted into a mask of absolute rage at Sigrid’s remarkably rude remark, her hands clenching into tight fists against her silk skirts. "How dare you!" she shouted, her voice echoing violently off the intricately carved stone ceilings. "Who do you think you are? You were merely picked up from the palace floor by Soren out of sheer pity, and all of a sudden you presume yourself to be something special? I can ruin you before the season turns, Lady Sigrid. I can have Soren throw you out into the capital streets this very hour, and he will do so without a second thought. Do not dare speak to me in such a manner again!"

Entirely unfazed by the thunderous threats, Sigrid merely tilted her head, her calm remaining completely unbroken. "Do your worst, Your Grace," she countered, her voice dropping to a lethal, freezing register. "For all I know, Duke Soren merely married me to satisfy the heavy demands you placed upon his shoulders. Yet, the moment he brings home his wedded wife, you choose to barge into my sanctuary, disrupt my peace, and act as though you stand above the very crown itself. For no discernible reason, you offer me nothing but hostility."

As she spoke, Sigrid’s mind rapidly analysed the older woman’s behavior. At first, it had seemed entirely strange that the matriarch would be so outwardly hostile when her son had done exactly what was required of him, but as she studied the deep lines of frustration etched into the woman’s face, the truth became entirely clear. People of her tyrannical nature were always cut from the same predictable cloth.

A slow, wicked smirk spread across Sigrid’s lips. With her bare feet pressing firmly against the cold stone, she walked deliberately toward the older woman, closing the distance between them until she was standing scant inches away. She stood so close that she could easily count every single wrinkle on the woman’s otherwise beautiful, aging face.

"It all makes sense now," Sigrid whispered slowly, her voice carrying the terrifying weight of her past sovereignty. "The Duke brought home a highborn wife just as you demanded, but the moment you looked upon her, she was not the pliable creature you expected. You anticipated a timid, broken girl from the capital whom you could easily manipulate and control to suit your whims. Yet, when you look upon me, and perhaps when you hear the dark, rising rumors already attached to my name from last night, you find a woman who does not fear your shadow. It maddens you, does it not? It thoroughly annoys you that you cannot force me into a state of submissive compliance."

The matriarch’s breath hitched, her eyes widening with a sudden stroke of shock and genuine horror as Sigrid’s words laid bare the absolute reality of her hidden thoughts.

Sigrid took a slow, deliberate step backward, her smile widening as she maintained her terrifying psychological advantage. "You desire dominion over this household, and when things do not go precisely your way, you explode in a fit of maidenly temper. Unlike you, Your Grace, I do not need to advertise my control to the entire world; I simply enforce it. You stand higher in the hierarchy than I do currently, and I shall treat you as family out of respect for your familial connection to Soren. But do not ever mistake my courtly compliance for a weakness you can exploit."

Raising her head high, Sigrid turned her back on the stunned woman, intending to return to the comfort of her canopy bed to tend to her exhaustion. The spell of silence broke, and the matriarch’s face turned a violent shade of crimson as she found her voice once more. "Get back here, you wretched—"

Before the curse could leave her lips, the heavy oak doors swung open for a second time, and there stood Duke Soren Aethermor, his massive, towering frame casting a long, ominous shadow across the entire room.

Soren stepped into the chamber, the sheer breadth of his shoulders blocking out the faint light of the corridor behind him. A heavy silence fell over the room, thick enough to stifle the remaining air. His piercing blue gaze cut through the tension, sweeping over the uninvited matriarch before finally coming to rest on Sigrid’s bare feet pressing against the cold stone floor. His jaw tightened, a dangerous spark igniting within his dark features. His jaw tightened, a dangerous edge sharpening his dark features.

Soren shifted his gaze to Sigrid before turning his eyes upon the woman who claimed maternal ties to him. Yet, he did not look upon her with the warmth she might have expected or deemed her due; rather, his face remained an unyielding mask of stone. What struck Sigrid with even greater surprise, however, was the dark expression the matriarch directed at the Duke in return. She regarded Soren with a deep, simmering resentment, her eyes flashing with a cold bitterness that seemed entirely unnatural for a mother looking upon her own son.