Chapter 34: Not The Dowager Duchess

Chapter 34

The fragile morning light of the north filtered through the high, frosted casements, casting pale ribbons of silver across the expansive expanse of the velvet-draped canopy bed. Sigrid stirred against the heavy silk linens, her crimson eyes fluttering open to greet the unfamiliar, cavernous architecture of the Duke’s master chambers. Turning her head, her gaze drifted to the sprawling, undisturbed space beside her. "He must be exceedingly consumed by the burdens of his stateborders," she whispered into the quiet air of the room, her voice a low, raspy murmur that carried no malice, only the cold, understanding of a former queen who knew the relentless demands of governance.

Swinging her legs over the edge of the high mattress, Sigrid planted her feet onto the chilled stone floor, her fingers instinctively rising to trace the line of the deep cut she had sustained at the ball. To her profound astonishment, her fingertips met only smooth, unbroken flesh, the violent blemish reduced to nothing more than a faint, silvery line.

She stared down at her skin, her brows knitting together in silent calculation. It must be the sublime potency of the northern ointment Lilith put on her, she reasoned internally, a quiet appreciation for the hidden wealth of the Aethermor treasury blooming within her chest. To knit a wound of such depth within less than a day is a feat most ordinary physicians would deem a physical impossibility.

Before she could pursue the thought further, a rhythmic knock echoed against the heavy oak doors. "Enter," Sigrid commanded, straightening her posture as she glided toward the full-length gilded mirror near the hearth. The heavy doors swung inward to reveal Lilith, but the familiar comfort of her personal maid’s presence was instantly dampened by the appearance of two unfamiliar maidservants trailing closely behind her, their heads bowed in a performance of obedience that lacked any genuine deference.

A sharp, displeasure-laden frown immediately marred Sigrid’s striking features as she turned her piercing crimson gaze upon the intruders. "Explain the meaning of this intrusion, Lilith," Sigrid demanded coldly, her tone cutting through the morning stillness like a blade. "I do not recall authorizing an increase in my personal retinue for the morning preparations."

Lilith lowered her head, her fingers twisting nervously into the fabric of her apron as she stepped forward to shield herself from the impending storm. "Forgive me, milady," Lilith murmured, her voice trembling slightly beneath the weight of her anxiety. "The Dowager Duchess Hildegard commanded their presence with absolute finality. She insisted that a lady of your high standing cannot possibly be permitted a single attendant, declaring that the Duchess of Aethermor must maintain a proper household of at least three maids to manage the labor. She forced them upon me at the threshold."

Sigrid’s analytical gaze drifted past Lilith’s shoulder, locking onto the two newly assigned maids. Though their postures remained superficially correct, the subtle curl of their lips and the haughty, dismissive glint in their eyes betrayed their true intent. They did not look upon her as their sovereign mistress; they looked upon her with a profound, unvarnished contempt, fueled no doubt by the vile, scandalous rumors that preceded her arrival from the southern courts.

Sigrid’s lips curled into a predatory smile as she instantly discerned Hildegard’s petty strategy. The old matriarch had not sent these girls out of a desire for comfort, but rather to establish a pair of permanent internal spies within her private chambers to monitor her every breath.

"Your presence here is an unnecessary redundancy," Sigrid spoke, her voice carrying the absolute, freezing finality of a royal decree as she stared down the two maids. "Gather your implements and leave these quarters immediately. Your services are not required."

The two servants shifted uncomfortably, their feigned deference fracturing as they exchanged a startled, defiant glance. One of them stepped forward, her jaw tightening as she ventured to argue. "Lady Sigrid, we are bound by the explicit instructions of the Dowager Duchess herself to—"

"That is Duchess Sigrid to you, maid," Sigrid interrupted, her voice dropping into a lethal, authoritative register that instantly severed the girl’s speech. "And as your reigning Duchess, I am issuing a direct sovereign command. You will depart from my sight this instant. The only attendant whose presence I require or tolerate within these walls is Lilith. Return to your true mistress and convey to her that she would do well to cease her tedious, insulting interference in my domestic affairs."

Stunned into a furious silence by the sheer gravity of her presence, the two maids flushed a violent crimson, their features twisting with a fuming rage as they offered a curt, jerky bow and hurried out of the chambers. Sigrid watched them depart before turning her back to the door, gesturing smoothly toward the mahogany wardrobe. "Come, Lilith, let us proceed with the morning attire," she instructed softly, watching as her faithful maid blinked away her daze before stepping forward with a breathless affirmation.

As Lilith extracted a magnificent gown of heavy crimson velvet lined with silver embroidery, Sigrid could not help but admire the sheer foresight of her new husband. She had brought absolutely nothing from her former life as the neglected daughter of the Beaufort estate, yet the Duke or his specialized subjects had meticulously filled her wardrobe with garments of the highest quality, perfectly tailored to her striking form.

Once properly adorned, Sigrid descended the grand stone staircases of the fortress, her walking stick clicking rhythmically against the polished floors until she reached the arched entrance of the grand dining hall.

The long table was already arranged with a lavish spread of northern meats and steaming porridge, and two figures were already taking their places at the head of the board. Dowager Duchess Hildegard sat rigidly on the left, her expression sour, while Duke Soren occupied the central master seat, his massive frame radiating a silent, commanding power as he studied a stack of border dispatches.

Without waiting for an invitation, Sigrid glided forward and took her seat directly to the right of the Duke, occupying the traditional place reserved for the reigning mistress of the mamor while Lilith assumed a watchful posture behind her chair. Soren did not lift his dark gaze from his parchments, his expression remaining an unreadable mask of stone, yet he did not move to object to her proximity. "A splendid morning to you, Soren," Sigrid remarked with flawless aristocratic poise, before turning her gaze to the older woman across the table. "And a good morning to you as well, Lady Hildegard."

The sound of her voice seemed to shatter the older woman’s fragile composure entirely. Hildegard dropped her silver spoon onto the porcelain dish with a sharp, echoing clatter, her eyes narrowing into venomous slits as she glared across the table at the newcomer. "You will govern your insolent tongue in this household, young girl," Hildegard hissed, her voice trembling with a deep, ancestral arrogance. "You will refer to the Lord of Aethermor by his proper, sovereign titles. He is your Duke, not a common courtier to be addressed so familiarly by a disgraced outcast."

Sigrid paused, her delicate fingers resting elegantly on the edge of the table as she slowly lifted her crimson eyes to meet the matriarch’s gaze, her expression completely untroubled by the venom directed at her. "But he is my lawfully wedded husband, is he not?" Sigrid countered with a low, mocking sweetness that infuriated the older woman further. "As his wife, I shall address him by whatever name I deem fitting for our private and public discourse. I suggest you do not concern yourself with the intimacies of our marital arrangement."

"You speak of marriage as if your presence here were anything more than a charitable transaction!" Hildegard slammed her palm against the heavy oak table, the fine crystal glasses rattling violently against the wood. "You are not worthy enough to bear the name of this house, let alone to sit at this table and treat your superiors with such blatant disrespect!"

Sigrid let out a quiet, melodic scoff, leaning back slightly into her carved chair as she looked down her nose at the raging woman. "Worthy?" she echoed, her voice dripping with an intense, aristocratic cynicism. "You speak to me of worthiness as if you possessed even the faintest comprehension of what true majesty requires. Do not disturb the peace of my morning meal with your tedious tantrums, Lady Hildegard. I have far more important matters to occupy my intellect than the fragile sensibilities of an aging courtier."

Hildegard stood up so violently that her heavy chair scraped backward against the stone floor with a deafening screech, her face contorting into an expression of unvarnished hatred. "You will show me the absolute reverence that is my due, you wretched girl!" the woman shouted, her chest heaving as she pointed a trembling finger at Sigrid. "I am the Dowager Duchess Aethermor, the matriarch who managed this fortress while you were nothing but a common nuisance in the south, and I will be shown the highest respect within these walls!"

Before her scream could fade from the rafters, the heavy clatter of cutlery hitting a platter echoed from the head of the table. Soren placed his fork down and rose from his chair, his towering stature casting a massive shadow over both women. A terrifying silence gripped the room as the northern warlord fixed his freezing gaze entirely upon the trembling Dowager Duchess.

"Hildegard," Soren spoke, his deep, rumbling voice dropping into an ominous register that caused the guards stationed at the doors to stiffen in terror. "I strongly advise you to proceed with the utmost caution from this moment forward. The woman you are currently insulting is the reigning Duchess. She is my wife, and you continue to assert an authority within this fortress that you were never legally given."

Sigrid’s crimson eyes widened by a fraction, a jolt of genuine shock rippling through her calculated composure as she looked up at the towering warlord. She had fully expected Soren to remain a passive observer to the domestic dispute, yet he had intervened with a terrifying, unyielding finality.

Soren leaned forward slightly, his large hands planting firmly on the surface of the table as he stared down the pale, hyperventilating matriarch. "You would do well to remember the true history of your station in this province," the Duke continued, his voice freezing the very blood in Hildegard’s veins. "You were never the Dowager Duchess. You were never lawfully married to my predecessor, a man who was never my true father, and a man who never possessed the legitimate right to hold the ducal title you so desperately cling to."

A profound, suffocating realization struck Sigrid’s mind like a bolt of lightning, her internal thoughts churning in sudden, chaotic synchronization as she stared at the fractured expressions of the two nobles before her. She was never the Dowager, so she wasn’t his mother. That would explain why he talked to her in such a dismissive tone. Sigrid thought, her mind racing as she realized a massive, glaring blind spot in her knowledge of her past life. In her previous existence as queen, she had been too consumed by the politics of the capital to care about the inner lineages of the distant northern wastes. I do not know who the previous Duke truly was, she realized with a cold dread. And I do not know from whom Soren inherited this terrifying title, nor what bloodline he truly answers to.

Hildegard’s features contorted into something utterly hideous, the aristocratic mask tearing away completely to reveal a desperate, unhinged creature pushed to the absolute brink of her sanity. "Who do you think you are speaking to, Soren?" the woman shrieked, her voice cracking with rage as she reached out with a frantic, unthinking speed, her fingers wrapping around the silver handle of a sharp carving knife resting on the platters. "I have sacrificed everything for this house! I have endured decades of isolation in these frozen wastes for you, yet you treat me like common trash in front of this southern whore!"

With a wild, animalistic scream, Hildegard lunged across the corner of the table, raising the glinting steel blade aloft as she aimed it directly at the Duke’s exposed chest.