Chapter 35: Mad Matriarch.

Chapter 35

The glinting steel blade cleaved through the tense air of the dining hall, driven by the absolute madness of a woman pushed past the brink of her sanity. Yet, as the weapon rushed toward his exposed chest, Duke Soren did not flinch, his formidable posture remaining as unyielding as the northern peaks. With a fluid, terrifying speed that belied his massive frame, his calloused hand shot forward, intercepting the strike mid-air; his iron fingers wrapped securely around the blade itself, and with a single, effortless twist of his wrist, he snapped the weapon cleanly out of Hildegard’s frantic grasp.

The silver knife clattered uselessly onto the stone floor as the older woman let out a sharp, horrified screech, stumbling backward as she stared up at the warlord with a face pale with sudden, unadulterated fear. Soren merely looked down at her, his dark eyes carrying an expression of deep, crushing insignificance, as though the woman who had just attempted his life were nothing more than an bothersome speck of dust beneath his heavy leather boots.

Before Hildegard could even draw another breath to scream, Orion materialized from the shadows of the arched corridor with seamless precision, his movements fueled by an absolute dedication to his master’s security. Without a moment of hesitation, the aide stepped forward and planted a firm, unyielding hand against the matriarch’s shoulder, throwing her to the floor with a loud, resounding thud that echoed sharply against the stone beams. Hildegard sprawled across the chilled ground, her fine obsidian silks wrinkling beneath her as she began to wail, her voice cracking with an unhinged, desperate rage. "This is not fair!" she shrieked, striking her fists against the stone. "After everything I have sacrificed, after every burden I endured to preserve the secrets of this wretched house, I am the one who is cast into the dirt because of you!"

Soren looked down at her writhing form, his voice dropping into a freezing register that silenced the room entirely. "Your current state is entirely of your own doing, Hildegard," the Duke countered coldly, his tone lacking any trace of human warmth. "I have granted you countless warnings regarding the boundaries of your station within this fortress, yet you stubbornly refused to heed my decrees. You have exhausted my patience."

Orion did not wait for further instructions, his expression hardening into a mask of pure, military efficiency as he motioned toward the heavy iron doors. Two armored guards stepped forward immediately, their gauntlets clanking as they seized the weeping woman by her silk sleeves. "Take her directly to the subterranean dungeons," Orion commanded, his voice carrying the chilling finality of an executioner. "She is to be confined in the dark cells, and she shall be given neither food nor water until she learns the proper parameters of her lesson again."

Sigrid’s crimson eyes widened by a subtle fraction as the word dropped from the aide’s lips, her sharp intellect immediately latching onto the implicit history hidden within that single term. Again, she mused internally, her mind whirring with intense curiosity as Hildegard was dragged out of the grand hall, her frantic screams fading down the dark corridors. This was clearly not a rare occurrence within the fortress, but rather a recurring cycle of rebellion and brutal confinement that defined the bizarre, fractured relationship between the warlord and the woman who claimed to be matriarch. Sigrid watched the entire spectacle with a deep, simmering interest, deducing that since Soren routinely spared the woman’s life despite her treasonous outbursts, Hildegard must still possess some profound utility to him. Sigrid could not but ponder what manner of utility an aged, bitter matriarch might yet possess for a lord of his exalted standing.

As the heavy double doors finally clicked shut, restoring a tense quiet to the blood-stained dining room, Sigrid smoothed the skirts of her crimson gown and prepared to resume her seat at the table. Before she could lower herself, however, the massive figure of the Duke shifted, his dark gaze turning directly upon her. "I must offer my formal apologies for the severe disturbance brought upon your morning breakfast, Your Grace," Soren stated, his tone flat and remarkably devoid of any genuine emotional resonance.

Sigrid paused, a brilliant, knowing smile gracing her striking features as she tilted her chin upward to meet his eyes. "I suppose I shall simply have to accustom myself to such violent displays if I am to remain your wife," she replied with a flawless, mocking sweetness. "Though I must say, an apology delivered with absolutely no underlying sentiment is a fascinating performance to behold." She had noticed it immediately; the Duke was merely uttering the polite phrase to maintain a proper aristocratic atmosphere, or perhaps he had been meticulously conditioned during his childhood to do so when the situation demanded it.

Sigrid rested her delicate hands upon her left cheek, her gaze fixed entirely on the warlord as she offered a candid piece of counsel. "Do not offer an apology to me if you do not truly mean it, Soren," she murmured, her voice dripping with an aristocratic cynicism. "Better yet, do not bother apologizing at all, for a meaningless gesture is entirely pointless to an intellect such as mine."

Orion’s brow furrowed deeply at her casual insolence, his steps bringing him closer to the table as he attempted to reassert the courtly hierarchy. "You would do well to watch how you speak to the Duke of Aethermor, my lady," the aide hissed, his posture rigid with indignation.

Sigrid did not even turn her head to face him, merely shifting her eyes toward the aide with a freezing, regal glare. "And you would do well to watch how you address the reigning Duchess, Headmaster," she countered smoothly, her words slicing through his defense with such lethal precision that Orion was forced to bite his lip in silent, frustrated submission.

Soren watched the brief exchange without a word, a phantom of amusement passing through his dark eyes before he inclined his head slightly toward his bride. "I apologize for his overstep as well," the Duke added quietly.

Sigrid offered a graceful, dismissive bow of her head. "Do not let it occupy your thoughts any further, my lord."

Soren raised his head back up, his expression returning to its customary mask of military gravity as he adjusted the heavy fur mantle across his broad shoulders. "We must alter our arrangements for the day; you are to depart for the imperial capital of Arkovia within the hour," the Duke declared evenly.

Sigrid’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion, her mind trying to parse the sudden necessity of such a journey. "For what purpose must we travel south so swiftly?" she questioned.

"We are wedded by contract and by hand, yet the formal presentation of our marriage must be sanctified before the eyes of God," Soren explained, his deep voice carrying a strange, solemn weight. "We require a proper wedding gown fitting for the new mistress of Aethermor." Sigrid found herself temporarily speechless, an entirely rare occurrence for the former queen; she had fully expected a ruthless, hardened warlord like the Iron Duke to possess absolutely no faith in the divine, let alone harbor a desire for a traditional, sanctified ceremony.

Sensing her hesitation, Soren cast a piercing look across the table. "Do you not desire a formal wedding, Duchess?" he asked.

Sigrid quickly recovered her poise, a smooth smile returning to her lips as she shook her head. "No, Your Grace. I was merely caught off guard by your adherence to holy tradition, that is all."

Soren nodded once, accepting her response without further scrutiny. "If your schedule is not occupied with more pressing matters today, the carriage is already being prepared at the threshold," he noted.

Sigrid’s smile widened slightly, though a faint trace of irony lingered in her heart; with the sudden departure of the jewelry merchant and her isolation from the capital’s intrigue, she truly had nothing of import to occupy her time, and there was absolutely no chance of encountering her Isabel Warwick, within the frozen borders of the north today. "I am entirely at your disposal," she affirmed.

Soren gestured toward his aide. "Orion shall accompany you to the capital to ensure your safety and handle the expenditures. The actual ceremony shall be celebrated within the ancient church of this fortress, so that our northern people may be properly involved in the union."

Sigrid felt a subtle, fleeting pang of disappointment ripple through her chest; she realized she would have greatly preferred to navigate the grand markets of the capital alongside her now formidable husband rather than his suspicious aide who looked every inch of stabbing her, but she quickly dismissed the thought, knowing the busy Duke would never indulge in such domestic trivialities. "As you command, your grace," she murmured, bowing as Soren turned and strode out of the hall.

The journey to the capital was an exercise in stifling, silent tension. Ensconced within the velvet cushions of the lavishly decorated Aethermor carriage, Sigrid could continuously feel Orion’s sharp, calculating gaze fixed upon her from the opposite bench. Lilith sat quietly by her side, keeping her head lowered, while the steady clatter of iron-shod wheels against the frozen earth filled the cabin. After an hour of enduring his intense scrutiny, Sigrid let out a soft, amused laugh, tilting her head elegantly as she stared directly into the aide’s eyes. "I must ask that you kindly refrain from staring at me so intently, Headmaster," she drawled with a playful, yet dangerous edge. "If you admire my appearance, you need only say so."

Orion immediately retracted his gaze, his jaw tightening as he turned his face toward the frosted window without a word. Internally, Sigrid mocked his transparent suspicion; she knew with absolute certainty that the man still believed her to be some highly trained spy dispatched by the royal family, meticulously monitoring her for any sign of treachery. Turning her own gaze to the passing landscape, she watched the bleak, snow-covered plains of the north slowly give way to the grand stone walls and towering spires of the Arkovian capital, a city she had once ruled and would come to rule again.

The carriage came to a halt within the bustling upper districts of the capital, the crisp winter air rushing into the cabin as the driver threw open the door. Lilith stepped out first, carefully extending a steady hand to assist Sigrid as she descended onto the cobblestone streets.

Orion stepped down behind them, his hand resting instinctively near the hilt of his sword as his eyes scanned the crowded thoroughfare. "Where is it your desire to begin this excursion, Your Grace?" the aide questioned with stiff formality. "We shall direct our steps to Lady Marigold’s establishment," Sigrid instructed, her mind flashing back to the vision of the heartbroken dressmaker she had received weeks prior. "She possesses the only hands in this capital capable of crafting a garment worthy of my standing."

With Lilith walking half a step behind her, Sigrid began her purposeful march toward the familiar, ivy-draped facade of the high-end boutique. However, just as Lilith reached out a delicate hand to grasp the brass handle of the shop door, the heavy oak entrance was violently thrown open from within. A haughty, elegantly dressed young noblewoman rushed out of the establishment, deliberately shoving Lilith aside with such reckless force that the poor maidservant lost her footing and collapsed onto the hard ground with a startled cry.

Sigrid’s posture turned instantly rigid, an intense, protective rage flaring within her chest as her crimson eyes narrowed. She drew herself up to her full height, her fingers gripping her gown as she prepared to utterly humiliate the blind, insolent girl who dared harm her servant in broad daylight. But as she opened her mouth to speak, the haughty woman stepped aside, and a familiar, bright, and insufferably cocky smile came directly into Sigrid’s view. Standing right beside the rude noblewoman was Maria—the last person Sigrid ever expected or desired to encounter within the capital, a woman she believed would be entirely occupied cuddling up with that predictable fool, Ragnar, in the Imperial palace.

Maria’s eyes locked onto Sigrid’s striking form, her lips curving into a triumphant, mocking grin that made Sigrid’s blood run cold. In that single, horrific moment of recognition, Sigrid internally cursed Duke Soren for ever suggesting she go shopping on this wretched day, while simultaneously cursing her own lack of employment that had forced her into the direct path of the one woman she utterly loathed above all others in the realm.