Chapter 38: She was special.

Chapter 38

The heavy velvet curtains of the imperial carriage swayed violently as the iron-shod wheels rattled over the uneven cobblestones, yet the physical turbulence inside the cabin was nothing compared to the absolute storm of panic raging within Maria’s chest. Across from her sat the haughty noblewoman who had so foolishly provoked Sigrid’s wrath, her once pristine silks ruined by crimson drops of blood that still seeped from her shattered jaw. Maria cast a look of unmitigated disgust and simmering rage at the weeping girl, entirely unmoved by her physical agony. "You utter, contemptible fool," Maria hissed under her breath, her voice devoid of any saintly warmth. "You have compromised everything with your unbridled arrogance." The injured girl could only let out a muffled, pathetic whimper, but Maria had already ceased paying her any mind.

Her hands trembled so violently that she had to bury them deep within the folds of her pastel skirts to hide her weakness. All she could hear, looping through her mind like a cursed incantation, were Sigrid’s parting words: ’He was of absolutely no utility to my grand designs, so I graciously permitted you to have him. Rejoice, sister, for your desperate wish of becoming Queen will soon be within your hand’s reach, and you will no longer have to resort to seducing another woman’s foolish husband to achieve it.’

A cold dread settled over Maria, causing her skin to pale to an unnatural translucence. How does she know? the thought shrieked through her mind, threatening to break her sanity. No one is supposed to know. I am the only one who possesses this hidden truth. Part of her desperately tried to rationalise the threat, telling herself that Sigrid was merely utilizing a clever bluff to unnerve her, but a darker instinct reminded her that wretched woman never jested avout such matters of importance.

When the carriage finally ground to a halt within the sweeping, white-stone courtyard of the imperial palace, the grand doors were flung open by an armored imperial guard, who offered a deep bow as he assisted Maria down onto the pavement. Maria masked her inner turmoil in a fraction of a second, her face shifting back into a delicate display of gentle concern. She turned toward the captain of the guard, gesturing softly toward the interior of the carriage. "Kindly see to it that this poor, unfortunate lady is taken immediately to the palace sick bay," Maria requested, her voice carrying a practiced, sorrowful cadence. "She was brutally assaulted by ruffians in the lower districts, and my heart bleeds to see her suffer so." The guard bowed low, entirely enchanted by her apparent benevolence, and rushed to execute the command.

As Maria turned to walk toward the gilded inner gates of the palace wing, a pale, frail old man, clad in tattered rags and trembling from the winter wind, crawled out from the shadows of the courtyard pillar. He extended a withered hand, his clouded eyes pleading silently for a single copper piece to survive the night. Maria’s pristine facade did not falter, but her eyes turned into twin pools of absolute, emotionless ice. Her foot hovered an inch away from the old man’s outstretched fingers, her instincts urging her to kick the foul creature away from her path, but the sudden sound of heavy boots echoing from the pavilion caught her attention.

Spotting Prince Ragnar approaching with a flock of courtiers, Maria withdrew her foot seamlessly. "Scram, you pathetic mutt," she whispered under her breath, her voice sharp as a razor, ensuring it reached only the beggar’s ears before she instantly altered her demeanor.

With a bright, radiant smile that could rival the morning sun, Maria skipped joyfully toward the Crown Prince, her silk gown billowing around her ankles. She dropped into a flawless modest curtsey, tilting her face upward with a look of pure, childlike adoration. "Praise be to the heavens, and a blessed afternoon to you, Your Imperial Highness," she chimed sweetly, her eyes sparkling with absolute devotion.

Ragnar’s handsome features immediately softened at the sight of her, a proud, triumphant smile gracing his lips as he stepped forward to catch her hand, raising it gently to press a courtly kiss against her knuckles. "Welcome back to the palace, my sweet Maria," Ragnar murmured, his deep voice filled with a possessive warmth. "Tell me, how did your little excursion into the high district treat you today? Did you find the trinkets you desired?"

Maria let out a soft, melodic giggle before deliberately forcing her lower lip into a tragic, vulnerable pout, her shoulders dropping in a performance of deep sorrow. "Alas, my prince, my entire morning was utterly ruined by the cruelty of another," she murmured softly, casting her eyes downward to simulate unshed tears.

Ragnar’s expression darkened instantly, his hand tightening around hers as his imperial pride flared. "Who dares to bring distress upon the woman who holds my affection? Speak their name, and they shall answer to the crown."

Maria sniffled delicately, looking up through her thick lashes. "It was none other than my wicked sister, Sigrid."

The moment that name left her lips, a sudden, suffocating silence fell over the immediate pavilion. Ragnar’s eyes widened by a sharp fraction, his entire frame freezing as the name seemed to strike a hidden chord deep within him. "Sigrid..." he whispered, his voice catching in his throat, and for a terrifying second, Maria watched as a strange, unreadable brilliance shone within the prince’s dark eyes.

A surge of intense jealousy and alarm flared within Maria’s chest. Reacting quickly to reclaim his attention, she stepped into his personal space, pressing her soft bosom firmly against his broad chest while looking up at him with a fragile, needy expression. The physical contact worked instantly, snapping Ragnar out of his brief stupor as his focus returned entirely to the woman in his arms.

Internally, Maria sneered with profound contempt. Gullible fool, she thought, a dark satisfaction rippling through her mind. All men are entirely the same, driven by their basic vanities. Yet, beneath her triumph, a dangerous seed of worry began to take root; Ragnar was supposed to utterly detest Sigrid, to look upon her with nothing but unvarnished disgust. Why, then, did he react with such sudden fascination at the mere mention of her name? Sigrid’s venomous warnings echoed in her mind once more, raising a terrifying question, what if she had missed something entirely of import?

Before she could lose herself further in her calculations, a sharp, aristocratic voice sliced through the courtyard air from the western colonnade. "What exactly is that common thing doing lingering in the presence of the heir apparent?" Queen Iris, Ragnar’s mother demanded coldly, her regal bearing unyielding as she marched toward them, her heavy ermine cloak trailing over the pristine white stones.

Maria’s expression soured for a brief second before she tightened her grip on Ragnar’s arm, burying her face into his shoulder to play the role of a frightened dove. Ragnar’s jaw set into a rigid line as he faced his imperial mother, his arm wrapping securely around Maria’s waist. "Mother, I must ask that you kindly restrain your hostility," the prince stated, his tone carrying the weight of his future crown. Then, looking down at Maria, he added, "Greet my royal mother properly, Maria."

Reluctantly, Maria stepped back and sank into a deep, reverent bow, keeping her head lowered to hide the malice burning in her eyes. "Praise and eternal blessings to the Royal Mother of the Empire," she spoken with flawless humility.

Queen Iris did not acknowledge the greeting; instead, she looked down upon Maria with an intense, unvarnished contempt that could freeze the midsummer seas. Maria knew precisely why the older woman loathed her so completely; no matter how flawlessly Maria performed the act of a saintess down to the very bone, it would never erase the foul truth of her blood. To the imperial lineage, she was nothing more than a commoner bastard, a baseline creature whose low blood was entirely unfit to mingle with the sacred imperial dynasty.

The Queen turned her piercing gaze back to her son, her voice dripping with royal disdain. "Why do you stubbornly insist on entertaining this lowborn creature further, Ragnar? She is a stain upon the dignity of your court."

Ragnar drew himself up to his full, imposing height, his grip on Maria tightening to an almost painful degree. "Because I choose to do so, Mother," the prince countered fiercely, his imperial authority clashing directly against her own. "Whoever I deign to entertain, and whoever I choose to bring into my personal quarters, is entirely my own sovereign concern." He turned to look down at Maria, his eyes softening into an expression of profound infatuation. "And besides, she has thoroughly stolen my heart with her unmatched kindness, purity and beauty. She is unlike any venomous noblewoman in the castle."

Maria’s eyes widened in a display of profound shock, her hands instantly flying up to cover her mouth as she let out a soft, breathy gasp of feigned surprise. Ragnar smiled down at her, entirely captivated by her performance. "I fully intend to take her as my lawfully wedded wife," he declared grandly, his voice echoing across the courtyard.

Tears of absolute triumph watered Maria’s eyes as she let out a joyful cry, throwing herself completely onto Ragnar’s chest, her arms looping around his neck. "Oh, thank you, my beloved prince! You make me the happiest woman in the entire realm!"

Queen Iris’s face contorted into an expression of pure rage, her hand slamming against her ceremonial staff. "She is not of noble blood! You cannot do this, Ragnar!" she shouted, her voice trembling with indignation.

"It matters not," Ragnar replied coldly, his eyes locked onto his mother with unyielding defiance. "I love her, and in this empire, my desire is what ultimately matters."

Realizing she could not move her stubborn son, the Queen let out a harsh, disgusted huff, turning on her heel and sweeping away toward her private wing with a flurry of angry silks.

Maria smiled with vicious satisfaction as she watched the retreating figure of the defeated queen, her face buried safely against Ragnar’s neck so he could not see her malice. Ragnar kissed the top of her head gently, his hand rubbing her back. "Come, my sweet girl," he murmured softly. "Let us retire to the inner chambers so you may change out of your traveling attire, and we can properly discuss the grand arrangements for our future."

Maria nodded eagerly, allowing him to guide her through the golden corridors until they reached the luxurious guest chambers. The moment the heavy oak doors shut, a flock of silent, submissive palace maids stepped forward to assist her, carefully untying the laces of her gown and draping her in a fine silk robe. Once the maids had finished their duties and slipped out of the room, Maria walked slowly toward the grand silver mirror, a cold, triumphant smile spreading across her features as she stared at her own reflection. "This is exactly how it should be," she whispered into the quiet room, her fingers tracing the fine contours of her jaw. "This throne, this power, this destiny—it was always meant for me."

She let out a low, dark laugh, her mind drifting back to her silver-haired sibling. Even though Sigrid had become a strange, unpredictable anomaly in this life, Maria realized she actually owed her a debt of gratitude for her utter madness. By choosing to marry the feared and cursed Iron Duke of Aethermor, Sigrid had walked right into her own execution twice.

Ever since Maria was a small child, she had been distinct from the rest of the world; she possessed fragmented memories of a future timeline for no apparent reason, knowing events long before they ever transpired. She had foreseen the moment Sigrid’s father came to claim her mother, and she had seen the grand future where Sigrid was meant to marry Ragnar. In that vision of the original path, Maria had worked tirelessly to ruin the union, ultimately claiming the prince for herself and orchestrating Sigrid’s brutal execution for colluding with the treasonous northern duke.

The visions had ended abruptly after that point, leaving a blank canvas, but Maria had decided she would not waste years waiting to claim her prize. She deserved the crown now. She had manipulated her father into arranging a wretched marriage for Sigrid to isolate her, but when that failed, Sigrid’s own stubborn pride had driven her to propose to the warlord herself. Sigrid had ruined her own standing without Maria even having to lift a finger, leaving herself exposed to the brutal nature of the north.

Maria gripped the edges of the marble vanity, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, calculating light. She would not sit idly by; she would actively assist Ragnar in capturing the northern duke before his armies could ever threaten the capital, ensures they were both arrested for treason. Because she was special, chosen by fate itself to rule, she would sit upon the imperial throne and watch as Sigrid was dragged to the chopping block once more.