Chapter 39: Gifted

Chapter 39

The rhythmic, monotonous rocking of the heavy iron-bound carriage did little to soothe the sharp irritation festering deep within Sigrid’s mind. She leaned her temple against the cool, frosted glass of the carriage window, her crimson eyes staring out into the vast, darkening landscape of the northern border as the dense pine forests swallowed the last remnants of sun. Inside the cabin, a heavy silence prevailed; neither Lilith nor Orion ventured to utter a single word, a circumstance for which Sigrid was immensely grateful. Her thoughts required absolute, uninterrupted isolation.

She placed a delicate, slender finger against her chin, her brows drawing together in a rare display of genuine unease as her mind repeatedly drifted back to the grand plaza of the capital. Specifically, she could not strip from her memory the image of Maria’s pristine face fracturing into a mask of pure, unadulterated terror the exact moment Sigrid had whispered the venomous accusation regarding the seduction of another woman’s husband. It was a severe, deeply personal reaction that far exceeded the boundaries of a simple, courtly insult, and for the first time since her awakening, a cold thread of doubt coiled tightly within Sigrid’s chest.

By the time the massive iron gates of the Aethermor estate loomed ahead, the sky had fully darkened to midnight blue, filled with endless stars. The carriage ground to a halt within the sweeping stone courtyard, the heavy doors thrown open by Orion, who extended a gloved hand to assist the Duchess down onto the snow-dusted pavement. "Thank you, Headmaster," Sigrid murmured smoothly, lifting her heavy skirts as she stepped down, her breath pluming in the biting northern air. She turned toward the grand oak entrance of the manor, assuming her interactions with the rigid aide were concluded for the evening.

Before her boots could clear the first stone step, however, Orion’s deep voice cut through wind. "Your Grace," he called out, his tone uncharacteristically subdued. Sigrid paused, turning her head slightly to look back over her shoulder, only to find the fiery red-haired commander lowering his head into a formal, deferential bow—a sharp departure from his usual rigid, hyper-vigilant posture. "I must formally offer my humblest apologies for the unprompted hostility and suspicion I have directed toward your person since your arrival in the North," Orion stated, his voice ringing clearly in the quiet courtyard. "My duties to the preservation of the Duke’s honor and safety blinded me to the respect owed to your station."

A faint, amused smile touched Sigrid’s lips as she turned fully to face him, her crimson eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction. "Do not fret, Headmaster," she replied smoothly, her voice carrying gracious weight. "You were merely exercising the necessary vigilance required to protect your Duke from potential threats. I hold no malice for a man who executes his duties with such fierce loyalty." Internally, Sigrid’s cynical nature could not help but find the shift entirely entertaining; she knew with absolute certainty that her scandalous declaration inside Marigold’s workshop—claiming she had chosen the feared Iron Duke simply because he was a sight to behold—had thoroughly disarmed the commander’s defenses. While she could still sense a lingering thread of suspicion deep within his aura, she remained entirely unbothered by it; so long as his sword was wielded in her defense rather than against her throat, his private thoughts were of no consequence to her.

Orion offered a final, respectful nod before taking his leave into the barracks, leaving Sigrid and Lilith to finally cross the threshold into the warmth of the estate. Once inside the grand foyer, Lilith stepped forward, dropping into a soft curtsey as she took Sigrid’s heavy traveling cloak. "The ride was real long and tiring, my lady," Lilith said, looking at her with genuine care. "If it’s alright with you, I’ll head down to the kitchens right now and get a warm, good dinner sent up to your rooms."

Sigrid offered a tired nod of approval. "Go, Lilith. Take your time," she instructed softly, watching as the maid disappeared down the servant’s corridor.

Left entirely alone in the quiet grandeur of the hall, Sigrid let out a heavy, weary sigh. The prospect of returning to her isolated chambers offered no solace; her mind was far too hyper-active, still turning over the impossibilities of Maria’s terrifying behavior. She began to wander aimlessly down the grand, torch-lit corridors of the estate, her boots clicking softly against the polished stone as she weighed the options. Could it be that Maria was also granted the mercy of rebirth? Sigrid questioned internally, only to immediately dismiss the thought with a cold sneer. It was an utter absurdity. The God had explicitly chosen to alter the passage of time to repay Sigrid for the monstrous injustices she had suffered; it defied all cosmic logic that the same divine favor would be extended to a creature as wretched and undeserving as Maria. Furthermore, Maria lacked the refined, calculating restraint of a true regressor; she was a cunning girl, certainly, but her mind was inherently limited by her own vanity. A person who had survived a previous life would never allow their saintly mask to fracture so easily, nor would they expose their raw jealousy in the middle of a public thoroughfare. There had to be an entirely different reason for her hidden knowledge.

Lost in the web of her own deductions, Sigrid’s footsteps slowed as she realized she had wandered into an unfamiliar wing of the fortress, halting directly before a pair of towering, ancient twin doors. "Hmm," Sigrid muttered under her breath, her curiosity piqued by the sheer scale of the entrance.

She gestured to the nearest household guard stationed beside the pillar, her voice carrying an unyielding command. "You there. Inform me as to what lies behind these specific doors."

The guard instantly snapped to attention, dropping into a deep, reverent bow. "Answering the Duchess: this is the ancestral Aethermor library, Your Grace," he explained quickly.

Sigrid raised a singular brow; she had been entirely unaware that the rugged, war-torn warlord maintained a collection of literature within his frozen domain. "Retrieve the master key from whoever at once," she commanded. "I wish to inspect it." The guard bowed low and hurried down the corridor to fulfill the request.

When the heavy sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hallway moments later, Sigrid turned, fully expecting the breathless guard, only to find Duke Soren himself striding into the torchlight. The warlord moved with a silent grace, his imposing frame clad in simple dark tunics, his piercing, icy blue eyes locked onto her with unreadable intensity. In his large, scarred hand, he held the heavy iron key to the library doors. Sigrid did not allow her surprise to show; instead, she seamlessly adjusted her posture, sinking into a graceful, perfectly measured bow. "Your Grace," she greeted him, her voice a smooth purr that echoed off the stone walls.

Soren merely offered a silent, concise nod of acknowledgement, stepping past her without a word to insert the heavy key into the brass lock. With a resounding click and a heavy groan of ancient hinges, the massive twin doors swung inward, revealing the vast sanctuary within.

Sigrid stepped across the threshold first, her breath catching slightly as her eyes scanned the breathtaking expanse of the room. It was magnificent. She had fully expected a northern library to be a damp, neglected vault filled with rotting military ledgers and decaying maps, but the room before her was a meticulously maintained testament to high intellect. Towering shelves of polished mahogany stretched toward a vaulted ceiling, packed tightly with thousands of leather-bound volumes, while warm, golden light radiated from numerous iron chandeliers. The distinct, comforting scent of old parchment and expensive leather filled the air, completely devoid of dust or decay.

Sigrid began to walk slowly down the central aisle, her fingers lightly brushing against the spines of the ancient books as Soren followed a few paces behind her, his heavy footsteps a steady anchor in the quiet room. "You are permitted to utilize this sanctuary at any hour of your choosing, Sigrid," Soren spoke, his deep, rumbling voice breaking the silence with a rare touch of quiet hospitality.

Sigrid turned her head slightly, offering him a serene, appreciative smile as she continued her slow progression down the long aisle, though her mind remained entirely occupied by the mystery of Maria’s expression. She didn’t even know what specific title her eyes were searching for on the crowded shelves. Why does Maria possess information she has no logical right to know? she pondered desperately.

Sigrid then stopped in her tracks. She turned fully to face the towering warlord, who stood perfectly still in the center of the aisle, patiently observing her movements as he began. "Tell me, Duchess,"

"Hmm," Sigrid only replied back.

"What is it that you are searching for so diligently tonight, Duchess?" Soren asked evenly, his icy gaze pinning her in place.

Sigrid offered a faint, enigmatic smile. "Information, primarily. Tell me... in your vast experience with the strange anomalies of this world, is it considered possible for a mortal being to catch glimpses of a future that has not yet transpired? Not the entirety of the timeline, perhaps, but a distinct portion of it?"

Internally, Sigrid felt a sharp pang of self-doubt for posing such a bizarre, cryptic question to her new husband, but her desperation for answers outweighed her caution. She knew for a fact that Maria did not comprehend the reality of their altered timeline—the girl clearly believed this was her first and only life—which meant her knowledge was not born of rebirth. As Sigrid stood suspended in her thoughts, Soren’s deep voice resonated through the quiet aisles, shattering her internal monologue. "It is entirely possible," the Duke stated calmly, his expression remaining perfectly steady.

Sigrid’s crimson eyes widened by a fraction, her posture instantly rigidifying. "What?" she muttered, barely keeping her voice above a whisper. Soren closed the distance between them, his towering form casting a long shadow over her as he explained. "There exists a rare, volatile affliction among certain lineages across the realms. Some children are born possessing a specific, latent ability to perceive fragments of a future timeline—specifically, events that directly correlate to their own desires and existence. The scholars of the high temples classify such individuals as the ’Gifted.’"

High temples? The church? Sigrid thought internally.

Sigrid felt the pieces of the puzzle finally lock into place, bringing a sharp clarity to Maria’s entire history. A Gifted creature, she realized, her mind working through the tactical implications. That is why her maneuvers have always been so dangerously precise.

"However," Soren continued, his voice dropping into a lower, darker cadence, "their sight is fundamentally flawed. They are entirely incapable of perceiving the complete, unaltered future of the world. They are granted sight only up to the exact moment they achieve the grand future they idolize the most. If a lowborn girl desires above all else to secure the hand of an imperial prince and claim a crown, her visions will guide her seamlessly until that throne is within her grasp. The moment her ultimate desire is achieved, the vision terminates into a permanent, unreadable blank slate." He paused, his icy gaze narrowing slightly as he studied Sigrid’s intense reaction. "Conversely, the more unfortunate victims of this gift are cursed to see only the future they despise and fear the most, their minds trapped by the singular image of their own ruin."

Sigrid’s breath caught in her throat, a cold, profound satisfaction washing over her as she finally understood the full extent of Maria’s limitations. If Maria was merely a "Gifted" child whose visions ended the moment she secured Ragnar and orchestrated Sigrid’s original execution, then everything that occurred after that point was a complete mystery to her. She had no knowledge of the true destruction that followed, nor did she comprehend that Sigrid had been brought back by a god.

Yet, as the silence stretched between them, a new, sharp suspicion pierced through Sigrid’s thoughts. She frowned slightly, her crimson eyes narrowing as she looked up at the formidable warlord standing before her. How could a man isolated in the brutal, uncultured northern wastes possess such an intricate, highly advanced understanding of such a rare phenomenon? "If I may be so bold as to inquire, Your Grace," Sigrid murmured, her voice laced with a sharp, calculating curiosity, "how is it that a Lord of the North knows the mysteries of this rare gift so thoroughly?" Soren looked down at her, his flawless, rugged features shifting into a deeply puzzling, unreadable expression that left Sigrid entirely suspended in the quiet warmth of the library.