Chapter 47: Caught in the Snare [2]

Chapter 47

The agonizing sting radiating through her flesh was instantly eclipsed by the overwhelming thrill of absolute triumph. Sigrid slowly turned her head back toward Isabel, her lips curling into a cruel, utterly terrifying smile that shattered what little was left of the younger woman’s composure. Isabel gasped, taking a panicked step back as her eyes locked onto Sigrid’s dark, unblinking red gaze. To Sigrid, the sight of Isabel’s trembling frame and horror-stricken face was an intoxicating elixir. She was been bound by moral constraints, agonizing over the ethics of striking down foes who had yet to commit their future sins. Yet now, Isabel had rendered all hesitation obsolete. By brandishing a blade against a Duchess of the realm, the foolish girl had willingly signed her own warrant, proving that her wretched, malicious nature remained entirely unchanged across time.

A sharp gasp tore through the suffocating silence of the booth. Lilith stood paralyzed near the corner, tears welling in her eyes as she stared in utter horror at the crimson pool spreading across the mahogany table. Beside her, Commander Chester’s face contorted into a mask of pure, murderous rage. His hand flew to the hilt of his weapon, the metallic scrape of steel echoing sharply as he prepared to unsheathe his blade.

"Hold your steel, Commander," Sigrid’s voice rang out, remarkably steady despite the burning torment in her hand. Chester hesitated, his eyes flashing with lethal intent before he reluctantly drove his sword back into its scabbard. He fixed Isabel with a glare so devoid of mercy that the terrified noblewoman lost her footing entirely, collapsing onto the plush rug in a pathetic heap of trembling silks and breathless sobs.

Internally, Sigrid braced herself for the physical ordeal to come. Though her composure remained absolute, the sheer pain of the iron driving straight through her palm was excruciating. Leaving the blade embedded was a weakness she refused to display; she would not allow Isabel the satisfaction of seeing her falter. Steeling her resolve, Sigrid gripped the ivory hilt with her left hand, taking a deep, quiet breath before pulling the bloody fruit knife free in one swift, agonizing motion. Hot crimson erupted anew, splattering against the wood and her fine skirts, yet Sigrid did not emit so much as a whimper. Her hand rose from the table, trembling slightly under the sheer agony of the exposed wound as blood dripped rhythmically onto the carpet.

The sharp movement snapped Lilith out of her shocked paralysis. Trembling violently, the young maid rushed to her mistress’s side, tears spilling over her flushed cheeks. Without a moment’s hesitation, Lilith tore a long strip of linen from her white apron, pressing it firmly against the gaping wound. Though the makeshift bandage soaked through almost immediately, it managed to stem the primary flow of blood.

Sigrid offered her maid a faint, approving nod before taking a slow, deliberate step toward the shivering girl cowering on the floor. Isabel gaped up at her in utter disbelief, utterly horrified by the unnatural, cold indifference Sigrid had displayed while drawing the blade from her own flesh.

Sigrid raised her uninjured hand, holding the blood-stained fruit knife between her fingers as she looked down at the viscount’s daughter like a sovereign passing judgment upon a traitor. "Lady Isabel Warwick," Sigrid spoke, her voice echoing with a terrifying, aristocratic weight that filled every corner of the booth. "You have committed unforgivable transgressions this day. You have hurled vile insults against my person, addressed the Duchess of Aethermor in a manner beneath even the lowest of commoners, and above all, you have attempted to take my life. Such treasonous insolence carries a singular penalty, and you shall answer for it in full."

Sigrid opened her lips to command Chester to bind the weeping noblewoman, but before the words could form, the heavy mahogany doors of the private booth were violently thrown open. A tall, imposing silhouette filled the threshold, flanked closely by the grim, stoic figure of Commander Orion.

Soren’s piercing, icy blue eyes swept over the room, taking in the blood-splattered table, the torn linen, and the heavy scent of copper hanging in the air. The moment his gaze locked onto the scene, Isabel seemed to regain a desperate, frantic surge of energy. Scrambling to her feet with reckless speed, she hurled herself directly toward the Duke, flinging her arms out as she launched her trembling body against his chest. "Your Grace! Please, you must save me!" Isabel shrieked hysterically, her voice shrill with manic terror as she pointed a shaking, tear-stained finger toward Sigrid’s back. "Save me from this monstrous woman! This witch is insane—she is trying to murder me!"

Sigrid turned slowly, sensing the unmistakable aura of Soren’s formidable presence, only to find the Duke standing frozen near the threshold with a deep, storm-like frown etched across his features. Lady Isabel remained frantically clutched to his travel-stained cloak, her shrill voice echoing off the mahogany paneling. "Save me from this monstrous witch, Your Grace! She has lost her mind entirely—she inflicted that gruesome wound upon her own flesh, and now seeks to murder me in a fit of wild, unnatural jealousy!"

Sigrid raised a single eyebrow in quiet astonishment, amazed that the girl’s desperation could yield such a poorly constructed falsehood. Observing Isabel’s face, Sigrid noted that the sheer terror from moments prior had vanished, replaced by a reckless confidence born of the delusion that the Duke would act as her noble savior without knowing his true identity. She truly is a monumental fool, Sigrid thought silently, her gaze shifting toward Soren. The Duke had yet to utter a single word, remaining completely stoic as he neither offered comfort to the sobbing viscount’s daughter nor directed accusations toward his wife.

A faint, chilling smile touched Sigrid’s lips as she broke the heavy silence. "My lord husband," she spoke, her voice carrying an effortless, regal cadence, "might I request that you disentangle yourself from another woman’s embrace? The sight displeases me immensely, particularly when the woman in question is as utterly wretched as she."

Isabel’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief at the casual audacity of the address. Soren’s gaze darkened further as he responded with a low, gravelly tone, "My apologies, Duchess." With a single, brutal shove, he threw Isabel off his chest, sending the girl sprawling onto the floor. "Explain the meaning of this carnage," Soren demanded coldly.

In response, Sigrid calmly elevated her right arm, allowing the bloody linen wrapped around her hand to catch the light. "As you can plainly observe, I was brutally attacked."

Soren’s icy blue eyes widened by a fraction as the bloody sight registered, and a terrifying, lethal aura instantly consumed the room. Before Sigrid could even process his sudden movement, the Duke’s hand moved like lightning, unsheathing his heavy steel blade with a deafening metallic clash. The sword whistled through the air, aimed squarely for Isabel’s exposed neck, moving at a speed so absolute that the terrified noblewoman could not even scream. "Do not dare!" Sigrid’s voice rang out like a sharp command, halting the lethal edge merely an inch from the weeping girl’s pale throat.