Chapter 48: My heartiest thanks, my ducal armrest.

Chapter 48

Soren slowly raised himself back to his full, towering height, his brow furrowing deeply as he looked down at his Duchess, the steel of his sword gleaming inches from the shivering noblewoman’s neck. "Why?" the Duke demanded, his voice a low, rumble that vibrated through the enclosed booth. "She drew blood from your flesh. Treason against the ducal house is paid in execution."

Sigrid did not flinch beneath his imposing gaze, maintaining her serene, regal composure. "A swift death would hardly satisfy the debt she owes me, my lord," Sigrid replied softly, her crimson eyes flickering with a cold, calculated malice. "I intend to teach Lady Isabel a thoroughly unforgettable lesson. Furthermore, executing a viscount’s daughter inside a public establishment in the capital will only invite unnecessary rumors and political scrutiny—disruptions I have no desire to navigate at present."

Soren stared at her, his icy eyes searching her face as he weighed her words, clearly torn between his instinct for immediate vengeance and her tactical restraint. Seeing his hesitation, Sigrid offered a faint, reassuring smile. "Do not fret, husband. Her punishment will be far more exquisite than a quick blade."

Soren held her gaze for a quiet moment before letting out a sharp exhale. "As you wish," he muttered, sheathing his heavy sword with a loud, metallic click.

The Duke turned his attention toward Commander Chester, his demeanor instantly shifting into a dark, terrifying fury that dwarfed the tension from moments before. "How could you allow your mistress to suffer such an injury in your direct presence?" Soren barked, his voice laced with absolute disgust. "Are you not ashamed to call yourself a knight of the North, failing to shield your Duchess from a mere fruit knife?"

Chester immediately dropped to one knee, his head bowed low against the plush rug as his face flushed with deep humiliation. "I offer no excuses, Your Grace. I have failed in my primary duty, and I stand ready to bear whatever judgment you deem fit," Chester spoke, his tone heavy with genuine remorse. Sigrid watched the exchange with quiet fascination, noting the absolute, unquestioning obedience Soren commanded from his men.

Stepping forward, she intervened gently. "Do not be overly harsh with him, Soren. I explicitly commanded him to stand down. Neither he nor I anticipated that a noble lady would resort to such unhinged madness over a minor verbal dispute."

Soren closed his eyes briefly, taking a slow breath before opening them to lock onto Chester. "You will still answer for your lapse in vigilance upon our return, Commander, though your punishment shall be tempered by the Duchess’s mercy."

Chester rose, offering a deep, respectful bow toward Sigrid. "My eternal gratitude, Your Grace," he murmured. Sigrid gave a brief nod before gesturing toward the far corner of the room. "Express your gratitude by securing our guest. It appears Lady Isabel is attempting a rather pathetic escape." Chester turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Isabel crawling frantically toward the half-open doorway in a desperate bid for freedom. Before the girl could reach the threshold, Chester closed the distance in two broad strides, lifting her off the floor by her collar. Isabel flailed her arms and kicked her silk-clad legs frantically, shrieking curses, but the knight’s grip was absolute. Within moments, he had bound her wrists securely behind her back with heavy leather cords, reducing the viscount’s daughter to a sobbing, immobile bundle on the floor.

Soren’s eyes shifted back to Sigrid, lingering on the blood-soaked linen wrapped around her hand. Reaching into his heavy coat, he pulled out a pristine, thick silk handkerchief and stepped closer to her. Without asking for permission, he gently took her injured wrist into his large, calloused hand. His movements were surprisingly deft and deliberate as he wrapped the cloth tightly over Lilith’s makeshift bandage, securing the knot with professional precision to stanch the lingering bleed. "We shall discuss the full details of this incident once we are back at the North," Soren said softly, his thumb lingering briefly near her pulse before he released her.

Sigrid smiled faintly, quite eager herself to learn how the Duke had managed to track her to this precise tea house. Leaving the booth, Lilith followed closely behind while carefully holding the wrapped bridal gown, while Chester dragged the sullen, weeping Lady Isabel behind them. As they crossed the threshold of the grand entrance, Sigrid caught sight of Commander Orion handing a heavy leather sack of gold coins to the trembling, bowed manager. Sigrid let out a quiet tsk, her eyes narrowing as she murmured under her breath, "That snob shall answer for his insolence as well, but his time will come."

Stepping out into the crisp air, Sigrid began moving toward her own private carriage, but Soren’s firm voice halted her steps. "You will ride with me, Duchess." Sigrid offered no argument, simply nodding as the Duke offered his hand to assist her up the high wooden steps of his grand, crest-embossed carriage. Once the heavy wooden door shut and the horses lurked forward, setting off on the long journey back toward the northern territories, the silence between them deepened.

Sigrid leaned back against the plush leather seating, but the persistent, throbbing agony radiating from her palm made it nearly impossible to find a comfortable posture. She shifted repeatedly, struggling to position her arm in a way that wouldn’t jar the wound with every bump in the road.

Soren observed her silent struggle for several minutes before speaking softly into the quiet cabin. "Does the hand pain you so severely?"

Sigrid stiffened slightly, adjusting her posture. "It is merely a persistent ache, my lord. Nothing I cannot endure."

Soren shook his head, a faint, exasperated sigh escaping his lips. "Why suffer in silence when you have the means to alleviate it?"

Sigrid turned her gaze to him, raising an eyebrow. "Showing discomfort over a minor wound would be a display of weakness."

Soren scoffed lightly at her response. "Seeking comfort is not a sign of weakness, Sigrid. It is simply taking full advantage of possessing a formidable husband."

A genuine laugh escaped Sigrid’s lips, shattering her formal composure. "Well then, my Lord, do you possess some grand military strategy to keep a bleeding hand steady on a bumpy carriage ride?"

Soren placed his hand against his broad chin, appearing genuinely thoughtful for a moment before shifting his position on the bench. He extended his arm, patting his side. "Rest against me. You can prop your forearm across my chest, which will keep the hand elevated and completely still."

Sigrid hesitated for a fraction of a second before leaning into his side, adjusting her weight until her head rested comfortably against his shoulder, her wrapped hand cradled safely against his firm chest. Finding the position remarkably cozy, she let out a soft, contented breath. "Who could have foretold that the feared Iron Duke of the North doubles as such an exquisite armrest?"

Soren’s deep voice rumbled beneath her ear, carrying a rare thread of amusement. "Neither did I anticipate fulfilling such a domestic title."

Sigrid giggled softly, the heavy exhaustion from the day’s ordeal finally catching up to her as the pain began to numb beneath his warmth. "My heartiest thanks, my ducal armrest," she murmured sleepily. Within minutes, the rhythmic swaying of the carriage and the steady, comforting beat of Soren’s heart lulled her into a deep, dreamless slumber.

When Sigrid finally opened her eyes, the familiar wooden ceiling of her personal chambers at the northern fortress greeted her. She blinked away the lingering fog of sleep, sitting up slowly on the massive feather bed. Panic briefly flickered through her chest as she realized she was entirely alone in her private quarters—she had allowed herself to fall completely unconscious and defenseless in the presence of others, a mistake she had vowed never to make in this second life. She looked down at her right hand, noting that the rough linen and handkerchief had been replaced by a immaculate, professionally wrapped medical bandage that held her palm securely immobilized.

Before she could dwell further on her carelessness, the heavy double doors of the chamber swung open. Soren stepped into the room, instantly catching her off guard. Gone was his intimidating, heavy steel armor and official fur-lined travel cloak. Instead, he wore a simple, loose-fitting linen shirt and dark trousers. Without the bulky armor, his broad shoulders and formidable frame seemed subtly softer, though he still effortlessly commanded the entire room.

The moment his icy blue eyes met her awake gaze, he paused on the threshold, turned around without a single word, and vanished back into the corridor. Sigrid sat frozen in place, utterly bewildered by his strange behavior. A few minutes later, the doors opened once more, and the Duke re-entered the chamber, carrying a steaming wooden bowl of warm porridge in his hands.