Chapter 49: To be fed by a duke.

Chapter 49

Soren crossed the expanse of the bedchamber with steady, unhurried strides, holding the wooden bowl of steaming porridge with surprising care for a man whose hands were built for war. Sigrid remained frozen against the soft pillows, her crimson eyes tracking his every movement in complete, bewildered silence. Without offering a word of explanation, the Duke dragged a carved oak stool toward the edge of the mattress, sat down, and deliberately scooped a small portion of the warm grain into a silver spoon. He raised it to his lips, blowing softly across the steam before extending it toward her mouth.

Unable to endure the sheer absurdity of the silence any longer, Sigrid leaned back slightly, her brow furrowing in exasperation. "Soren, what in the realm is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her voice crisp despite her lingering fatigue.

Soren paused, the silver spoon hovering midway between them, and looked at her with genuine, unblinking confusion. "Your dominant arm is heavily bandaged, Duchess," he replied matter-of-factly, as though stating the position of the sun. "The royal physician inspected your wound while you slept and explicitly commanded that you nourish yourself upon waking. Therefore, I am feeding you."

Sigrid stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she gestured toward the door with her uninjured hand. "Be that as it may, where is Lilith? Why must the Duke of the North personally fulfill the duties of a personal attendant?"

Soren lowered the spoon back into the bowl with a quiet sigh, his dark brow knitting together. "I ordered your maid to her quarters to rest. The girl was shaking like a leaf, entirely overcome by the sight of your blood. I reasoned she was in no state to attend to you properly." He paused, his icy blue eyes darkening with a heavy, troubled weight. "Furthermore, Lilith appeared to be the only servant you trust with your personal care. I knew you would reject any other maid entering your private chambers, so I took the task upon myself. Besides... Chester informed me of everything that transpired in that tea house. All that was said regarding our marriage."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as Soren’s voice lowered into a gravelly, self-reproachful murmur. "It was due to my absence—my summons to the royal palace barracks that those vultures presumed you were abandoned. It opened the door for that foolish girl to treat the Duchess of Aethermor with such appalling disrespect."

Sigrid’s expression softened, her defensive posture easing as she recognized the deep sense of honor troubling him. "Your Grace, you burden yourself unnecessarily," she insisted gently. "You could hardly ignore a direct summons from the Crown, nor could you have anticipated the snobbery of a capital merchant. The fault lies entirely with those who dared cross the line of decorum, not with your duty to the realm."

Soren did not look entirely convinced. "That may be true, yet you ventured out to inspect your bridal finery alone," he countered, his tone laced with a solemn, unyielding regret. "Orion mentioned to me that highborn ladies place great value on being accompanied by their betrothed for such occasions. You may present yourself as an unyielding sovereign who cares nothing for courtly trivialities, but the undeniable truth remains that a husband should have stood by your side."

Sigrid looked closely at his stoic face, observing the quiet sincerity in his eyes. A soft, introspective silence settled over her. Truthfully, a small part of her had indeed felt the sting of inspecting her bridal gown alone. Yet, from her past life as a neglected queen, she understood all too well the heavy burdens of governance. She had once been so consumed by royal duties that she failed to entertain Prince Ragnar, a distant coldness that had ultimately fueled his resentment toward her. Soren’s genuine concern was a stark, bewildering contrast to the man she had known in another lifetime. Letting out a soft, defeated sigh, Sigrid yielded to his stubborn attentiveness. "Very well, my Lord Duke. If it eases your troubled conscience, you may feed me."

A subtle flick of satisfaction danced across Soren’s features as he nodded, lifting the spoon once more. He fed her with patient, methodical care, ensuring the porridge was cooled to perfection before offering each bite. Sigrid accepted the nourishment in silence, adjusting to the unexpected intimacy of the moment. Once the bowl was emptied, Soren rose, stepped out into the corridor for a brief second to hand the dish to a waiting servant, and returned to the bedside.

Sigrid glanced down at the soft, unfamiliar emerald gown draped over her "Who changed my garments while I was unconscious?" she asked. ’Not that Sigrid gave it much thought, she was just intrigued’ Sigrid thought.

Soren folded his arms across his chest, remaining entirely unbothered. "Set your mind at ease, Duchess. I instructed two of the senior housemaids to dress you after I carried you into the fortress." Sigrid suppressed an urge to groan aloud, internally cursing her luck. It mortified her to think she had been carried through her own manor in a state of helpless slumber, lifted princess-style by the formidable Iron Duke for the second time since her arrival.

Deciding it was best not to dwell on her bruised pride, Sigrid looked up at him with renewed curiosity. "Tell me, how did you chance upon that specific private booth? I doubt you frequent common tea houses for confectioneries."

Soren allowed a rare, dry chuckle to escape his lips. "Truth be told, I had no knowledge of your presence there. I entered the establishment simply because I overheard palace nobles ladies boasting of their imported tea leaves, and I intended to purchase a blend for you. However, the distinct stench of fresh copper and blood drawing from the upper corridor alerted my senses. To cross the threshold and discover my own wife bleeding while calmly holding a bloody knife... you will never cease to astonish me, Sigrid."

A genuine, faint smile touched Sigrid’s lips as she met his steady gaze. "I shall take that as a compliment, Your Grace." Eager to regain her footing, Sigrid swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, attempting to stand. However, a sudden wave of dizziness hit her, causing her knees to buckle slightly.

Before she could stumble, Soren’s large, calloused hands caught her securely by the waist, steadying her upright with effortless strength. "Careful," he warned softly. Sigrid offered a quiet word of thanks, to which Soren merely replied, "It is my duty to support you."

Once her footing was secure, Sigrid turned her thoughts back to the lingering thread of justice waiting to be executed. Her crimson eyes glinted with a sharp, dangerous light. "What of the treasonous viscount’s daughter?" she inquired.

Soren’s expression hardened back into a icy mask. "She is currently bound and secured within the subterranean cells beneath the fortress."

A cruel, beautiful smile spread across Sigrid’s lips. "Exquisite. Escort me there, Soren. I believe it is high time I visit my prisoner." Understanding her intent immediately, Soren offered his sturdy arm for support, and together, the Duke and Duchess walked side by side down into the dark, stone depths of the northern dungeons.