Chapter 54: Snowdrops

Chapter 54

The icy breeze of the northern territory swept over the estate grounds, rustling the high frosted hedges that bordered the private gardens of the ducal fortress. Clad in a heavy mantle of fox fur draped over her dark violet gown, Sigrid strolled along the cobblestone path with slow, deliberate steps. Behind her, Lilith and Chester kept a respectful distance, their boots crunching softly against the dusting of snow that covered the stone. A quiet sigh slipped through Sigrid’s lips into the frigid air. Boredom had settled deep within her chest over the course of the morning; with Soren away at the capital barracks to oversee his final duties, the vast fortress felt unnaturally quiet. There were no courtly intriguers to outmaneuver within these thick stone walls, no foolish stepsisters attempting to poison her standing, and the silence left her thoughts wandering too freely.

Pausing beside a carefully sculpted stone bench, Sigrid turned her gaze slightly toward her maid. "Lilith," she began, her tone measured and calm, "has the missive regarding the official date of my union with the Duke been dispatched to Lady Marigold?"

Lilith bowed her head gracefully, clasping her hands before her apron. "Yes, Milady. The courier departed at dawn with your sealed letter. Lady Marigold shall receive the glad tidings before the day wanes."

Sigrid offered a slight, satisfied nod, adjusting her fur trim. "Good. She is one of the few within the capital whose presence I shall tolerate at the altar." Sigrid paused, her crimson eyes shifting toward the stoic knight beside her maid. "Tell me, Chester... do you possess knowledge of whom my Lord Duke intends to invite to our union?"

Chester offered a low, respectful bow, his hand resting casually upon the pommel of his broadsword. "His Grace has forged few bonds with the noble houses of the capital, Duchess, owing largely to the venomous rumors that shadow his name. Save for his comrades-in-arms and the men who ride beneath his banner—soldiers who would willingly shed their final drop of blood for his command, myself included—the guest list shall remain small."

Sigrid absorbed his words silently, a faint, thoughtful light flickering in her gaze. A lord who commands such fierce, unyielding devotion from his men cannot be the simple, mindless executioner the court paints him to be, she reflected inwardly. He is a far better sovereign to his soldiers than Ragnar ever hoped to be to his knights or his subjects.

Turning her attention back to the garden path, Sigrid knelt slightly near a patch of frozen earth where delicate white petals pushed through the snow. She reached out with her uninjured hand, plucking a single stem with practiced care. "Snowdrops," she muttered under her breath, admiring the fragile bloom. "A peculiar flower that blooms only during the harshest depths of winter in the southern territories, yet thrives perpetually here in the North." As she inspected the blossom, her eyes caught the center of the flower—a vivid, glistening blue bulb that instantly brought Soren’s deep, piercing gaze to her mind.

Before her daze could deepen, a sudden harsh murmur of elevated voices echoed faintly from beyond the high stone gates of the estate, shattering the tranquil calm of the gardens. Sigrid straightened her posture, her brow furrowing in curiosity as the distant commotion grew louder. "Chester, what transpires near the outer gates?" she inquired.

Chester bowed instantly. "Allow me to investigate the disturbance, Your Grace." He departed swiftly toward the grand archway, returning a short moment later with a formal expression. "It appears several commoners are engaged in a heated quarrel near the lower market boundary, just beyond our private drive."

Sigrid tilted her head, her interest piqued. "Lead me there, Chester." The knight hesitated for a fraction of a second, concerned for her safety, but ultimately bowed and led the way through the iron gates toward the border where the ducal estate met the common settlement. As they walked down the sloping stone path, Sigrid observed the humble timber houses and narrow dirt streets of the northern town. A quiet realization hit her—despite her upcoming union with the warlord who governed these lands, this was the very first time she had set foot within the territory itself. In her relentless pursuit of vengeance against Isabel, Maria and the other lor, she had utterly neglected her fundamental duties as the Duchess of Aethermor.

Following the sound of harsh shouting, they arrived outside a wooden spice stall where two middle-aged men stood chest-to-chest, gesticulating wildly as a crowd of onlookers began to gather. Sigrid gestured subtly to Chester, who stepped forward with authority, shoving his broad frame between the two brawling citizens and forcing them apart.

The two men, flushed with anger and breathing heavily, glared furiously at the knight before turning their wrath toward Sigrid. "Who d’you think you are, buttin’ in like that, girl?" one of the men barked coarsely, his voice rough from the cold. "Mind your own business and clear off, brat!"

Sigrid did not flinch, nor did her expression darken with rage. She understood all too well how raw frustration could blind a man’s judgment to his surroundings. Stepping forward with immaculate grace, she folded her hands over her violet skirts, her red eyes locking onto the two men with absolute authority. "I am Duchess Sigrid Thea Aethermor, betrothed to your Duke," she declared, her voice ringing crisp and clear over the chilly market square. "As the mistress of this domain, I possess every right to demand why you disturb the peace of my territory with such uncouth shouting."

The two men froze instantly, the blood draining from their weathered faces as they recognized the heavy ducal crest embroidered upon Chester’s mantle. Panicking, both men immediately dropped to their knees in the snow, bowing their heads frantically. "Forgive us, Your Grace!" the first man stammered in terror. "We didn’t mean no disrespect to your ladyship, truly! We had no idea who stood before us, we swear it!"

Sigrid raised a hand, cutting off their panicked apologies. "Rise. Your ignorance is forgiven for now. Speak plainly—what has caused such bitter strife between you?"

The first man stood up nervously, dusting off his worn trousers with trembling hands. "Your Grace... I come to this stall all the time, see, and I put down good coin in advance to hold a measure of salt and spices with the shopmaster himself. But the old master wasn’t here today, and his helper went and sold my set-aside portion to this man right here. I only asked him to give back what was rightly spoken for, but he just sits there stubborn as a mule!"

Sigrid turned her sharp gaze to the second man, who remained standing with a defensive posture, clutching a small linen pouch tightly against his chest. "And what say you?" Sigrid asked smoothly. "Is his account truthful?"

The second man swallowed hard, bowing his head in deep humility as he pulled his threadbare coat tighter around himself. "It’s true enough, Your Grace. But I beg you to hear me out... my little ones have been supping on watery, unseasoned broth for months on end. They’ve been crying out for just one decent meal with a bit of flavor. I know he’s furious, I do, but as a father, I just can’t bring myself to hand over the only pinch of spice I’ve managed to lay hands on after weeks of waiting."

Sigrid’s brow furrowed tightly. Neither man was acting out of malice; both were driven by simple desperation for basic necessities. Turning toward Chester, her voice dipped into a serious tone. "Chester... is the Northern territory truly suffering from such a severe scarcity of fundamental goods like salt and spice?"

Chester frowned, lowering his eyes in silent admission. "Regrettably, yes, Your Grace. Because the North lies far from the central trade routes and suffers perpetual winter, southern merchant guilds rarely travel to our markets to sell raw commodities. Furthermore... His Grace has been continuously summoned to imperial wars and border expeditions over the past several years. In his prolonged absence, management of the territory’s trade fell upon Lady Hildegard."

Sigrid’s crimson eyes narrowed dangerously at the mention of the Duke’s supposed mother. "And how did Lady Hildegard manage these affairs?"

"She did not, Milady," Chester answered bluntly. "Lady Hildegard cared nothing for the welfare of the northern populace. She diverted trade funds to import luxury silks for herself and ignored the appeals of the local guilds entirely."

Sigrid turned back to the two commoners, her heart heavy with sudden realization. "Why did you not bring this grievance directly to Duke Soren upon his return?" she asked the old shop patron.

The man offered a sad, weary smile, shaking his head. "We’ve tried, Your Grace, more times than I can count. But every time we walk up to them massive fortress gates, the stewards just shove us back, shouting that high lords don’t care to be bothered by common folk fussing over salt. We had no notion the Duke himself was kept blind to what’s happening down here."

A cold, sharp anger ignited deep within Sigrid’s chest as she looked around at the humble, shivering crowd gathered around her. She had spent her past life surrounded by royal luxury even when she became Sovereign she was draped in luxury but she never once neglected her duties as Queen. The people of the North were resilient, loyal, and brave—yet they were suffering under the lingering neglect of a selfish woman and the chaotic demands of a war-torn realm. She would not let her people continue to suffer like this.