Chapter 59: Weaponized Incompetence.

Chapter 59

Stepping into the grand hall, the suffocating chill of the courtyard faded into the ambient warmth of the fireplace. Soren maintained a firm, protective grip on Sigrid’s hand, his thumb resting gently against her knuckles as they traversed the quiet corridors. "Do you feel weary, Duchess?" he asked softly, his deep voice cutting through the stillness.

Sigrid shook her head gently, offering a serene expression. "Do not fret for me, my Lord. It is you who has endured an exhausting journey from the capital, only to spend the night purging the fortress. You require rest far more than I."

Soren’s lips twitched into a subtle, stoic line. "The battlefield has conditioned my body to endure days without slumber. A single restless night is of little consequence."

Sigrid frowned slightly at his obstinacy, yet she allowed him to lead her down a secluded wing of the keep until they halted before a set of grand mahogany doors. Soren pushed the doors open, revealing a spacious, dimly lit study lined with towering bookshelves and heavy velvet drapes.

Sigrid released his hand, stepping forward to take in her surroundings, noting that this was her very first time entering his personal sanctuary. She wandered toward the grand display cases along the wall, her crimson eyes sweeping over the gleaming war medals, ornate ceremonial daggers, and rare trophies bestowed upon him after victorious border campaigns. "You are truly an extraordinary commander, Soren," she murmured, a touch of genuine admiration lacing her tone.

Soren watched her silently before gesturing toward a plush velvet armchair across from his grand oak desk. "Please, sit."

Once Sigrid settled gracefully into the chair, Soren took his seat behind the desk, silently motioning for Orion to close the heavy doors. Sigrid turned toward her own attendants, instructing Lilith and Chester to maintain watch in the corridor outside.

With privacy secured, Soren leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk as his expression darkened with solemnity. "First, I must extend my formal apologies for the wretched behavior of those two servants. It was a grave dishonor."

Sigrid tilted her head, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. "Why apologize for treason you did not orchestrate, my Lord? You did not command them to lace my cup with poison."

Soren shook his head, his tone resolute. "I am the master of this house. Their actions reflect a failure in my domain."

Sigrid’s smile softened into something far more genuine. "You are remarkably earnest, Duke Soren. Very well, your apology is accepted."

Soren gave a firm nod, though his icy blue eyes remained fixated on her with intense curiosity. "Furthermore... how were you able to discern the presence of Nightshade so instantly? A noble lady of your standing should have no familiarity with such lethal poison."

Internally, Sigrid’s thoughts raced back to her past life as Queen, an era where constant assassination attempts and poisoned chalices were a daily hazard—threats she had suffered through until she mastered every scent and property of venom. Masking her dark memories, she met his gaze with practiced innocence. "A cautious mind learns to recognize danger purely out of necessity, my Lord. It is best to be prepared for the worst."

Soren stared at her for a long moment, a subtle glint of intrigue in his eyes. "You remain an endless source of astonishment, Duchess."

Sigrid let out a quiet laugh, adjusting her velvet skirts. "And you are equally full of surprises. However, let us return to the matter we began yesterday—the neglect of your people."

Sigrid’s posture straightened, her expression shifting into one of sharp, political command. "The suffering of your citizens is a direct consequence of your oversight, Soren. Tell me, when you return victorious from bloody campaigns, what spoils does the Crown bestow upon you?"

Soren brow furrowed tightly. "Gold bars and imperial medals of honor. What else should I expect?"

Sigrid let out a heavy sigh, resting her chin upon her hand. "The Crown is deliberately weaponizing your ignorance to shackle your domain. Standard royal protocol dictates that war victories are rewarded with skilled laborers, trade concessions, and liquid assets. Gold bars, while precious, is functionally useless to common merchants. Money changers in Arkovia lack the liquid currency to convert raw bars, fearing fraud or theft. Without fluid capital, your merchants cannot import essential goods like salt, spices, or basic luxuries. The royal family is systematically choking your economy to keep House Aethermor stagnant."

Sigrid paused, her mind calculating the true depth of the monarchy’s maneuver. While it makes sense for the Crown to suppress a powerful Duke so as to not rival them, this strategy feels far too petty and calculated. It is personal rather than political. Returning her focus to Soren, she spoke plainly. "They exploit the fact that you do not demand proper trade rewards—a clear case of weaponized incompetence."

Soren’s eyes narrowed instantly, his voice dropping into a stern rumble. "Are you insulting your Duke?"

Sigrid looked up at him, entirely unfazed. "I speak only the truth, my Lord. You are a master of war, yet oblivious to economic warfare. But worry not; as your Duchess, I shall rectify this immediately."

Soren looked genuinely perplexed. "What do you propose?"

"I shall assume full authority over all financial matters regarding the fortress and the domain’s commerce," Sigrid declared with absolute confidence. "Furthermore, I require your permission to dismiss any administrative staff I deem unfit."

Soren blinked, his stoic facade cracking slightly. "Permission? Sigrid, you are my Duchess. That authority was inherently yours the moment our betrothal was sealed."

Sigrid’s eyes widened in genuine shock, and before she could stop herself, a bitter reflex from her past life slipped past her lips. "Even though I am a woman...?" She gasped softly, immediately clapping both hands over her mouth as horror at her own slip of the tongue washed over her.

Soren stood up from his desk, walking around the polished wood until he towered beside her chair. "You are my Duchess, my equal," he said firmly, his deep voice carrying an absolute, unbreakable conviction. "On the battlefield, I measure worth by capability, not by gender. Why would I apply such foolish scrutiny to my wife, who has proven herself extraordinarily brilliant time and again? Even if you possessed no talent for governance, your standing beside me would remain unquestioned."

Sigrid froze, her heart hammering against her ribs as suppressed memories surged to the surface. She recalled her years beside Ragnar—how every brilliant strategy, every financial reform, and every military maneuver she conceived had been met with harsh laughter and the same crushing phrase: ’You are merely a woman, do not dream so high.’ She had been forced to operate in the shadows, orchestrating victories from behind the curtain while letting a lesser man claim the glory. To hear this formidable warlord validate her intelligence so effortlessly shattered a wall she had built around her heart. Tears welled in her crimson eyes, spilling down her pale cheeks in silent, overwhelming waves.

Sigrid scowled internally, furious with her sudden vulnerability. Baffling... why am I weeping over simple words? Before she could wipe the moisture away, Soren was already kneeling before her. His broad, calloused warm hands gently cupped her face, his thumbs brushing away the fallen tears. His expression remained utterly stoic and emotionless, creating a stark, comical contrast with the tender care of his touch. "Why do you weep Duchess?" He asked.

Sigrid let out a wet, breathless chuckle at the sight. "I am merely... deeply moved by your words, Soren." Soren’s dark brows pulled together in quiet confusion, unable to comprehend why noble praise would cause such sorrow.

Without a word, Soren gathered her into his arms, lifting her effortlessly from the armchair and sitting down with her resting securely in his lap. He raised his hand toward the door, subtly gesturing for Orion to exit the room and secure the locks. Sigrid looked up at him in surprise, but before she could speak, Soren leaned down and captured her lips with his own. The kiss began as a slow, deliberate brush of heat, before escalating into a deep, possessive fire. He parted her lips with practiced dominance with his tongue exploring every inch of her mouth, consuming her breath until Sigrid’s mind grew hazy, her fingers knotting instinctively into his dark hair as she reciprocated the intensity of his touch, the tongue battling for dominance in each other’s mouth.

When he finally pulled back, Soren placed her gently back onto the velvet armchair, stepping back to look down at her. His icy blue eyes burned with a dark, restrained desire, his chest heaving slightly. Sigrid’s cheeks flushed a brilliant crimson under his intense gaze, her breathing ragged as she smoothed her skirts. Soren leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. "One more day, my Duchess," he whispered near her ear, his voice thick with unspoken promise.

Sigrid looked up, a soft, radiant smile breaking across her face. Reaching out, she caught his head and pulled him down toward her chest. Soren’s eyes widened in brief astonishment as his head came to rest against the soft velvet of her bosom. "Let us simply rest for today, my Lord," she whispered softly. Sigrid ran her fingers gently through Soren’s short, silky black hair, smiling to herself as she noted how surprisingly skilled he was at kissing for a man so detached from emotion.

Within moments, the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the Duke filled the quiet study. Sigrid smiled warmly, realizing the formidable warlord had finally succumbed to his exhaustion. Relaxing her back against the chair, she held him close, closing her eyes as peaceful slumber claimed them both.