Chapter 66: A Dance To Feast On

Chapter 66

Stepping into the chilly, moonlit courtyard, Sigrid adjusted the heavy drape of her midnight-black velvet sleeves as Duke Vesper and Duchess Genevieve spun around to face her. The old duke’s face was flushed a dangerous, mottled purple, his breath coming in hot, angry huffs against the crisp night air. "Why did you call for me?" Sigrid asked, her voice dangerously calm as she stopped a polite distance away, resting her hands over her waist. ℯℯ𝑙.

Duke Vesper raised a trembling, leather-gloved finger, his voice rising into a sharp, shrill register that echoed off the surrounding stone pillars. "Sigrid Thea Beaufort!"

Without a second’s hesitation, Sigrid raised her slender index finger, cutting him off mid-sentence with absolute ice in her eyes. "Correct your foolish mistake, Duke. I am Sigrid Thea Aethermor, and you will never associate me with your disgraced family name ever again. I want absolutely nothing to do with you."

Vesper’s jaw dropped in sheer astonishment, his features contorting into a mask of rage. "How dare you speak to me in such an insolent manner! I am still your father, regardless of what foolish notions you entertain! Simply because you managed to ensnare that Northern barbarian does not mean you may trample upon propriety! You do not get to disrespect and ignore the man who gave you life!"

Sigrid stared at him not with anger, but with genuine, profound shock at how thoroughly stupid and stubborn he truly was. Looking at his flushed, narrow face, she found herself silently wondering how a woman as brilliant, refined, and sharp as her late mother could have ever taken a brief interest in such an utterly hollow man. Was my mother’s type truly foolish men? she mused silently, before instantly discarding the absurd thought. Her mother had been anything but a fool. Yet, looking at Vesper now, her mind drifted briefly to her mother’s mysterious past, realizing with a faint pang that she had never known her maternal grandparents nor anything of her mother’s true lineage.

Before her thoughts could wander further, Vesper’s harsh, grating voice shattered her focus once more. "Listen to me when I am speaking to you, girl!"

Sigrid let out a quiet, weary sigh, stepping forward as her crimson eyes narrowed into sharp slits. "Let me remind you that I am the Duchess Aethermor. By every law of protocol, I am your political equal, and my ’barbaric’ husband possesses vastly more power, military might, and influence than you could ever hope to accumulate, Duke Vesper. You will address me with proper respect. Now, state why you demanded my presence."

Vesper’s face shifted from purple to a deep, embarrassing shade of scarlet as he struggled for words. Stepping alongside him, Duchess Genevieve raised her chin, her cold eyes glinting with malicious triumph. "Cease this shameful harassment of Prince Ragnar! He is your sister’s betrothed, and seeing you flutter around him is pathetic. It is entirely understandable that you are consumed by jealousy over Maria’s grand fortune, but you cannot have him. Keep your eyes to yourself and get on your sister’s good side! If she proves merciful enough to forgive your insolence when she ascends as Queen beside King Ragnar, perhaps you will not be completely ruined."

A sudden, melodious laugh escaped Sigrid’s lips, echoing through the courtyard. Genevieve froze, struck utterly speechless by the reaction. "Is that the grand warning you dragged me out here to deliver?" Sigrid asked, her tone shifting into absolute steel. "Do not distress yourselves, Duke and Duchess. I shall never beg Maria for anything so long as I live, nor does she possess a single thing I desire. She is more than welcome to keep her foolish, arrogant prince. I already possess my very own king." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping into a lethal, quiet promise. "Do not ever address me again. Do not look in my direction. I refuse to be associated with the likes of you."

Enraged beyond reason by Sigrid’s utter dismissal, Genevieve marched forward with her hand raised, striking Sigrid across the face with a loud, ringing crack. The duchess wore a smug, triumphant smile, convinced she had finally brought the girl to heel. Yet, before Genevieve could even lower her arm, Sigrid’s hand whipped forward, landing a violent, heavy slap directly across Genevieve’s cheek. The force of the counterstrike sent the older woman tumbling awkwardly to the cold stone pavement with a sharp gasp, the loud commotion instantly drawing the attention of several nobles who had lingered near the glass courtyard doors. Duke Vesper roared in disbelief, rushing to his wife’s side. "How dare you lay a hand upon my wife?!"

Sigrid stood over them without a single hair out of place, her voice smooth and entirely unbothered. "She dared to lay a hand upon a Duchess of the realm. Shall I inform my husband, Duke Soren, of how you continue to abuse my person?" Vesper faltered instantly, his face draining of color as the reality of Soren’s wrath crossed his mind.

Clutched against the cold floor with tears of theatrical humiliation welling in her eyes, Genevieve held her swelling cheek, raising her voice so the gathering crowd of onlookers could hear every word. "How could you be so heartless?! After everything I did for you! I cared for you as my very own daughter, especially after your mother abandoned you! You rejected every respectable marriage prospect your father arranged, denied him your rightful bride price, and brought nothing but disgrace upon our house!" Low, venomous whispers erupted among the watching nobles, several highborn ladies casting dirty looks toward Sigrid, muttering about her ungrateful, wild nature.

Sigrid merely looked down at the weeping woman and her fuming husband with deep disappointment. They had somehow managed to exceed her lowest expectations of human stupidity. Did they truly believe that after years of cruelty, she would hand them wealth and respect? In her past life as Queen, she had foolishly showered them with gold whenever they came begging, only for them to stand by in silent satisfaction as she was dragged to the executioner’s block for a crime she never committed. Her chest burned with a sudden, dark fury, yet she said nothing further. There was no point in arguing with dead men walking; when the time came to dismantle their lives completely, it would be swift and absolute.

Turning on her heel to leave the courtyard, Sigrid froze as she found Soren standing near the threshold, his broad frame framed by the warm golden light of the ballroom. His icy blue eyes were fixed upon her with deep, stormy concern. "Are you finished here?" Sigrid asked softly as she reached his side.

Soren’s gaze shifted toward Genevieve, his low voice carrying a dangerous edge. "No. I left the council chamber early and saw your stepmother strike you. Shall I have my men handle this?"

Sigrid gently shook her head, offering him a serene smile. "No, do not trouble yourself, my Lord. Her time will come soon enough."

Soren looked down at her glowing red cheek where the slap had landed. Without a word, he leaned down, gently cupping her jaw, and pressed a soft, warm kiss directly against the stinging skin of her cheek. Sigrid giggled softly, her eyes glinting with playful mischief. "My Lord... I was unaware you were so fond of public displays of affection."

Soren kept his hand on her jaw, his expression entirely earnest as he spoke in a low rumble. "What is there to be ashamed of? Any sane man would be a fool to leave your side, whether in public or in private."

Sigrid’s heart skipped a quiet beat. Rising onto her tiptoes, she pressed a quick, sweet kiss against his lips, smiling against his mouth. "Well, my Lord, be glad that you have me." Soren offered no verbal reply, but his hand slid down to wrap tightly around hers, his grip solid and unwavering. She truly was fond of the duke.

Inside the ballroom, the King stepped to the edge of the royal platform, raising his voice to command the attention of the hall. "The time for the traditional honor dance has arrived! Gentlemen, claim your partners! The newly engaged couple shall take the center floor first, followed by the rest of the court!"

The crowd parted, leaving the vast center of the ballroom clear as Prince Ragnar and Lady Maria stepped onto the polished floor. The orchestra began a grand, sweeping waltz, but the moment the couple began to move, the performance descended into absolute chaos. Maria was an unmitigated disaster on the floor. She fumbled her steps, tripped over her long silk train, and repeatedly brought her heavy heels down directly onto Ragnar’s boots. Ragnar, possessing a notoriously short temper, grew visibly enraged, snapping insults at her under his breath while trying to force her through the movements. The surrounding nobles began to cover their mouths, hiding quiet chuckles and judgmental whispers at the embarrassing spectacle.

Sigrid watched the disaster from the sidelines with a cold, triumphant smile. It was entirely her own doing; in their youth, Maria had constantly whined to their father about how painful and tedious dance lessons were, and Vesper had indulged her, allowing her to skip her training entirely while Sigrid was forced to master every step.

Catching Sigrid’s sharp, amused gaze from across the room, Maria’s face flushed with deep embarrassment. Trying desperately to save face, Maria abruptly stopped mid-dance, adopting her signature pitiful, delicate posture as she addressed the surrounding crowd. "I am deeply, profoundly ashamed... I have failed to show you a proper dance tonight. Please forgive my clumsiness." Then, her eyes glinted with malicious intent as she turned directly toward Sigrid, pointing a delicate finger. "Perhaps the new Duchess of Aethermor would favor us with a dance? She, too, is a newlywed, and surely her graceful skills will make up for my terrible shortcomings!"

Gasps echoed through the ballroom at the direct challenge, many nobles expecting Sigrid—who had spent years hidden away in her family’s estate—to crumble under the pressure. Instead, Sigrid turned gracefully to Soren, tilting her head with an alluring smile. "My Lord... would you care to join me for a dance?"

Soren immediately dropped to one knee before her, taking her gloved hand and pressing a firm kiss against her knuckles. "It would be my absolute pleasure, Duchess. We were robbed of our dance, if you recall." Rising to his full, imposing height, he led her to the absolute center of the floor. As the orchestra struck up a fast, complex Northern arrangement, Sigrid and Soren assumed their positions.

The moment the music surged, the couple moved as one. Despite Soren’s massive, heavily armored frame, he moved across the polished floor with astonishing, lethal grace, guiding Sigrid through breathtaking spins and flawless turns. Sigrid’s midnight-black and silver gown flared out like a dark flower, her movements light and hypnotic as she matched his commanding rhythm step for step. In her past life, she had been forced to master the imperial court dances after marrying Ragnar, while Soren had learned the martial footwork of the Northern lords. Together, their movements were pure poetry, utterly captivating the entire ballroom and drawing every eye away from the royal dais.

Ragnar’s jaw clenched in deep, bitter jealousy, while Maria looked as though she might explode on the spot. Spinning her closely into his chest, Soren leaned down, his deep voice rustling softly against her ear. "My Duchess... is there anything you cannot do?"

Sigrid’s crimson eyes glowed with dark amusement as she whispered back, "Nothing at all, my Lord."

The music reached its grand crescendo, ending with Soren lowering Sigrid into a steep, breathtaking dip before pulling her seamlessly back against his chest, both of them breathing softly. For a second, the entire hall remained dead silent, stunned by the sheer perfection of the performance. Then, the ballroom erupted into thunderous applause and loud cheers, the young noblewomen swooning at the unexpected sight of the terrifying Northern warlord treating his bride with such breathtaking, gentle devotion.

Feeling a wave of exhaustion hit her, Sigrid let her weight rest lightly against Soren’s broad chest. Without a moment’s hesitation, Soren shifted his arm, effortlessly scooping her up into a princess carry. A collective gasp rose from the younger nobles at his blatant, shameless chivalry. Sigrid merely smiled, resting her head comfortably against his shoulder, catching a glance of Maria’s face—twisted into a hideous, pathetic mask of pure envy—as Soren carried his Duchess away from the crowd.