Chapter 67: The Foolish Duchess.

Chapter 67

Resting against the solid, warm wall of Soren’s chest as he carried her away from the noisy, echoing ballroom, Sigrid felt her rapid breathing gradually slow to a steady rhythm. The cool air of the secluded grand hallway rushed over her flushed skin, easing the lingering heat from the intense dance. She looked up at the sharp, carved line of the Duke’s jaw, unable to resist a quiet sigh. "My Lord... do you never tire of carrying me in such a manner?" she asked, her voice hushed against the rustle of his heavy formal garments. "Am I truly not a burden to your strength?"

Soren did not pause his long, even stride, though his dark eyebrows furrowed into a stern, tight line as he looked down at her. "You leaned upon me for support, Duchess. It is my duty to anchor you when you grow weary. You are hardly heavy, and even if you were, the solution would be quite simple—I should merely need to grow stronger."

A soft, mischievous smile touched Sigrid’s lips at his deadpan honesty. Leaning closer, she murmured playfully, "Then I shall pray to the heavens that we remain wed until our dying days, if only so I may forever enjoy such grand privileges."

A sudden, violent twitch passed through Soren’s broad shoulders at her words. Stopping abruptly beside a small refreshment table nestled in an alcove, he set her down with extreme care, ensuring her balance was firm before pouring a goblet of chilled iced nectar. He handed the crystal glass to her, his expression suddenly dropping into a mask of pure, frigid steel. "Do not speak of such morbid matters so lightly, Sigrid," he commanded in a cold, distant tone.

Internally, Sigrid’s crimson eyes glinted with sharp understanding. You scold me for speaking of our future together, she thought silently, watching his guarded expression, yet you do not deny my words, nor do you lie to say you dislike the thought.

Sensing the sudden shift in his demeanor, Soren took two distinct steps backward, creating a strict, formal distance between them. "Relax yourself here until you have recovered enough strength to stand," he stated bluntly, turning on his heel and retreating into the grand corridor, disappearing toward the upper balcony where the high lords gathered.

Before Sigrid could dwell on his sudden retreat, a small group of young, highborn ladies approached her with timid, fluttering steps. Their eyes were wide with genuine, breathless wonder as they gathered around her table, squealing in hushed tones behind their silk fans. "Your Grace," one of the younger countesses gushed, her face flushed with excitement. "Your performance upon the floor was breathtaking! You moved like a true queen—nay, an angel descended from the heavens!"

Sigrid took a slow sip of her cool drink, a quiet scoff rising in her throat as she repeated the word silently. An angel? If only you knew the blood upon my hands.

Yet, the young women continued their earnest praises, bowing deeply before retreating back toward their chaperones with lingering looks of admiration. Sigrid let out a quiet sigh, watching them depart. "Who could have foretold that a simple dance would garner such absurd reverence?" she muttered under her breath. "Foolish creatures."

Her eyes drifted back toward the grand hall, catching sight of Soren’s broad, towering figure as he spoke with a group of lords and commanders. Looking at the majestic width of his shoulders and the fluid, military precision of his posture, a sudden warmth flared in her chest. Then I suppose I am a fool as well, she admitted internally, for my own admiration toward him has grown simply from watching him dance. He is, in truth, a magnificent dance partner.

Sigrid placed her empty glass down and rose to her feet. Across the room, as if sensing her movement, Soren turned his head. Their eyes met across the glittering crowd, his face stoic and unreadable as ever. Yet, beneath his intense blue gaze, Sigrid’s heart gave a sudden, violent thump against her ribs. She staggered slightly, placing a hand over her chest as her breath hitched. Why did I falter just now? she wondered, quickly dismissing the strange sensation as mere physical exhaustion from the waltz.

As she stepped back into the central hall, the surrounding whispers of the nobility washed over her like a heavy wave. Men and women alike were openly gossiping, comparing her ethereal grace to Maria’s disastrous, embarrassing display. The court was ruthless; Maria was already being labeled a complete disgrace for her total lack of etiquette, while Sigrid was hailed as a living spectacle—a woman capable of taming and dancing flawlessly with the Northern Duke, a man rumored to sever heads for merely making eye contact. Sigrid made her way toward Soren, intending to rejoin his side, but her path was suddenly blocked by a nobleman stepping directly into her way.

The man looked down at her with a slimy, utterly repulsive gaze that sent a jolt of pure fury through Sigrid’s veins. Her crimson eyes widened slightly, shining with a sudden, dark fire. Upon the list of individuals marked for absolute ruin in this second life, this man took the eighth spot: Count Leopold Varenne. In her previous life as Queen, during the fragile opening years of her reign, Varenne had come to her on his knees, weeping and begging for her intercession to clear the mountain of ruinous debt crushing his estate. Out of pity, Sigrid had cleared his debts, granted his family noble privileges, and eventually elevated his title to Marquess. Yet, when Ragnar launched his coup, Varenne was among the first to betray her, eagerly assisting the royal guards in dragging her to the executioner’s block despite everything she had sacrificed for him.

As Sigrid stared into his arrogant eyes, a strange, overwhelming force pulled her mind into the depths of a hidden memory. Her crimson eyes shone and in the vision, Count Varenne stood in a dark, damp alleyway, rubbing his hands together with a sickening, unctuous laugh as he spoke to a band of rough, heavily armed men. "Do not fret, gentlemen," Varenne sneered, pointing toward a heavy iron cage filled with terrified, weeping peasant women and children. "The merchandise will be delivered as promised!"

The vision shifted violently, showing a later scene where the same lead bandit slammed Varenne against a stone wall, lifting him off his feet by his throat. "If you do not pay off your gambling debts and bring us the remaining captives, we will slit your throat!" the bandit leader growled, spitting directly into Varenne’s pale, trembling face. "I will bring more! I swear it!" Varenne shrieked desperately.

The memory dissolved, returning Sigrid to the warm light of the ballroom. Her crimson eyes dimmed, her jaw tightening as the realization struck her. So that is how he incurred those massive debts, she realized with cold horror. He was trading in human lives and squandering the blood money on gambling halls. Looking at his sniveling, aristocratic face, she felt a profound disgust at her past self for ever extending a merciful hand to such an irredeemable monster. "What do you want?" Sigrid asked, her voice devoid of any warmth or emotion. "Why do you dare approach me?"

Count Varenne put on a pitiful, practiced mask of sorrow, lowering his head slightly. "Your Grace... I humbly acquire your generous assistance in a matter of great urgency."

Sigrid frowned, wondering why he would approach her so brazenly in public without a prior introduction. But as she paused, her sharp instincts alerted her to a pair of eyes burning into her side. Glancing subtly toward the far corner of the ballroom, she caught Maria watching the exchange with a subtle, triumphant smirk. Instantly, the pieces clicked together in Sigrid’s mind. She recalled the strange warning Soren had given her regarding ’Gifted’ individuals—people who possessed rare, fragmented visions of the future or past. Maria was not a reborn soul like herself, but she had been granted visions of the original timeline, a timeline where Sigrid ruled and had foolishly agreed to help Varenne.

Sigrid’s lips curved into a crooked, sharp smile as she looked back at the Count. You cunning, desperate wanton, Sigrid thought of her step-sister. You believe you are orchestrating my downfall using the threads of my past mistakes.

"And how, my Lord, may I be of assistance to your house?" Sigrid asked smoothly, playing along with the trap.

Varenne smiled, believing his charm had succeeded. "Not here, Your Grace. After the ball concludes, I shall send a formal missive to your estate detailing my request." ℴℴ𝘮

Sigrid offered a flawless, shallow curtsy. "Very well, my Lord."

Varenne turned and walked away with a smug, victorious stride, completely omitting the customary bow of respect to a Duchess. Sigrid watched his retreating back, her expression dropping into a cold, lethal scowl. Insolent swine, she cursed internally. He did not even bother to bow or show basic reverence. She glanced back toward Maria, who was now merrily chatting with a circle of young ladies, completely unaware that her little scheme had been thoroughly exposed. Maria, you truly are a pathetic fool.

Sigrid turned and walked back toward Soren, who still maintained a stiff, formal distance from her, clearly rattled by her earlier comments regarding their marriage. She let out a soft sigh, wondering if her playful teasing had genuinely upset him as she was aware he planned to commit treason and he would likely divorce her.

Soon after, the King officially concluded the engagement ball, and the noble guests began their departure. Soren silently escorted Sigrid through the grand courtyard and helped her up into the luxurious Aethermor carriage. Taking his seat opposite her, he signaled to Orion, who gave the driver the order to move out. As the heavy wheels began to iron over the cobblestone roads of the imperial capital, a heavy, suffocating silence descended over the carriage interior. Neither of them uttered a single word, the quiet tension stretching between them filling Sigrid with far more anxiety than any petty plot Maria could ever devise.