Chapter 92: The Duchess And Her Subject.

Chapter 92

Sigrid walked toward her bedchamber with measured steps, the soft rustle of her skirts filling the quiet hallway while Lilith followed closely behind in respectful silence. As the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind them, the stillness of the room allowed long-buried memories to force their way to the surface of her mind. In an instant, the present dissolved, replaced by the resonant, sharp echoes of high heels clicking against polished marble.

Year 364 of the Arkovia Dynasty. Sigrid found herself walking down the grand corridors of the royal palace, draped in the heavy, suffocating splendor of her queenly attire. It was four years after her marriage to Prince Ragnar, back when she had been remarkably naive and desperate for approval. Apart from Lady Isabel Warwick, Maria had kept four favored noblewomen within her intimate social circle. In her foolish eager desire to maintain peace, Sigrid had accepted all four of them into her personal retinue at Maria’s suggestion, entirely unaware that the she had chosen them specifically to make Sigrid’s life an absolute nightmare.

Among them was Countess Celestine Everhart—a woman widely praised across the capital for her lively charm and flawless etiquette. Because Sigrid had been quiet and reserved in her youth, Celestine had made it her personal mission to subtlely humiliate her at every gathering and leaving her the spectacle of the night. The turning point had come late one evening when young Sigrid overheard Celestine’s sharp, venomous voice echoing from a secluded parlor. Celestine had been openly mocking Sigrid to her peers, declaring with absolute malice that Sigrid was entirely unfit for the crown, while Maria remained the true ideal of royalty. When Sigrid gathered her courage to confront the Countess, she was not met with remorse or fear, but with open defiance and arrogant laughter. Celestine had looked her dead in the eye and sneered that the young queen made her sick.

When Sigrid later brought the insult to Ragnar, he had dismissed her concerns entirely, insisting she was simply being overly sensitive and imagining insults where none existed.

It was only much later—after Maria’s web of influence had completely surrounded the throne—that Sigrid realized those four ladies had been operating as Maria’s personal instruments from the very beginning. Once Sigrid finally consolidated her power as queen, she had lacked the political heartlessness to execute Celestine for her treasonous conduct, choosing instead to merely banish the woman from her inner circle and transfer her to a distant wing of the palace. It had been a grave, foolish mistake. She should have cut the venomous weed at its root rather than allowing it to fester in the dark.

Sigrid snapped back to the present with a sharp scoff, a bitter, mocking laugh escaping her lips as she leaned against the cool glass of her windowpane. She likely helped Maria orchestrate my execution in that past life as well, Sigrid thought darkly, her eyes narrowing at the freezing landscape outside. Celestine always did harbor a sickening, fanatical infatuation with Maria. That must precisely be why she put out a private contract for my assassination.

Suddenly, an uninvited, jagged memory tried to force its way into her consciousness—a fleeting, barely visible figure of a tall man standing in the shadows of her past. A suffocating pressure seized her chest, making her heart violently hammer against her ribs. Panicking, Sigrid harshly shook her head, gasping for air as a sudden, ragged cough tore through her throat. She gripped the edge of her vanity table, her knuckles turning white as she forced the dark recollection back down into the depths of her mind. "I will not remember... I refuse to yield to those ghosts," she muttered through gritted teeth.

Straightening her posture, Sigrid opened a small, hidden compartment behind her vanity mirror, withdrawing a small parchment containing the names of those marked for her vengeance. With a steady hand, she penned the name Lord Roderic Warwick directly above Ragnar, her eyes burning with icy resolve. The ghosts of my past are resurfacing.

Replacing the parchment, she caught sight of her reflection in the glass and scowled at her pale, haggard appearance. "Foolish," she chided herself, smoothing her hair and adjusting her velvet bodice. "I am a Duchess of the realm; I shall not allow myself to look a scattered mess."

Just as she prepared to step out into the hallway, a firm, heavy knock echoed against the chamber door. Sigrid composed her features into a mask of tranquility before answering smoothly, "Enter."

The heavy oak door swung open to reveal Soren standing in the entryway. His dark blue eyes immediately locked onto her, scanning her form with intense scrutiny. Sigrid felt her muscles tense instinctively under his gaze, stepping forward with a polite smile. "My lord... do you require something?"

Soren stepped into the room, his long mantle sweeping behind him as he observed her closed posture. "I observed you ascending the grand staircase with unusual haste following your discussion with the Marquess. I wished to ascertain whether he spoke words that caused you displeasure."

Sigrid shook her head softly, offering a reassuring gesture. "He did nothing of the sort, my lord. I merely recalled a few deeply unpleasant matters from the past, nothing more."

Soren stepped closer, reaching out to gently take her hand within his massive, calloused palm. His brow furrowed instantly as his thumb brushed against her pale skin. "You are freezing, Sigrid."

Sigrid let out a faint, dry chuckle, looking up at him. "Perhaps I was simply a bit frightened."

Soren’s dark eyes widened slightly, a rare flicker of genuine astonishment crossing his sharp features. "You... frightened of something?"

"Of course, my lord," Sigrid replied, her tone carrying a quiet, genuine note of humor. "Every living soul harbors fear toward something in this world. Surely even the feared Duke of the North is no exception."

Without a word, Soren gently led her by the hand toward the large plush sofa situated near the crackling hearth of their bedchamber. They sat down together, the warm light of the fire casting long, flickering shadows across the rug. Soren kept his gaze firmly fixed on her face, his expression grave. "Will you confide in me what could possibly displease you to the point that your skin feels as cold as a ghost?"

Sigrid looked into the depths of his dark blue eyes, a sudden, quiet conflict stirring within her mind. If these atrocities have not yet come to pass in this current timeline, she wondered silently, do I truly retain the right to harbor such absolute anger and hatred toward them?

She pushed the thought aside, offering him a softened expression instead. "I simply recalled certain individuals from my past who caused me great injury, Soren. The memory resurfaced unexpectedly, but I assure you, I am quite fine now."

Soren’s brow remained heavily furrowed, his jaw clenching tightly. Sigrid tilted her head, curious. "What is it that disturbs you so deeply, Soren?"

"You," Soren answered without a moment’s hesitation.

Sigrid’s eyes widened slightly, a sudden pang of mild offense striking her chest before she could stop it. Before she could voice her question, Soren extended his hand, his long, warm fingers gently lifting her chin so that her gaze met his directly. "Seeing you consumed by such profound sadness disturbs me," he said, his deep baritone dripping with an earnest, unyielding weight. "I may not fully comprehend the shadows that threaten your mind, Sigrid, but you must never hesitate to call upon my name for whatever you desire to overcome them."

A genuine, soft smile broke through Sigrid’s rigid composure, a rare warmth blossoming within her chest. "Of course... thank you, Soren."

Soren lowered his hand, though his eyes remained fixed on her face as he shifted back slightly. "Now then... you still owe me the full account of the absurdities that transpired during your gathering at the Windermere estate."

Relieved by the shift in topic, Sigrid leaned back against the cushions and began recounting the day’s events in detail. She described the frantic, enraged noblewoman who had confronted her in the glass courtyard, Lady Beatrice’s surprising display of absolute authority, and their subsequent private conversation over foreign tea. Sigrid could not help but let out a light, melodious laugh as she reached the end of the tale. "She had the absolute audacity to ask me for romantic counsel! Imagine that, Soren—asking for guidance from someone as completely clueless in matters of the heart as she is! She genuinely believes that you and I are madly in love."

Soren let out a low, incredibly rare chuckle, the deep sound vibrating pleasantly through the quiet room. "I almost wonder what the court nobles—those who initially deemed your proposal an act of utter madness—must think when they hear such ridiculous rumors circulating through the capital. After all, you did choose to marry a bloodthirsty monster who slays anyone foolish enough to draw near him."

Sigrid’s crimson eyes widened, her mouth turning up in an amused smile as she feigned shock. "My... it seems my subject is surprisingly well-aware of his own reputation!"

Soren blinked, staring at her with a deadpan, incredulous expression. "Subject?"

"I certainly did not expect a grand Duke to pay such close mind to common rumors," Sigrid continued cheerfully, sitting up straight and puffing out her chest with playful arrogance. "And why should I not refer to you as such? Are you not my subject, my lord?"

Soren shook his head with a faint smirk, a fond warmth entering his eyes. "You certainly utilize my authority however you see fit, Duchess."

"That is entirely because you granted me that grand privilege," Sigrid countered, her voice laced with lighthearted teasing. "Or do you perhaps intend to strike off my head for displaying such unprecedented insolence toward the Duke of the North?"

Soren let out another genuine laugh—a clear, rich sound that was so thoroughly rare within the fortress walls that even the faint crackle of the hearth seemed to yield to it. Hearing him laugh so freely brought an unbidden surge of joy to Sigrid’s heart, loosening the tight coil of tension that had gripped her all evening.

"Only an absolute madman would dare lay a hand upon a woman like you, Duchess," Soren replied smoothly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Lest he be forced to suffer your terrifying wrath."

The two of them shared a long, lighthearted moment of laughter as the icy winds howled against the stone balcony outside, the cozy warmth of the hearth envelopeing the room in peaceful comfort. As Sigrid’s laughter gradually subsided into soft breaths, Soren leaned in slightly, his tone dropping into a gentle, velvety whisper. "Finally..."

Sigrid paused, blinking up at him in curiosity. "Finally... what?"

Soren leaned his head down, bringing his face close enough that she could feel the gentle warmth of his breath. His dark blue eyes searched her features before locking firmly onto hers. "Finally, your crimson eyes are sparkling once more... instead of looking so terribly gloomy and dark as they did before."

Sigrid froze, the realization washing over her with overwhelming clarity that he had been intentionally teasing her, using his rare humor solely to pull her out of the dark void of her past memories. Soren held her gaze, his expression softened by a profound, unmistakable tenderness.

"After all," Soren murmured softly, his voice cutting through the stillness of the room, "your eyes are far too mesmerizing to ever be filled with such profound gloom."