CHAPTER 100: CHAPTER 99. FEARS & HOPE

The midwife worked quietly in the dim morning light, stirring a small pot of porridge over the brazier. The scent of rice and crushed herbs mingled softly with the forest air. Outside the tent, the camp was still, with soldiers tending to mounts and the spirit kings circled around the tent. Inside, everything revolved around the still figure lying on the bed.

Vivianne hadn’t opened her eyes for a day. Her breathing is even, her face calm, touched by faint glimmers of silver that sometimes flicker beneath her skin. Roxanne hadn’t left her side once.

"She’s just asleep, Your Grace," the midwife said gently, placing the steaming bowl beside her. "Her body is exhausted, but her pulse is strong. The baby’s heart beats steady, as it should. Both are stable. Let her rest."

"I won’t move from here," Roxanne murmured without looking up, brushing her fingers through Vivianne’s hair. "Not until she wakes up."

The midwife sighed softly but said nothing more. She knew that tone, unyielding, absolute. Roxanne would rather fight the corrupted guardian spirit again than leave her mate’s side.

On the second day, as the afternoon light poured through the tent’s opening, a soft sound stirred from the cot. Vivianne’s lips parted, her eyes fluttering weakly open. "Wife..."

Roxanne was at her side in a heartbeat, her hand clutching Vivianne’s. "Vivianne! You’re awake. I was worried—"

"Listen," Vivianne’s voice is barely a whisper, her throat dry. "Move now. Don’t delay anymore. You must move to the Empire. I can... I can sleep in the carriage."

Roxanne shook her head, tears of relief and worry glimmering in her eyes. "You need to rest—"

"There’s no time," Vivianne interrupted softly, her fingers weakly squeezing Roxanne’s. "You know it too. Don’t wait, destroy Dietrich, before my sister dies in his hands."

The midwife approached, nodding in agreement. "She’s right, Your Grace. I will ride with the carriage. I’ll watch over the Grand Duchess’s condition every hour. She’s stable enough to travel, as long as we move carefully."

Roxanne sat still for a long moment, torn between duty and love. Then, finally, she exhaled, a slow, heavy sound of reluctant acceptance. "Very well," she said quietly. "We’ll move at dawn."

She looked down at Vivianne, her hand resting gently on the curve of her abdomen. "You will soon become the Luna of this continent," she whispered, a fierce promise threading through her voice. "And I will make sure the world kneels before you when you do."

"I believe you." Vivianne’s voice is soft, trembling, barely a whisper carried through the tent’s dim, golden glow.

Roxanne’s heart clenched at the sound. She steadied the bowl in her hands and lifted another spoonful of porridge to Vivianne’s lips. "Good," she murmured, forcing her voice to stay calm. "Now eat. You need your strength back, sweetheart."

Vivianne obeyed, swallowing the warm meal in slow, small bites. Her fingers twitched weakly, as if she wanted to help, but Roxanne only smiled and brushed them aside gently. "Let me."

When the bowl is finally empty, Roxanne set it aside. She reached to wipe a bit of porridge from the corner of Vivianne’s mouth with her thumb, then pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Rest. I’ll take care of the rest."

"Wife..." Vivianne’s eyes fluttered. "Will you stay? Until I fall asleep?"

"I’ll never leave..." Roxanne whispered. "Just going to tell the knights we’re moving at dawn."

"Okay." A ghost of a smile curved Vivianne’s lips before sleep claimed her again.

Roxanne lingered for a little while, listening to the sound of her wife’s breathing, feeling the faint pulse of her life force flicker gently through the air. Vivianne’s breath finally came in a soft snore again, she then stood and draped her cloak over her shoulders before stepping outside.

The night is cold and sharp, the moonlight spilling across the encampment like liquid silver. The air carried the scent of blood, ash, and pine. Her knights, still bruised but getting better by the servants’ care and Mara’s healing magic, straightened when she emerged.

"Your Grace," one of them greeted, bowing.

Roxanne’s crimson eyes gleamed in the dim light. "My wife is fine," she said simply. "She’ll recover."

A wave of relieved murmurs rippled through the soldiers. But Roxanne’s tone shifted, calm steel beneath her words. "Rest well tonight," she ordered. "At dawn, we march to Erengard."

The camp fell silent. Only the crackle of the fires dared to answer her.

Roxanne stepped forward, her boots crunching over the frost-bitten ground. "Dietrich de Erengard still sits on a throne that isn’t his," she continued, her voice low and burning. "He has ruled through corruption, deceit, and cruelty long enough. We will tear his banner down."

Her eyes glowed faintly, a flare of power pulsing from deep within. "And in its place," she said, raising her hand, "the continent will kneel beneath one name, my name, de Borgia."

The knights slammed their fists against their chests in unison. "For the Grand Duchess!"

"For the future, Alpha!"

"For House de Borgia!"

Roxanne turned her gaze toward the east, where the faintest edge of dawn was beginning to light the horizon. Her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for herself. "This time," she said, her jaw set with iron resolve, "I’ll burn down the world before I let him touch her again."

-

Silvaris Palace, Erengard Empire Royal Palace

Liselotte paced the length of her chamber, the walls of the imperial palace, once symbols of grace and security, now felt like the bars of a cage. Every polished surface reflected her unease. Every servant’s glance lingered too long, their smiles too thin. Since the Chancellor’s resignation, the court had become a nest of whispers and fear.

Gerhard de Eisenwald’s words echoed in her mind, "If you ever find yourself in danger, contact Johan de Langride."

She had scoffed at the time. She is the empress consort, not some frightened court maiden in need of rescue. Yet now, she found herself clutching that single note, the edges worn from how many times she had read it.

Liselotte had tried to stay calm, even when Dietrich’s temper had grown more erratic and more possessive. The moment his eyes fell on her that morning, cold and predatory, she understood something had changed.

"I’ll deal with you later," he had said.

Those words still clawed at her chest long after he left the room. His tone wasn’t the tone of a husband, nor even an emperor, it was the voice of a tyrant claiming his next prize.

And though Dietrich de Erengard had never truly treated her like a wife, on that day, something about him felt different; he wasn’t angry and didn’t exhibit the cruelty she had come to expect.ven cruel in the wthe way she had come to expect. He looked hollow, like a man consumed by something far darker than rage, Liselot felt a sense of dread for the first time.te felt that he wasn’t speaking to her but through her, as though she were nothing more than a distraction standing in the way of whatever ghost he was chasing. His eyes, once proud and burning with ambition, were dull, rimmed with sleepless red. His hair was unkempt, his clothes disheveled, the mark of a ruler who no longer ruled anything but his own despair.

It was as if he was chasing something that had never existed, a dream, a memory, or perhaps someone long gone. And when he finally looked at her, it wasn’t with desire, or hatred, or love, it was emptiness. A warning.

When the doors shut behind him and the locks slid into place, the sound rang through the chamber like a death knell. The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing against her ribs like a weight she couldn’t breathe past.

He wasn’t locking her up to punish her, that much she understood now. He was going to deal with her later.

Those words echoed in her mind, each repetition colder than the last. "When all the options are out," she whispered to herself, feeling her hands tremble. She isn’t his wife anymore, not even a pawn in his political game. She’s his final choice, a last resort for something she couldn’t yet see.

She’s his last option.

Liselotte didn’t know what it was for, but the uncertainty made her stomach twist. Whatever it is, it wouldn’t be mercy. This feeling was not caused by a man who had stopped looking at people and started seeing only tools and threats.

Her pulse quickened. She glanced toward the shuttered windows, the heavy curtains, and the locked doors. The room that had once been gilded and bright now felt like a coffin lined with silk.

She needed to get out before Dietrich decided what her purpose was.

The guards sealed the doors moments later. Her attendants, loyal but terrified, had been forced to leave under threat of punishment. The sound of the lock clicking into place was final, cruelly soft.

Liselotte had tried to write to her brother, Count Rothschild, for help. She had penned letter after letter in the dim candlelight, her handwriting trembling, the wax seal smudged where her fingers shook. Each plea had been the same, "take me away, something is wrong. I don’t feel safe here."

She had entrusted those letters only to the few servants she believed she could trust, the ones who had served her long before the marriage, the ones with kind eyes and quiet steps. Yet, not a single reply ever came. The silence was enough to answer.

Perhaps the letters had been intercepted. Or worse, perhaps they had reached their destination, and her family simply didn’t care.

Her brother’s ambition was always wealth and status. He had always seen her marriage to Dietrich as a victory, a step toward tightening the Rothschild hold on the empire. And her mother, with her obsession for titles and the illusion of power, had only fed that flame.

When a response finally did come, it was brief, polished, and cruelly dismissive. "He’s an emperor, Liselotte. Don’t expect him to be soft or clingy. You should be proud to stand beside him."

They waved away her fear as if it were a trivial thing, a wife’s nerves, or a woman’s weakness.

Now, she stood at her window, staring into the dark gardens below. The faint scent of burning incense from someone, somewhere, drifted through the air, mixed with the iron tang of fear that seemed to stain the palace itself. She pressed a hand to her chest, where her heart beat fast beneath layers of silk.

She turned toward her writing desk again. The name on the letter’s first line was already written: Johan de Langride. This time, she will not hesitate.