CHAPTER 105: CHAPTER 104. IT’S COMING

104

"Is the baby alright?" Roxanne asked, her voice low, hoarse at the edges, as if the words had scraped their way out of her throat.

The question came from a place deeper than worry. It came from fear.

For two days, the tent had remained closed, fabric walls muffling the heat of pheromones and the quiet sounds of exhaustion. Servants brought food and water and left it outside the entrance without a word, none of them daring to intrude or even glance inside. Every person in camp understood what a rut meant, and none wished to disturb the Grand Duke or her omega wife while nature had them in its grip.

Now that the storm had finally passed, Vivianne was asleep.

Not just lightly, not just worn out. She slept as though her body had surrendered itself completely to rest, sinking deeply into the soft furs with her breathing slow and steady. She had barely stirred in hours. She didn’t wake when Roxanne shifted beside her. She didn’t respond to whispers of her name. She simply slept.

Which terrified Roxanne.

Vivianne remembered how fiercely she had held Roxanne. Her instincts had been on the edge between desire and hunger. Her control had stretched thin, frayed by something primal. And now, seeing Vivianne limp with sleep, every faint bruise and mark left like a signature of possession along her skin, Roxanne felt guilt coil sharp in her chest.

She stayed at her wife’s side throughout the night, barely moving, just watching her, afraid that if she looked away, something would happen.

Before Vivianne had fallen asleep, she had known. Even in the haze of heat, she always saw Roxanne clearly. Her touch had been gentle then, her voice soft even while her body trembled with exhaustion. She had held Roxanne’s face between both hands and made her listen.

"I’m just tired," Vivianne had whispered, the words warm against Roxanne’s lips. "Nothing is wrong. You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t do anything wrong. I only need sleep, that’s all. I’m fine. You’re fine."

She had smiled, slow, loving, and sure, the kind of smile that left no room for doubt. Then she had closed her eyes and slipped under, finally letting go.

The midwife, who had just entered the tent, quietly observed the scene before her. Vivianne lay curled beneath the layered furs, her breathing deep and even, her skin warm with sleep.

The mark on her nape is fresh and unmistakable, a deep, crimson crescent surrounded by faint bruising. There were other signs too, the soft scatter of hickeys along her throat and collarbone, the impression of teeth along her shoulder, and evidence of an alpha who had struggled for restraint and an omega who had willingly met her heat with trust.

But the midwife said nothing of that. Such things are normal between bonded pairs. Expected, even.

She simply nodded once and moved closer, careful not to disturb Vivianne as she laid gentle fingertips to her wrist, feeling the steady, strong pulse beneath the skin. Then she shifted, listening to the faint rhythmic flutter of the baby inside her stomach, her practiced hands steady, her face calm.

Roxanne stood rigid beside the bed, arms folded so tightly across her chest her knuckles had gone pale. Her eyes were fixed on Vivianne’s sleeping form, every muscle in her body coiled like she was ready to shield her at the slightest sign of distress.

"The baby is strong," the midwife said at last, her tone warm and assured. "And the mother is resting well. In truth, they are both in excellent health."

Roxanne’s shoulders slowly lowered, the tension bleeding out of her, though her expression remained serious. "So she’s alright," she murmured, almost to herself, relief threaded with a fierce, protective tenderness.

The midwife smiled faintly, the kind of smile that held years of understanding and quiet witnessing. She had seen countless lovers, countless families, and countless heartbreaks, but none quite like this.

She didn’t comment on the marks nor the way Vivianne’s body rested so deeply, as if she had simply surrendered to warmth and safety. She only bowed her head and spoke gently, her voice steady and sure.

"She’s more than alright, Your Grace. She’s fine," Agatha said, brushing a strand of hair away from Vivianne’s cheek with tenderness. "Rest is what her body needs now. And that, too, does the body good."

Roxanne’s grip on the blanket loosened, the tension in her shoulders slowly uncoiling. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until she let it go—quiet, shaky, and almost embarrassed. She looked down at Vivianne, who lay curled into the faint remnants of Roxanne’s scent, hands tucked close, brow smooth, utterly unbothered by the world outside their walls.

"...Thank you," Roxanne murmured, her voice low, the words carrying both relief and something far more vulnerable.

Agatha’s eyes softened, lines deepening around them. "It is pleasing to see you like this," she said, not teasing, but speaking with the simple, earnest tone of someone who had long carried worry. "We were all afraid you would remain alone forever. Brooding in some war camp, with your sword as your only companion."

Roxanne let out something between a sigh and a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving. It had been said before, often by jesting commanders, but hearing it from Agatha, who had swaddled her as an infant and who had stood behind her father the day he handed her newborn body to the world, it struck somewhere deep.

Agatha had been there when Roxanne was born, still young herself then, learning under the guidance of Agatha’s omega father, who was a midwife himself, fumbling with herbs and swaddling cloth.

And she had followed Roxanne when she was chased out to Borgia without being asked, without hesitation, simply because someone should look after her. She had loved Roxanne not as a subject loves their ruler, but the way a mother loves the stubborn, storm-hearted child who refuses to ask for love out loud.

Roxanne’s voice softened with a warmth few ever heard from her. "Thank you for taking care of her, Agatha."

The older woman gave a small huff, as if the very idea of gratitude toward her was foolish. "Of course I did. I would have chased you across continents if I had to. And now"—her gaze lingered on Vivianne’s sleeping form—"now I am excited to see you with a child of your own."

Roxanne looked at Vivianne for a long moment. The bruises, the marks, the exhaustion—none of it frightened her anymore. Vivianne looked at peace. Safe. Entirely claimed. Entirely loved.

"For her," Roxanne said quietly, the words like an oath formed from bone and blood, "I would give the world peace... or burn it."

Agatha nodded once, as if the statement was neither dramatic nor surprising, only truth. And Vivianne, still asleep, breathed as though she had heard her.

On the fourteenth day, the trees thinned, and the land opened to rolling fields and the faint stone silhouette of Erengard’s outer walls in the distance. But before the capital itself came into view, another sight awaited them.

The rest of the journey in the ancient forest has been very peaceful, as they get Luthen’s protection along the way.

The Wyndham banners rose high above the roadside encampments. Three thousand Wyndham knights stood in formation, tents arranged in clean, exact rows. Seemingly, they already heard the news that Roxanne’s envoy is close to the capital’s border and prepared.

At the front of the gathering stood Anton de Wyndham, broad-shouldered and unshaken by the cold morning air. Beside him stood his eldest son, Ian de Wyndham. If Anton is the mountain, Ian is the storm waiting to break: younger, sharper, with a gaze that never stopped calculating.

Just beyond them, arranged in formation like carved obsidian, were the Borgia knights, one thousand strong. Mixed-blood warriors of beast, demon, and werewolf lineage, towering over ordinary men. Their armor is dark steel etched in runes, their eyes bright like embers banked for war.

It’s rare for them to leave the Borgia domain, rarer still to gather in full force. And yet, here they were.

The moment Roxanne rode into view, the ground seemed to shift under the weight of reverence. As one, the thousand knights dropped to a knee, their gauntlets striking their chests in a single, unified motion that vibrated through the encampment like distant thunder.

"Your Grace." The words rolled from a thousand throats in perfect synchrony.

Maxim and Mara, who had marched with Roxanne, joined the gesture. The mixed-blood knights never kneel for the emperor of the Erengard Empire, but they knelt for her.

Vivianne could feel the heat of it, loyalty that bordered on worship, a devotion forged in blood, winter sieges, and the defense of a border most of the continent forgot existed. Roxanne did not need to raise her voice for such men to follow her into hell.

When Roxanne dismounted, the Wyndham banners lowered in unison. Not a ceremonial kind of gesture, but a warrior’s salute. A vow of shared fate.

Anton stepped forward first, his hand over his heart. "Your Grace. Grand Duchess. The Wyndham forces stand ready. We await your call."

Roxanne nodded once. "Good. Your timing is precise."

Ian’s lips twitched into soft smile, ready for whatever Roxanne going to throw at him. "And yours," he said amused, "is terrifying. The rumors of your march reached us before the wind could catch its breath."

"I have an emperor to destroy," Roxanne said, her voice light, almost amused, as if she were discussing the weather rather than the fall of a dynasty.

Something shifted in Vivianne’s chest, not pride, not even admiration, but the quiet certainty of understanding. The time of Dietrich’s fall is coming.

And the alpha standing next to her is Roxanne de Borgia. The alpha female whose name made kings clutch their scepters tighter. The storm that entire armies had broken against.

The one who had shielded her without hesitation, without regret, and without ever once looking back. And soon, all of Erengard would know it too.

A hand brushed her shoulder. Roxanne leaned in, her lips near Vivianne’s ear, her voice a velvet murmur. "We’re home."

The last hour of the Erengard Empire had begun.