CHAPTER 25: CHAPTER 24. JOURNEY TO SERATHIS

"We’ll ride on horseback until we’ve crossed the mountains. After that, we’ll switch to a carriage once we reach Viscount Wyndham’s territory," Roxanne explained.

"Okay..." Vivianne’s voice was soft, but her nervousness was clear. "I can’t ride a horse."

"I can." Roxanne smiled, brushing a kiss against her wife’s cheek. "The maid will have you dressed comfortably."

The preparations for their journey to the Capital were nearly complete. This time, their path would not lead them through the roads of Vintermere Forest or the commercial streets of Eidrith. Instead, they would face the shadowed ridges of Dreadfang Mountain, a route feared by everyone, the shortest way, but also the most dangerous.

It’s a jagged titan of stone, its peaks clawing at the heavens like the fangs of some long-dead beast. Mist clings to its slopes year-round, thick with the coppery scent of blood and the rot of the forest that sprawls at its base. The adventurers say the trees there grow too close, their branches twisted like talons, their roots pulsing faintly as though the mountain itself breathes.

The forest that infests its lower ridges is known for being home to monsters that should not exist, wolves with bone armor jutting from their backs, stags with too many eyes, and shadows that move even when the wind is still. Some whisper these creatures were not born but shaped, spawned from the blood that seeped into the soil when ancient kings and demons clashed upon its slopes.

Though dreaded for its beasts, Dreadfang Mountain is also a cradle of spirit power. Beneath its twisted forests and jagged stone veins, the land is rich with spirit energy, so dense that it bleeds into the air like mist. The soil hums, the rivers gleam with unnatural clarity, and every rock seems alive with a quiet pulse.

The Earth Spirits dwell deep within its caverns, massive, ancient beings of stone and root, said to be older than the land itself. They shift and shape the mountain’s bones, closing tunnels, opening new ones, and sometimes even moving entire cliffs overnight.

Roxanne assembled thirty of her knights for the journey, mixed-blood alphas and betas, their strength and presence impossible to ignore. Some carried the proud, fierce traits of beastmen, with sharp eyes and subtle marks of their lineage; others looked more human, though no less dangerous. A few have already found their mates bound by love, while others are still unclaimed, still looking for their forever mate.

Among them, the knight with demon’s blood helped with spatial magic because they were born with more mana than the one with werewolf blood. With ease, they cast a spatial magic into a dimensional bag; the bag is deep enough to carry an entire household. Once finished, the dimensional bag is secured to sling it on the horses.

Two maids are picked to serve Vivianne. One is a beta; the other is a soft-spoken mated omega who will travel with her bonded alpha and served as one of Roxanne’s sworn knights. They’re there to care for the Grand Duchess, not to fight.

Leather straps tightened, blades checked, reins tugged, the ritual of departure filling the air with a restless rhythm. Thirty-five colossal warhorses pawed at the ground, hooves striking sparks from stone, their sheer size dwarfing the estate gates. Some tossed their manes, eyes burning with the instinct for battle, as if eager to tear down the perilous road ahead.

The knights mounted in unison, steel and leather creaking, the air trembling with the force of thirty riders prepared to defend their Grand Duke and Duchess. The maids hurried to adjust saddlebags and cloaks, and then, from the great oak doors of the estate, she appeared.

Vivianne stepped into the morning light, her frame wrapped in soft riding leathers dyed a pale blue that mirrored the cold sky above. A fur-lined cloak swept about her shoulders, the silver clasp glinting against her chest, and high boots hugged her legs for the saddle. She looked graceful, unaccustomed to war, yet her eyes were firm with resolve.

Roxanne turned her head at once, her eyes softening. The sight of her wife banished the chill of the weather in the Grand Duchy. She urged her horse forward, dismounting before the line of knights and extending a hand.

"Come," she said, her voice warm but steady. "I’ll keep you safe."

Vivianne hesitated at the foot of Roxanne’s colossal warhorse. The beast towered above her, muscles rippling beneath its dark coat, its mane flowing like a banner of black silk in the wind. Twice the size of any mount she had seen before, it snorted and pawed at the earth as though impatient to be unleashed.

Her breath caught. "It’s... enormous," she whispered, fingers curling at her cloak.

Roxanne smiled gently, her eyes gleaming with pride. "He’s mine," she said, patting the horse’s flank. "A creature bred for battle and storms. He’ll carry both of us without faltering."

Before Vivianne could protest, Roxanne swept her off the ground with a smooth, practiced motion. Vivianne let out a small gasp, her arms instinctively winding around her wife’s shoulders.

A heartbeat later, Roxanne lifted her easily into the saddle, settling her in front. The leather is warm from Roxanne’s touch, the air sharp with the scent of horse, leather, and steel.

Roxanne put another coat to engulf her wife, making sure Vivianne was bundled up in warmth, and pulled her closer to her body. "Are you warm?" Roxanne murmured as she swung up behind her.

Her strong arms reached around, guiding Vivianne’s trembling hands to rest against her own. The younger woman felt safe and protected with her wife’s body close in around her, the leather armor at her back, and the steady beat of Roxanne’s heart against her shoulder.

"Yes, I’m warm." She said softly.

The horse shifted beneath them, powerful and alive, and Vivianne stiffened. Roxanne leaned in, lips brushing her ear, her voice low enough that only Vivianne could hear.

"Breathe, love. Trust him. Trust me." Vivianne felt Roxanne’s warm hand press gently against her stomach, steady and grounding. Her wife’s touch radiated safety; her fear loosened. Her chest rose and fell in time with Roxanne’s, her trembling easing into stillness.

She exhaled slowly, her body melting back into her wife’s embrace. For the first time, the warhorse beneath her seemed less like a beast to be conquered and more like an extension of Roxanne herself—powerful, unyielding, but utterly trustworthy. With Roxanne’s arms shielding her, Vivianne believed she could ride into anything, even fear itself.

Roxanne’s lips brushed close to her ear. "Hold on."

She tugged the reins, and the stallion surged upright, hooves slicing the air as it reared. "Move!" Roxanne’s voice roared, commanding not only the horse she rode with Vivianne but also the entire battalion.

The warhorse bellowed, its neigh a rolling echo that shook the courtyard walls. One by one, the other mounts answered the call, their cries overlapping in a raw, primal chorus. Thirty-five war steeds struck the earth in unison, the sound a deep and resonant drumbeat that rolled across the estate grounds.

And then, with a single motion from Roxanne, thirty-five hearts and hooves pounded as one.

Vivianne, bundled up in a wool coat and engulfed within her wife’s strength, clung to that grounding hand against her stomach as the world blurred into motion. Ahead, past the rolling hills and shadowed valleys, the jagged peaks of Dreadfang Mountain waited, ominous, unyielding, and alive with spirits.

The journey to the Capital had begun.

-

The Capital of the Erengrad Empire, the City of Serathis

The city of Serathis is alive. From the high walls to the crowded alleys, everything shimmered with celebration. Bright banners in red and gold hung from windows, their edges fluttering in the late summer wind.

The streets are filled with people; it’s really hard to move; children darted between legs, clutching flowers, while vendors shouted over one another, selling sweet cakes, roasted nuts, and little painted charms of the emperor.

Music filled the air. Drums pounded in steady rhythm, flutes sang above the noise, and church bells rang from the tall cathedral towers as if the whole city were one great instrument. Laughter, cheers, and the buzz of countless voices rolled together into a single sound, the sound of a city waiting for its emperor’s wedding.

The news had spread across every home and market stall: in three weeks, the emperor would take a bride. And not just any bride, but a noblewoman of the famous House of Rothschild. Whispers of her beauty and grace passed from mouth to mouth, making the people all the more eager for the day of the wedding.

The streets are dressed for joy. Garlands of flowers stretched from one side of the avenue to the other. Candles flickered in glass lanterns as the sun dipped lower, waiting to light up the night.

Soldiers in polished armor marched proudly through the crowds, keeping order but also sharing in the smiles, for this wedding isn’t only the emperor’s; it’s also the empire’s.

Soon, after the sacred vows, the emperor and his bride would ride together in a grand parade through the city, and every citizen of Serathis would see them side by side. Until then, Serathis celebrated in restless excitement, as though the wedding had already begun.

Meanwhile, inside the halls of the imperial palace, the scent of burning incense hung heavy in the air. Yet for all its grandeur, the throne chamber was steeped in the emperor’s foul mood.

"She’s beautiful," Dietrich muttered, fingers tightening on the armrest of his throne, "but not as beautiful as Vivianne de Rothschild." His voice dripped with frustration, each word laced with jealousy.

The chancellor bowed slightly, careful with his words. "Your Majesty, it’s Vivianne de Borgia now. Their union is sealed. They consummated the marriage, and the Grand Duke has marked her. I hear..." his voice lowered, almost cautious, "...they are soul-bound."

Dietrich surged to his feet, his eyes burning. "She’s mine! Vivianne should be de Erengrad, not Borgia!" The roar shook the chamber, scattering the scribes who lingered near the pillars.

The chancellor did not flinch, though his hands tightened around the scroll he carried. "With respect, sire, you were the one who sent the official letter to House Rothschild. Had you been clear about which daughter you desired, this would not have come to pass."

Dietrich’s glare sharpened like a blade. "Yes, but it was your council, all of you! You told me Vivianne was not of the legitimate line, that Liselotte was the proper choice. You assured me they would send Vivianne regardless!" His fury thundered as he pointed at the ministers watching in silence from the shadows.

The chancellor hesitated, then spoke carefully. "And yet, fate has bound her elsewhere. She’s not yours, Your Highness."

A bitter sneer twisted Dietrich’s lips. "Not lost. Not yet." His voice dropped into a growl, low and venomous. "If my cousin dies before Vivianne arrives in Serathis, she will come alone. She will come unprotected. And when she does—" he clenched his fist, the sound echoing through the chamber, "—I will mark her. She will be mine, as it was always meant to be."