Chapter 116

“Y–Your Grace, what is the meaning of this?”

The faces of the gathered nobles drained of color all at once, terror blanching them as if some deathly hand had gripped their throats. A few, in their fright, sloshed wine from their goblets, crimson stains blossoming across their embroidered finery. Others pressed perfumed handkerchiefs or painted fans to their mouths as though hiding behind silk and lace could somehow shield them from the reality before them.

The swords of the knights gleamed coldly in the lamplight, their tips leveled toward the cluster of nobles herded into the garden’s center. Yet despite the ring of steel hemming them in, every gaze was fixed not on the soldiers but on Kennard himself. It was plain enough—if he gave the word, death would sweep through the assembly without hesitation.

Elena could scarcely breathe. Her chest ached as she stared at the scene unraveling before her. The garden, dressed in blinding beauty with garlands of flowers, silken banners, and jeweled ornaments, seemed now utterly alien. The nobles, so proud in their plumed garments and glistening gems, no longer looked regal but wretched. Even the drifting petals that had danced merrily on the breeze moments ago now seemed to fall like ashes.

In the midst of the chaos, Kennard alone wore a face of perfect calm.

“We came here,” Duke Benzef said, retreating a step to avoid the encircling blades, his voice thick with outrage and fear, “we came to offer our felicitations upon Your Grace’s marriage. And yet—you set swords against us?”

Kennard’s gaze narrowed until it was little more than a thin gleam beneath his lowered lashes. With deliberate slowness, he took Elena’s hand and drew it firmly into the crook of his arm. The simple gesture left her trembling; her storm-gray eyes betrayed the same confusion and disquiet as those of the nobles.

“Of course I know why you are here,” Kennard said at last, his voice as soft as velvet and twice as dangerous. “I invited you myself, did I not? I desired to receive your congratulations with my own ears.”

Benzef swallowed audibly, the sound dry and hollow. “Then why… why this?”

“I do not delight in shedding blood on a day such as this,” Kennard said, his words cutting the silence. “Even I, the blood-starved Black Demon, am not so foolish. And yet—” his voice dropped to a low, reverberant murmur, “—to see my bride scorned, to hear her mocked as though her very presence is an insult… such insolence is no different from insulting me. That I cannot forgive. That, I must correct.”

“N–No, never!” Benzef cried, stumbling over himself in haste. “We would never presume to insult Your Grace.”

The denial came even before Kennard had finished speaking, and as if on cue, the other nobles jerked their heads in desperate agreement. They nodded furiously, eager to prove they shared the duke’s sentiments, though fear had stripped their voices away.

Elena’s heart constricted. She did not know how to mend what she had unleashed. Of course the higher circles of the Baruchella Empire would never easily accept a woman with such strange features, with no lineage to present, as the chosen mate of their heir. She had expected resistance; she had braced herself for disdain. Painful though it was, she had resigned herself to endure it, to accept her station and the bitterness that came with it.

She had only hoped Kennard would do the same—accept it in silence, as she must. Yet clearly, his resolve burned in an altogether different direction.

“Your Grace, please—enough,” Elena whispered, her voice trembling as she looked up at him with pleading eyes. No long speech was necessary; her ashen face spoke for itself. Kennard had always been perceptive enough to read her heart without words.

But the instant her gaze met his, she faltered. His temple and jaw were clenched so tightly the cords stood out like stone, and his eyes—those cold, smoldering eyes—blazed with the kind of killing intent that could fell a man without a blade.

Elena felt the coiled muscle of his arm grow taut beneath her palm, the sheer force of his fury trembling through him.

“She is the woman to whom I am imprinted,” Kennard declared, his voice carrying across the silent garden, “and she carries my child. Tell me—what could be more important than that?”

The words fell like a stone into still water. A hush spread outward, more suffocating than before.

It had already been enough to shatter their composure that Elena existed at all, an enigma thrust into their carefully ordered world. But now—to hear she bore the Grand Duke’s child—shock rippled through the nobles, sharp and staggering.

“Y–Your Grace…” Elena flinched at the sudden voice rising behind them. She had forgotten entirely that the officiant still stood nearby: Argon, the High Priest who had presided over their vows.

“What is it?” Kennard answered curtly, without even sparing the man a glance. His focus remained locked on the nobles, who trembled under his gaze.

Elena could not turn either. Her body felt frozen, locked rigid by tension.

Then came the rustle of heavy robes sweeping the marble. Argon stepped forward, passing the pair, and descended the dais. Kennard’s eyes finally followed, though the rest of him did not stir.

At the foot of the platform, Argon lowered himself to his knees. Slowly, deliberately, he bowed until his forehead touched the stone.

“I offer my congratulations upon Your Grace’s union with Lady Elena,” he said, his voice low but clear. “And I offer my congratulations upon the child who even now rests within her womb.”

The garden rippled with astonishment. The High Priest of the Empire was no noble, but his standing was beyond question. That the knights had not dared raise a blade to him earlier already marked his authority, and now, with this gesture, he confirmed it beyond doubt.

“I, Argon, High Priest of the Empire, swear my loyalty to three: to Your Grace, to Lady Elena, and to the child she bears.”

The final vow struck like a hammer, for it named even the unborn. The nobles glanced among themselves, caught in a net of hesitation and dread. But soon one fell to his knees. Then another. And another.

“I swear my loyalty,” voices murmured. One after another, they bowed their heads, gowns spilling outward like colored seas as the noblewomen sank to the floor. The rustle of silk and velvet filled the hush, like wind sweeping through a field.

Kennard’s eyes, however, remained glacial. He held no triumph in them, no warmth, only an iron promise that the smallest flicker of defiance would be crushed.

And still—while the hall bent before him, he shifted his hand, enclosing Elena’s trembling fingers in his own. His grip tightened, and through it, warmth seeped into her skin.

She exhaled at last, realizing only now that she had been holding her breath. The tension broke, and her shoulders shook faintly.

“I would kill them all,” Kennard whispered, low enough that only she could hear, “if it meant keeping you safe.”

The words froze her blood even as they cloaked her in the strangest, most terrible comfort.

***

Hours later, the celebration resumed as though none of it had happened. Under the soft glow of chandeliers, Elena walked the length of the grand hall with Kennard’s arm steady beneath her hand. Music floated through the air—strings and piano weaving a melody of feigned serenity.

The guests danced and drank, their laughter brittle, rehearsed. Couples turned in graceful waltzes, wineglasses shimmered, and polite conversation masked the memory of drawn swords. The same nobles who had quaked in terror now approached with smiling faces and rehearsed compliments, bowing low before the woman they had scorned that morning.

Elena endured it all, smiling when spoken to, her lips aching from politeness. Every nerve in her body longed for escape. Beneath the weight of their gazes, she felt herself shrinking, suffocating. Her back ached from standing too long, her legs throbbed from exhaustion, and a dull pressure pulsed low in her abdomen, making her break into a cold sweat.

Yet she showed none of it. She could not. This was the smallest of the burdens she would have to bear as Kennard’s wife.

While Kennard conversed with a marquis—an older man with the serene cruelty of one used to power—Elena stood silently beside him, nodding at the appropriate moments. The marquis’s wife studied her from behind a jeweled fan, eyes bright with curiosity rather than malice. Still, Elena felt the weight of appraisal in every glance.

She forced a gentle smile and turned her gaze elsewhere. Across the hall, she spotted Argon speaking with Benzef, their heads bent close in earnest conversation. Nearby, another figure caught her eye—Marten, standing apart from the crowd by the tall glass doors that led to the terrace.

Their eyes met for an instant across the dance floor. He lifted his wineglass in a silent toast, a smirk curling his lips. Even from that distance, she could see the glint of mischief—or perhaps warning—in his expression.

Elena quickly looked away, her heart tightening. The sight of him dredged up an uneasy memory—the stranger who had approached her before the ceremony, the one who had spoken words she could not forget.

Who was he? And why did he say those things to me?

Her hand clenched unconsciously at her skirt. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to hold her composure.

Just then, Kennard’s attention shifted. His eyes flicked toward the entrance, narrowing. Elena followed his gaze. Through the crowd, a man was making his way forward—Serin. He exchanged hurried bows with passing nobles but did not stop.

“Your Grace,” Serin said when he reached them, his tone low but urgent.

Kennard’s voice dropped. “The one you followed?”

Serin nodded slightly. “Gone. The trail led nowhere.”

Kennard’s jaw tensed. “We’ll speak elsewhere.”

He turned to the marquis and his wife, offering a curt nod before guiding Elena toward the exit. She exhaled, relief flooding her chest. The air outside the ballroom felt cooler, freer.

At last, she thought, they could leave this suffocating pageant behind.

Yet even as they climbed the grand staircase, her relief curdled into unease. If Serin had failed to find the stranger, what would Kennard do when he learned the rest? What if he discovered the warning that man had whispered to her?

By the time they reached his study, her hands were trembling again. Kennard pushed open the heavy oak door, the hinges groaning softly, and led her inside. The fire crackled in the hearth, painting the room in hues of gold and shadow.

He gestured for her to sit on the sofa before turning to Serin. “Report.”

Serin clasped his hands behind his back. “I followed the residual trace, but found no sign of life. Whoever it was—he vanished.”

Kennard’s brow furrowed, the darkness in his expression deepening. The air itself seemed to thicken with his displeasure.

Elena lowered her gaze, feigning calm, though her heart raced. She was grateful the man had escaped—grateful, because something told her that if Kennard ever learned what had been said between them, there would be no corner of the empire left untouched by his wrath.

Serin hesitated, then added, “But, Your Grace… I did find something else.”