Chapter 118

Elena dropped from the bed the moment she heard the words—messengers of the Emperor. Her pulse leapt in her throat. Cura, who had been dozing in the corner, was already at her side, face pale, eyes wide.

Before the anxious knight at the door could open it, he turned to her. “Please wait just a moment,” Elena said, her voice calm though her fingers trembled.

The knight gave a stiff nod. “Madam, this way.”

Following Cura, Elena moved toward the adjoining chamber. Beyond the bedchamber was a smaller room set aside for changing—thank the gods, she had laid out her garments for the next day.

“It’s good we prepared this ahead of time,” Cura whispered, her voice shaking as she fumbled with the gown’s buttons. The more she rushed, the more her hands failed her—ribbons slipped through her fingers, fastenings refused to catch. Her panic infected Elena.

Why would imperial soldiers come all the way here? she thought, breath catching. Has the Emperor grown impatient and ordered me brought to him himself? And of all times—when His Grace is away from the castle… Could it be…?

Her heart pounded like a drum, loud enough to drown her thoughts. Her throat constricted, each breath shallow and hot.

When Cura finally finished fastening the gown, she brushed Elena’s hair back with trembling hands. “It’s done,” she murmured.

Elena gave a single nod and returned to the main room. The knight straightened upon seeing her, uncertain whether to open the door. Every instinct screamed do not let them in, but that was not an option.

The knight stepped aside. Lassino—the old steward—opened the door fully, and the Emperor’s soldiers swept in like a gust of wind.

Four of them, maybe five—hard men in imperial livery. One deliberately shoved the knight’s shoulder as he passed. The knight glared, ready to strike, but held himself back. He knew as well as anyone that to lay hands on an imperial guard could mean death.

“What is the meaning of this?” Elena asked, her tone even, though her pulse still thundered.

“You’re Elena?” the first soldier said, eyes narrowing as they landed on her flame-red hair and storm-grey eyes. He let his gaze linger, insolent, traveling over her from head to toe.

Even clothed, she felt exposed. Their oily stares crawled over her skin, and she straightened instinctively, her expression frozen into dignity.

“Mind your manners,” Lassino barked. “You stand before the Duchess—His Grace the Grand Duke’s wife.”

The soldier gave a short, derisive laugh. “Ha!” He exchanged looks with his comrades and snickered, as if Lassino’s words were the funniest thing they had heard all week.

Elena could scarcely believe that such men bore the Emperor’s insignia. These were no imperial courtiers, no disciplined soldiers. They looked more like mercenaries hired from a tavern.

“Duchess,” the first man said, drawing a small envelope from his belt pouch. He dangled it by its edge before her face, the wax seal fluttering dangerously close to her cheek. “You’ll be coming with us.”

She recognized the deliberate insolence. He was trying to provoke her—to make her break composure. Her jaw tensed, but she refused to show anger.

“To handle His Majesty’s letter so carelessly,” she said quietly, extending her hand. Her tone was measured, but it carried the chill of authority.

The soldier’s movement paused midair. He clenched his jaw, then, with visible irritation, dropped the envelope into her waiting hand.

Elena looked down at it. The wax seal bore a cross entwined with the image of a wolf—a sigil resembling Kennard’s crest but distinct enough to mark it as imperial.

“Cura,” she said softly.

The maid jumped, startled, and glanced from the Duchess to the letter. “Ah—yes, one moment.” She darted to the writing desk by the window and returned with a small paper knife.

Elena took it, slit the envelope neatly, and withdrew a folded parchment.

“Can you even read?” one of the soldiers sneered.

Elena didn’t so much as look up. “Better than you, I suspect.” Her voice was cool, dismissive. She unfolded the parchment.

Her breath caught. The page was blank.

For a long moment, she simply stared. Her calm façade wavered, and the tremor that had begun in her hands now reached her chest. Slowly she lifted her eyes. The soldier who had taunted her watched with a smirk, savoring her confusion.

Lassino noticed at once and stepped closer. The knight followed, peering over her shoulder. The letter was indeed empty—no words, no mark, only the Emperor’s seal.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lassino demanded, voice rising. “This is nothing but a blank page!”

The soldiers burst out laughing, wiping tears from their eyes. “We wouldn’t know,” one said between gasps. “We just deliver what His Majesty gives us.”

Elena’s fingers tightened on the parchment. “Did His Majesty truly instruct you to deliver this to me?” she asked. Her throat felt dry as sand.

“Oh, that?” the soldier said, waving a hand. “That’s not really a letter—it’s a pass. A token allowing us to come straight to you, Duchess.”

Her eyes narrowed. “A pass?”

“Right,” he said with a grin. “And apart from that, we’ve got another order.”

Before anyone could move, the soldiers drew their swords in unison, steel whispering through the tense air.

The knight reacted instantly, pulling Elena behind him, blade flashing. His stance widened, forming a barrier between her and the intruders.

Lassino stepped forward too, shielding Cura with one arm as the maid let out a small, frightened gasp. The soldiers only grinned wider, enjoying their fear.

“Elena,” the leader said, his blade leveled at her chest. “You’ll come with us now.”

“You will not touch her,” the knight growled. “You’ll wait until His Grace returns.”

The soldier tilted his head mockingly. “And why do you think we came now of all times?”

“What?” the knight snapped.

“Tut, tut.” The man clicked his tongue. “We waited until Kennard was far enough from the castle. That’s why.”

A new voice cut through the chaos—a smooth, familiar voice Elena recognized at once.

“Enough talk. We don’t have time to waste.”

Every head turned. Elena froze. Standing in the doorway was a man she never expected to see again.

“Count Remid?” she whispered.

Marten Remid stepped into view, wrists bruised and raw where shackles had bitten into them. He rubbed the marks absently, as though they were a mild inconvenience. He leaned against the doorframe, utterly at ease.

Elena blinked, certain she must be hallucinating. Kennard had ordered him imprisoned in the dungeons before leaving the castle—how could he be here?

But there he was, alive and free, his pale eyes cold with calculation.

“We don’t have much time,” Marten said briskly. “If Kennard catches wind of this, we’re all finished. So get it done.”

“If you’re in such a hurry,” one soldier muttered, “why don’t you help, Count?”

Marten’s head turned slightly. “Dirk,” he said softly, his tone mild but dangerous, “who do you think bankrolls your gambling debts, hmm? Watch your mouth.”

Dirk—the leader—immediately shut up.

Lassino’s face darkened with outrage. “Count Remid, you are His Grace’s friend! How dare you—what is this treachery?”

Lassino’s voice, usually composed and level, trembled with fury. His loyalty to Kennard was absolute; betrayal against the Grand Duke was personal to him.

Marten smiled faintly. “Treachery? You misunderstand. I’m still Kennard’s friend. I care for him deeply, old man—just as you do.”

Lassino’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Elena stepped forward, lifting her chin despite the sword still trained on her. “Count Remid,” she said quietly, “what is it you want from me?”

Marten’s smile thinned. “What I want?” He straightened, brushing dust from his sleeve. “Nothing more than to follow His Majesty’s command. You’re going to the capital, Duchess.”

“The capital…” she repeated, her voice almost inaudible.

He gave a short laugh. “You were about to say ‘Kennard forbade it,’ weren’t you?”

His turquoise eyes blazed with sudden fury. “How long do you plan to hide behind him? Do you have any idea how many people you’ve put in jeopardy because of your silence, your existence?”

He crossed the room, step by deliberate step, until he stood just before the knight’s drawn sword.

“Don’t come any closer,” the knight warned, his voice sharp as steel.

Marten only smiled, tilting his head, eyes sliding past the blade to rest on Elena. “You always were protected, weren’t you? Always someone standing between you and consequence. But tonight, there’s no one left to hide behind.”

Elena felt the air in the room thicken. The soldiers fanned out, blocking every exit. The candlelight wavered across their armor, shadows shifting like smoke.

Her mind raced. If Kennard were here…

But he wasn’t. And whatever this was—whatever game the Emperor and Marten were playing—she was the prize.

“Count Remid,” she said, forcing steadiness into her tone. “If you still consider yourself Kennard’s friend, you’ll stand down. Whatever orders you’ve received, they’re false. His Majesty would never—”

Marten’s expression hardened. “His Majesty doesn’t lie, Duchess. You of all people should know what happens to those who defy him.”

Dirk stepped forward again, impatience returning. “Enough of this. Let’s move.” He gestured to his men, who began to close in.

The knight raised his sword. “Over my dead body,” he growled.

“That can be arranged,” Dirk said with a grin.

The clash was instant—steel against steel, the sound ringing through the chamber. Sparks flew as blades met. Lassino dragged Cura toward the corner, shouting for her to stay down. Elena stumbled back, pressing herself against the cold wall, watching the chaos unfold in a blur of motion and noise.

Marten didn’t move to help either side. He merely watched, calm and calculating, as though measuring the outcome. His gaze met Elena’s once, and in that look she saw no hesitation, no remorse—only the inevitability of betrayal.

The knight fought fiercely, driving back one soldier with a sweep of his blade. Another lunged from the side; the knight parried, but a third crashed into him, sending both tumbling to the floor.

“Elena!” Lassino shouted. “Go! Run!”

She took a step toward the window but froze as Dirk’s sword flashed up, pressing against her throat.

“Don’t,” he said softly, breath hot against her ear. “The Emperor’s waiting.”

Behind him, Marten finally pushed off the wall, walking toward her with slow, deliberate grace. “It’s over, Duchess,” he said. “You’ll come quietly, or more people will die for nothing.”

Elena’s hands trembled at her sides. She looked at Lassino—bleeding, struggling to rise—and at the knight pinned beneath two armored soldiers. Cura was sobbing into her hands.

For one breath, she considered resistance. But she saw the truth in Marten’s eyes. The Emperor’s will had already reached this place; there would be no escaping it.

Slowly, she lifted her chin. “Very well,” she whispered. “I’ll go.”

Dirk smirked, sheathing his sword with a hiss. Marten inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging her composure.

“Wise choice,” he said.

But as they led her toward the door, Elena’s thoughts burned. Kennard, she thought, forgive me. When you return, I’ll already be gone.

The soldiers pushed her forward. The door shut behind them, and the room fell silent save for the faint echo of footsteps receding into the night.