Chapter 132

Words tumbled chaotically through her mind, too tangled to arrange into anything coherent. No life deserves to not exist—not a single one, Elise thought. No life chooses to be born. Isn’t it up to us to define what our existence means?

Yet the exhaustion weighing on her heart made offering those words of solace impossible.

Instead, she acted on instinct. Her trembling fingers reached out and grazed Rezette’s cheek. The touch shattered his icy composure, the cold barrier he’d so carefully maintained melting like frost beneath the warmth of sunlight.

He caught her hand in his, his grip both firm and reverent, and pressed a lingering kiss to her fingertips. But the simple gesture didn’t suffice. It never seemed to anymore. His lips sought hers, the intensity of the kiss betraying the turmoil that words could not.

For someone who had once avoided her kisses so effortlessly, his newfound habit of stealing them whenever he could revealed the unspoken depths of his unease.

“You’re right,” Elise murmured, her voice faint and unsteady. She tilted her head to meet him, but their lips misaligned for a brief, awkward second. Even then, the trembling in her tone carried a poignant fragility.

“But that’s not me.”

Rezette stilled, his expression unreadable.

“If the baby disappears,” she continued, her voice breaking, “you’ll never see me again. Because I’ll die that day.”

“Elise—” he began, his voice low, laced with urgency.

“There’s nothing I can do alone,” she interrupted, tears welling up and spilling silently down her cheeks. “If I can’t protect the baby as a mother, what else could I possibly hope to do in this world?!”

Her tears fell steadily now, soft splashes punctuating the heavy silence between them.

“So, think carefully. Unless you’re prepared to lose me too. Taking this weak life of mine would be too easy.”

His breath caught, his lips parting slightly, but no words came.

She continued, her voice quiet but resolute. “I’ve tried before. What makes you think I couldn’t do it now?”

“What are you talking about?!” Rezette’s voice rose sharply, disbelief cutting through his usual calm. 

The faint, bittersweet scent of wintersweet lingered in the room—a remnant of the sticks he had burned earlier. Its subtle fragrance should have been calming, but for Elise, it only seemed to intensify the crushing fatigue that had settled over her.

“What did you mean by ‘tried before,’ Elise?!” Rezette’s voice cracked, his face taut with disbelief. His usual composure was shattered, leaving him visibly shaken.

“You know what’s on my ankle,” she replied softly, her gaze dropping. “The spell that leaves no trace. Not even dust.”

His breath hitched, the weight of her words sinking in. “What on earth have you done in the past…?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Exactly what you said,” she answered, her voice tinged with quiet despair. “Sometimes, living can be worse than dying.”

His expression froze—lips parted, eyes wide with incomprehension. She didn’t wait for him to process it. Turning her head away, she stared blankly at the far wall, too drained to confront his anguish or her own.

How many more times would they endure this? These endless, grueling arguments?

Her thoughts drifted to escape—an overwhelming desire to flee. Anywhere but here. Even if it meant returning to a point in her past, far removed from the suffocating present.

***

Time slipped forward, indifferent to her suffering.

By the seventh day, heavy snow had given way to sleet, the damp chill marking the start of a gradual thaw. Rising temperatures hinted at a change, but it brought no relief to Elise.

Four more days had passed since her last argument with Rezette, and her condition had deteriorated significantly. While the abdominal pain and bleeding had subsided, her body continued to betray her.

Morning sickness had reached its merciless peak. The relentless migraines left her barely able to open her eyes, and her swollen chest throbbed painfully at the slightest touch. Even the gentle brush of fabric sent sharp waves of agony coursing through her.

Traveling to the port was out of the question. Elise spent her days lying motionless, her body wracked by nausea as she heaved bile again and again. Everything else—the arguments, the pain, the despair—felt distant now, trivial in comparison to the torment of her current ordeal.

Elise’s vision blurred, tears pooling in her eyes. In that vulnerable moment, an aching yearning for her late mother welled up inside her—a longing so raw it felt like a wound reopened.

And then, fear took hold. Desperately, she clung to the physician’s sleeve as he leaned over to check her pulse.

“Are you certain the miscarriage threat is gone? Is this normal?” she pleaded, her voice trembling, a faint edge of panic creeping in.

Dr. Harrison offered her a reassuring smile. “Absolutely, Your Grace. If the bleeding and pain have ceased, the immediate danger has passed.”

“You can tell me the truth,” Elise pressed, her grip tightening on his sleeve. Her gaze searched his face for any crack in his calm demeanor. “I’ve been told my womb is weak… If the baby is suffering because of me—”

“That’s not the case at all,” he interrupted gently, his tone steady. “In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Severe morning sickness is often a sign that the baby is growing well. If you can endure this phase, things will improve.”

Her lips parted as though to respond, but no words came. She simply stared at him, her emotions too tangled to untangle.

“You mustn’t stop eating, even if you struggle to keep food down,” he continued, his voice soft yet firm. “An empty stomach will only worsen your nausea. And emotional stress can accelerate the baby’s development, which we don’t want. Please, Your Grace, don’t cry. None of this is your fault.”

Elise’s tears slipped silently down her cheeks, unchecked, as the physician’s words pierced through her fragile composure.

Dr. Harrison gave her a look of quiet sympathy. “You only need to make it through the next three months. Once you reach the stable period, the risk of complications will drop significantly. And remember, this is the Archduke’s heir. There’s no doubt the child will be strong.”

“That’s… a relief, at least,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she wiped at her tears.

“Your husband is deeply worried as well,” the doctor added after a pause, his tone hesitant. “Surely, it would be easier to endure this if you allowed him to support you. Every time I see him outside, it feels like he’s shaving years off my life.”

Elise shook her head, a determined edge to her voice as she replied, “No. I can’t.”

Dr. Harrison blinked, surprised by her firmness.

“The person making this the hardest for me right now… is him,” she said quietly.

After their last explosive argument, Elise had abandoned silence in favor of open defiance. Every time Rezette tried to approach her—whether to speak, comfort her, or even graze her hand—she would burst into tears and recoil, as though pushing him away was the only shield she had left.

She didn’t mean to cry. Yet the tears always came, unbidden, the moment her gaze met his. She hated him, pitied him, and loathed herself for feeling even a shred of sympathy toward him. But more than anything, she felt an overwhelming sorrow for herself—unable to stomach a proper meal, consumed by relentless nausea, and drowning in despair.

Yet the one who deserved the most pity was her child—trampled in spirit before even taking root, crushed beneath the weight of its father’s cruel words.

In the end, her tears proved devastatingly effective. The ever-stoic Rezette finally broke, his unyielding facade cracking as he ran a hand down his face in frustration.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice thick with exasperation. “I’ll give you time to collect yourself. Just… stop crying, Elise. I’m terrified something might actually happen to you.”

Terrified. Elise’s breath caught at the word. She had never imagined hearing such vulnerability from a man so feared and revered across the continent.

It was clear her past attempt to end her life had left a scar on him, one far deeper than she’d realized. She chose not to share the details.

…Not because she couldn’t bear to hurt him further, but because, despite everything, she didn’t truly want to.

Her emotions were a tempest—chaotic, absurd, and impossible to untangle. Even she couldn’t make sense of them anymore.

That night, a letter arrived from Zenobia:

The ship departs in seven days. Will you make it aboard?

***

Elise woke in the pale, cold hours before dawn, her body exhausted from a night of restless tossing and turning. She shivered beneath the blankets, curling tighter in search of warmth, until a gentle hand carefully lifted her.

Half-conscious, she felt a soft kiss press against her temple.

“It’s all right. Go back to sleep,” a familiar voice murmured, low and soothing.

“…Mmm,” she managed, her drowsy reply barely audible.

“You won’t feel cold anymore.”

In her half-asleep state, Elise nodded faintly and turned onto her side. Her back instinctively nestled against the broad, warm chest behind her, and the lingering chill melted away entirely.

Without thinking, she tilted her head, nuzzling her cheek against his neck. It was an unconscious habit—one she wasn’t even aware of—seeking warmth and comfort in her sleep. The kitten-like motion drew a soft, exasperated chuckle from Rezette.

“You’re so agreeable like this…” he murmured, his voice laced with affectionate amusement.

But when her long lashes brushed teasingly against his throat, his laughter stilled.

Elise, still lost in her dreamlike haze, buried her face against his neck, her breaths coming slow and rhythmic. For a moment, he froze, caught off guard by her unconscious trust. Then, his hands moved with care, gently pulling her away without waking her.

His fingers brushed over the back of her head, sliding down to cradle her cheek. Tilting her face upward, he studied her features, soft and serene in her sleep. Her pliant drowsiness made her easy to guide.

And then, he kissed her.

There was no hesitation, as if her lips had always belonged to him. The kiss was gentle but unyielding, their breaths mingling warmly. Her lips parted without resistance, allowing him deeper access as the heat between them grew.

“Haa… mmm.” A soft sound escaped her, a breathy murmur that sent a shiver through him.

It was the kind of kiss they had shared many times before—rich and deep, a method Rezette often used to calm her from restless dreams. Usually, these kisses would lead to more, his touch igniting her until she awoke trembling and breathless, her golden eyes clouded with longing.

This time, however, he broke away. Slowly. Deliberately. His hand lingered, poised to stroke her cheek again, but he restrained himself.

Her golden eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused at first, until clarity slowly returned.

Elise blinked, her mind muddled with confusion. Before recognition could fully settle, Rezette gently pressed her head back down, shielding her from his gaze. He feared she might panic and flee from him again.

The first thing she noticed wasn’t him—it was the awkward position of her body, half-twisted backward. Then came the sensation of his large hand resting firmly over her stomach.

A chill raced through her, dispelling the last remnants of sleep. Her spine stiffened instinctively.

How long had he been like this?

Sensing her tension, Rezette exhaled quietly above her head. Before she could voice her outrage, he spoke first, his tone calm and measured.

“I’m not going to do anything.”

Her voice was sharp as she countered, “I didn’t let you in here. Let go of me and leave.”

“I told you, I’m not doing anything.”

“You kissed me. Just now!” Her breath hitched, her rising fear evident. “Take your hand off me—right now!”

At her outburst, the invisible chains of her protective ward coiled tightly around his wrist, their sharp energy crackling like a warning. His eyes flickered, but he didn’t move.

His wrists bore the marks of her repeated defenses—bruises and faint scars left by the ward’s increasing strength over the past days. It had grown so potent it could easily snap his wrist if he resisted too forcefully. Yet, unflinching, Rezette simply stroked her abdomen with careful precision, his voice low and soothing.

“Shh. I just want to make sure the child is okay.”

Her breath caught as anger and mistrust warred within her. “You liar. Why? You said yourself you’d—”

“If you doubt me, I’ll swear an oath. Name it—Rotiara’s vow? Van Yela’s?”

His steady tone, free of mockery, slowly chipped away at her fear. The ward’s grip slackened slightly, easing the strain on his wrists. Her anger softened into sorrow as tears brimmed in her eyes.

“You’re a terrible person,” she choked out, her voice trembling with emotion.

Rezette’s gaze remained steady. “At least I’m still a person in your eyes.”

“You’re not,” she shot back, shaking her head. “Not anymore. You’re selfish, cruel, unkind, and utterly impossible.”

“I should’ve known better…” Her words faltered, her voice breaking, yet she made no move to push his hand away.

Anxiety gnawed at her, clawing at the edges of her sanity. The constant fear for the child she couldn’t see or feel was unbearable. Finally, she whispered, almost inaudibly, “Just a moment. Just… a little while.”

“All right,” he agreed softly. “Don’t cry.”

“And don’t try anything,” she added quickly, her tone sharp with residual mistrust. “Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Only then did her ward fully release him.

Rezette placed his hand carefully over her lower abdomen, his movements deliberate and controlled. His fingers pressed lightly, assessing the subtle changes in her body. Though no visible difference was apparent, the faintest swell—a whisper of growth—offered reassurance.