Matthias turned toward the Emperor, his eyes burning with a defiance that suggested he didn’t care if the palace fell to ruin around them. "And is the Imperial Family simply to ignore that the Empress attempted to murder a Duchess?" he snarled. "Does the law only—"
He intended to finish his sentence with a declaration of war, but the look in Olivia’s eyes stopped him cold. She was staring at him with a raw, paralyzing terror. Before he could utter another syllable, she pressed her palm firmly over his mouth.
"Matthias, stop. I beg of you..." she whispered, her voice trembling.
Turning toward the Emperor, Olivia dropped into a deep, agonizingly formal bow of apology. "I crave your forgiveness, Your Majesty, for my husband’s conduct. He is not in his right mind; he did not intend this transgression. And if this is not enough... I shall offer my apologies to Her Majesty as well."
She turned toward the Empress, who was still gasping and clutching her bruised throat. Matthias caught Olivia’s shoulder, his voice thick with indignation. "What are you doing? Why are you the one apologizing? She—"
Olivia wrenched her arm away with a violent jerk, her eyes swimming with a desperate sadness. "Please... just stop."
She stepped forward and stood before the Empress. For a mont, she t the woman’s gaze with absolute, frigid silence. Then, to the collective shock of everyone in the room, Olivia—the woman whose pride was a legend, whose arrogance knew no bounds—fell to her knees. She pressed her forehead against the cold marble floor in a gesture of ultimate submission.
"Your Majesty, I pray you forgive ," she murmured, her voice muffled by the floor. "And forgive my husband for his insolence."
The sight was unbearable. Kyle was the first to move, rushing forward to pull her up from the ground. "Olivia, stop this! She is the one who should be begging for your rcy!"
Every eye in the room turned toward the Empress. The air was thick with a new kind of silence—not of fear, but of visceral disgust. Even the Emperor looked at his wife with a weary, profound resentnt before shifting his gaze back to Olivia. He stepped toward her, his expression unreadable.
"Duchess," the Emperor began, his voice echoing with a regal yet weary resonance.
"There was no need for your apology. While your husband’s reckless impulse nearly shattered the alliance between your House and the Crown, I find I can understand his fury—at least in part. I, too, would show no rcy to any man who dared touch my wife. Therefore, just as you apologized for your husband’s transgression..."
To the collective gasp of everyone present, the Emperor inclined his head in a deep, formal bow. "I offer my deepest apologies for the conduct of the Empress. I beg you to accept them."
The room fell into a deathly silence. The Sovereign, the sun of the empire, was bowing to a Duchess.
"Your Majesty!" the Empress shrieked, her voice cracking with indignation. "How can you humble yourself so?"
The Emperor snapped his head toward her, his eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying fire. "Silence! You attempted to murder your own daughter and you still find the audacity to speak? We will discuss your fate later. Do not test further." He turned back to Olivia, his tone softening.
"Duchess, you are injured. Stay the night; I will have a suite prepared for you and the Duke. It is already late."
"I thank you for your grace, Your Majesty," Olivia replied, her voice steady despite her frailty. "But I must insist on leaving. Staying here... would be far from comfortable."
The Emperor sighed, a heavy sound of resignation.
"Very well. As you wish."
He reached out, his hand hovering near her throat. He didn’t touch her, but a warm, golden surge of Imperial magic flowed from his palm, knitting the bruised tissues of her neck back together.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," she whispered.
"Do not thank . It is the very least I owe you." He then shifted his gaze to Matthias, his eyes hardening into flint. "Duke Luceron, out of respect for your wife’s wisdom, I shall treat tonight’s incident as if it never occurred. Do not ever repeat such a display of insolence."
Without another word, the Emperor swept out of the room, dragging the Empress behind him in a grip that brooked no argunt.
Olivia looked at Matthias. His face was a mask of sheer, unmitigated frustration. He stepped forward, his grip on her elbow firm but not unkind. "Forgive us, Kyle. We are leaving. Leon, let us go."
Layla rushed forward, thrusting a heavy fur cloak into Olivia’s hands. "Olivia, take my cloak. You... you look catastrophic."
Olivia offered a small, tired smile. "Thank you, Layla."
Matthias snatched the cloak from Layla’s hands, draping it over Olivia’s shoulders with a possessive jerk. He pulled her through the corridors, and for once, Olivia followed without a single word of protest.
The three of them climbed into the carriage. The silence that followed was suffocating, a thick fog of suppressed rage and unspoken questions. Leon felt like an intruder in a tomb; the air inside the carriage felt thin, as if the anger between husband and wife was consuming all the oxygen. Fortunately, the ride was short.
As soon as the carriage halted, Leon practically leapt out. "Gods," he muttered under his breath, "I nearly choked in there. Staying with those two is a special kind of madness."
As Matthias and Olivia stepped down, Leon turned to offer a hasty farewell. "Well... goodnight to you both. Try not to kill each other."
Neither of them answered him. Leon didn’t wait for a response; he vanished into the night as if escaping a burning building.
Olivia stole a glance at Matthias. His brow was still knitted in a sharp, jagged line of fury. "I know you’re dying to scream at ," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "but can you at least pretend to be fine in front of the servants until we reach the room?"
He didn’t argue. He shifted his expression into a mask of cold indifference, leading her through the halls until they reached the sanctuary of his chambers.
Olivia sat on the sofa, bracing herself for the explosion. She expected shouting, shattered glass, or at least a scathing lecture. Instead, Matthias turned on his heel and walked out.
She sat in the silence, bewildered, until he returned minutes later. He wasn’t carrying a weapon of words; he was carrying a basin of steaming water, a clean nightgown, and a bundle of soft towels.
"Where were you?" she asked, her voice small.
"I fetched warm water," he replied shortly, his voice clipped. "You’re in no state for a full bath. I’m just going to clean the blood off."
"Huh?"
He didn’t give her a choice. He cupped her chin, tilting her head back with firm but surprisingly gentle fingers. He began to dab the dried crimson from her skin as if he were tending to a wounded child, moved then to her hair, ticulously picking out the stray shards of crystal.
"Weren’t you going to argue with ?" she asked, searching his eyes.
"I am livid," he admitted, his jaw tightening. "I am close to exploding because of what you did. But you are hurt, and I won’t make it worse for you tonight."
"You can say whatever you want. The Emperor and Layla healed ; physically, I am perfectly fine."
He let out a sharp, ragged sigh. "Then why? Why in the na of all that is holy did you do it? Why did you kneel to that... that woman? She tried to kill you!"
"And what was I supposed to do?" Olivia shot back, her voice rising. "Watch you be branded a rebel? Do you have any idea what that ans? It ans execution, Matthias! It ans the guillotine!"
"So what?" he roared, the towel gripping tight in his hand. "Aren’t you the woman whose pride reaches the heavens? How could you drag that pride through the dirt for soone like her?"
"Pride?" she hissed. "And what good is my pride when I’m staring at your head on a platter? Will my pride comfort then?"
"I would rather be executed a thousand tis over than watch my wife kneel and beg for rcy from soone who tried to murder her!"
For Olivia, his words triggered a visceral, terrifying mory. The image of his head severed from his body—the nightmare she had lived in her previous life—flashed before her eyes with sickening clarity. The trauma of that past ghost surged through her veins, turning her fear into a blind, white-hot rage.
Before she realized what she was doing, her hand swung through the air.
SLAP.
The sound echoed sharply in the room. The towel fell from Matthias’s hand. His head jerked to the side, a dark red mark blooming across his cheek.
"Do not speak of execution so lightly!" she scread at him, her chest heaving, tears of fury finally blurring her vision. "Don’t you dare say that word in front of ever again! Never!"
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