Everything was over now—the wedding that had unsettled so many hearts, the feverish days of preparation and whispers, the restless nights. It was the day after, and silence had finally settled like a heavy curtain upon the household.
Olivia stirred awake, her lashes parting slowly as she found herself in Matthias's chamber. He stood at a distance, unaware of her waking eyes. She watched him quietly, unwilling to break the fragile stillness that wrapped around him. His figure was rigid, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze fixed upon some faraway emptiness beyond the window.
She studied him in the dim light: the shadows beneath his eyes, carved deeper by sleepless nights; the redness that betrayed tears shed in secret; the faint tremor of his jaw as he held back what words or grief he would never confess. A thin trail of smoke curled upward from the cigarette pressed between his lips, refusing to leave him even for a moment.
For a time she remained still, almost as if she were intruding upon his solitude simply by watching. Then, with a soft resolve, she rose. Her steps were careful, deliberate. He did not notice. Lost within his thoughts, he seemed worlds away.
Gently, she reached out and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, crushing its ember with her fingers before extinguishing it in the tray.
"This isn't good for you," she murmured.
Only then did he stir, his head turning toward her as though roused from a dream. His eyes softened, though his smile was thin and fragile, the smile of a man defeated yet unwilling to admit it.
"Ah," he said, voice rough with weariness, "you're awake. I didn't realize."
He glanced around the room as though searching for something to anchor himself to, his thoughts scattered like ash in the wind. At last, he exhaled, long and heavy, and spoke with a weariness that weighed down every syllable.
"Since you're awake… you should prepare yourself. Today, we will hold the funeral of the former Duchess."
Olivia's eyes widened. She stepped closer, her breath catching in disbelief.
"The funeral? You mean… you intend to announce her death now? Wouldn't that be dangerous for Lyla?"
Matthias looked at her with a faint, almost bitter curve of his lips, as if he had expected the question. His voice lowered, quiet but resolute.
"I had forgotten to tell you… Talia has agreed to play the role of the late Duchess for a time, at least until the matter can be settled. That is why we've chosen a different path. The funeral will be secret—attended by no one but us."
"So, that's how it is," Olivia whispered, her voice caught between disbelief and defiance. "But what do you mean by prepare myself? I will not attend the funeral."
Matthias drew a long, heavy breath—one that trembled with both restraint and irritation. His brows tightened, and his voice came low but firm, carrying the weight of duty more than anger.
"Olivia, you are the Duchess. The Emperor will be there, the Empress, the entire royal family. You cannot absent yourself. It is not a choice."
His eyes, weary and desperate, met hers. For a moment she resisted, her thoughts adrift elsewhere, clinging to some silent protest. Yet in the end, her will folded beneath the inevitability of it all. She lowered her gaze and murmured, almost to herself,
"Very well… I will attend."
Matthias adjusted the folds of his coat with mechanical precision, as though each motion was a way to suppress what he truly felt. Without another word, he turned and left the chamber. His final words lingered behind him like fading smoke.
"I'll wait for you at the back gate of the palace."
The door had barely closed before her maid entered, carrying a gown of mourning—a long dress of solemn black, its fabric heavy with grief. Olivia's breath caught at the sight of it, and a flood of memory broke through her composure. She remembered the last time mourning clothes were forced upon her, Then, she had torn it to pieces, unable to bear the cruelty of it.
This time, however, she said nothing. Her hands did not tremble, nor did she resist. She let the fabric fall over her shoulders, her face pale, her silence heavier than tears.
Kira, her loyal maid, noticed the color drained from her mistress's cheeks. As she fastened the last button, she hesitated, speaking gently.
"My lady… your face is so pale. Shall I put a touch of powder, something light, nothing anyone would notice?"
Olivia raised a hand slowly and dismissed the suggestion with a faint gesture. No mask could conceal what she carried within her.
Minutes passed—though they felt stretched into hours—and finally she stepped into the dim corridors that led to the waiting carriage. The journey toward the crypt was long, suffocating in its silence. Each turn of the wheel seemed to drag time itself, the road unending, as though grief had lengthened the very earth beneath them.
When at last they arrived, the first light of dawn had just begun to brush the horizon, painting the sky in muted grays and silvers. The timing was perfect: the city still slept, no crowd had gathered, and the burial could pass unnoticed.
The ceremony unfolded with quiet brevity. Earth was laid over earth, prayers whispered with bowed heads. One by one, members of the royal family approached Olivia, offering words of condolence that rang hollow, though their faces were etched with convincing sorrow.
Even Lyla, who had never known the late Duchess, seemed stricken with grief. Her eyes glistened as though she too had lost something precious. And for a fleeting instant, Olivia wondered how much of that sorrow was genuine, and how much was simply another mask in a world where mourning was just another duty.
Leon clutched Isabella's hand, leaning heavily against her shoulder as though the weight of grief itself had hollowed out his strength. His eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, were fixed upon the freshly sealed grave of his mother. Around him, mourners lingered in silence, their gazes drawn to the broken figure of a son bound to sorrow.
A few paces away, Olivia stood apart, her gaze caught not by the grief of the living but by another stone, another name. She drifted toward it as though summoned by some invisible hand. Elias Tharoun.
She froze. Her breath faltered. The name struck her like a blade to the chest, sharp and merciless. She stood rooted to the earth, unable to tear her eyes away. The grave was not adorned in grandeur, but in tender simplicity: delicate blue flowers scattered across its surface, each one alive against the cold stone.
She did not notice Matthias approach behind her, his steps slow, his silence heavy. For a long moment he said nothing, then, his voice low and uneven, he whispered,
"I named him Elias, just as you asked… before he passed."
Her body shuddered as if the ground beneath her had opened. Tears welled in her eyes without warning, spilling freely before she could stop them. Her lips trembled, her voice fractured.
"Y-you mean… this… this is our child's grave?"