The night unfolded in a haze of heat and stolen breath, of laughter muffled against skin and whispered confessions that slipped between kisses. She had never known him like this—hungry, yes, but also strangely reverent, as though each part of her he touched was something rare and precious.
When dawn at last pried open the shutters, Olivia stirred, aching in every limb. The memories of the night returned in a rush, leaving her cheeks aflame. "Damn you, Matthias," she muttered under her breath. "Every part of me hurts."
She turned to find him beside her, still asleep, his features softened in rest. He looked younger, almost boyish, stripped of the sharp edges that so often defined him. She was about to slip away when his arm reached instinctively around her, drawing her back into the circle of his body.
"Matthias," she protested faintly, "haven't you had enough? Let me go."
But he only held her closer, his voice a weary murmur against her ear.
"Stay… just for a little while. I ask for nothing more."
He drew in a long, weary breath before speaking, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability.
"The war is at our very doorstep. It seems the Eastern Empire is preparing to invade. The Emperor himself has demanded that the leaders of the great houses take part in the coming battle. I cannot say how long it will be before I am summoned to the field once again…"
Olivia listened in silence. At first her expression remained composed, but slowly it twisted into one of dread. In her memories, this was the war that would claim him—not through death on the battlefield, but through betrayal and the branding of treachery. Her throat tightened, words catching on her tongue, until at last she pushed herself up abruptly.
"Wait—where are you going?" he asked, startled by her sudden movement.
Her reply came haltingly, her composure slipping. "I… just remembered something I must take care of."
His eyes narrowed, disbelief flickering across his face. "Do you think I am blind to such an excuse? You would walk out while I share with you news of such gravity? What am I to make of such disrespect?"
She turned her gaze aside, unwilling to meet the storm gathering in his. "You've gone to battle countless times before. Why should this one matter so much that you must burden me with it now?"
His hands tightened into fists, though his tone remained steady. "Because you are the Duchess. You must be aware of these things. In the past, I confided in Isabella so that she might tell you, but now that you have returned to the affairs of the duchy, it is only right that you hear it from me."
A thin, nervous smile tugged at Olivia's lips. "Ah… I see. Very well, I understand now. But I truly must attend to something. Let us dine together later, yes?"
He gave a hesitant nod, bewilderment shadowing his expression as he watched her retreat. Have I done something else to trouble her?
Olivia slipped quickly into her chamber, only to halt in stunned disbelief.
"Damn it, Isabella! What in the world are you doing sprawled across my couch like this?"
The girl stirred, blinking groggily before offering a languid smile. "Ah… so you're finally back."
Isabella's eyes swept over her instinctively, noting the faint traces still lingering on her delicate skin. Though Olivia had changed into a new gown, faint crimson marks dotted her pale flesh, whispers of a night not so easily erased.
"Mmm," Isabella murmured with a knowing smirk, her gaze playful despite her drowsiness. "It seems the two of you had quite a… long conversation last night."
Heat rushed to Olivia's face as she whirled toward the mirror.
"Oh no… damn it, damn it! These marks—how am I supposed to hide all of this?"
"Just wear a dress with a higher collar," Isabella mumbled, half-asleep, stretching like a cat before sinking back into the cushions.
Olivia pressed her fingers against her neck, exasperated. "That might work… But tell me—what exactly are you doing in my room at this hour of the morning?"
A faint, muffled sound tugged at Olivia's attention.
"Mmm… mmhh… s-someone… please… help me…"
Her brows furrowed. The voice was weak, trembling, drenched in fear. Following it, she stepped toward the bathing chamber. The sight that greeted her there made her pause. One of the maids sat bound tightly to a chair, her wrists lashed together with cruel precision. A cloth gagged her mouth, though not enough to silence the sobs spilling through. Tears streaked her face as she struggled in vain.
When Olivia's shadow fell across her, the girl went utterly still, her wide eyes drowning in terror.
Olivia turned sharply, her voice low and edged with demand. "Isabella… what is the meaning of this? Why is she here?"
Isabella, leaning casually against the doorway, wore a confident smile that seemed entirely out of place in the grim scene. With deliberate grace, she extended an envelope toward Olivia. Its seal and script were unmistakably familiar—identical to the ones Isabella had once received whenever she corresponded with Duke Tharon.
"When you spoke yesterday about the traitor," Isabella began smoothly, "a thought struck me. I remembered how it was always this maid who delivered the parcels. She never carried just one letter, but two. So, I searched her chamber. And what did I find? A hidden collection of messages… all of them penned by your dear father. The evidence speaks for itself, does it not? She is the traitor."
Olivia's eyes widened, taken aback by both the revelation and Isabella's boldness. "This is… remarkable. But tell me—how did you manage to bring her here?"
"Oh, nothing complicated." Isabella shrugged, almost flippant. "I simply told Kira to inform her that the Duchess required her presence. She came willingly enough. The rest was easy."
"The rest?" Olivia arched a brow.
"Yes." Isabella's smirk deepened. "We subdued her. Kira held her down, and I… well, I may have struck her with that blue vase over there. Don't worry, I'll fetch you another later."
Olivia's lips curved into a strained smile, her eyes narrowing in reluctant amusement. Damn it… Isabella is becoming a smaller, sharper version of me. Live among wolves long enough, and you grow fangs yourself.
The air grew heavier as Olivia stepped closer to the trembling maid, her features hardening into a mask of icy cruelty. "Well, well, well," she murmured, circling the chair like a predator savoring its prey. "What do we have here? A filthy little rat caught in the open."
She tugged the gag free, letting the fabric fall to the floor.
"Please!" the maid cried out instantly, her voice quivering. "I don't know what Lady Isabella told you, but I swear upon my life, it isn't true! I beg you, Your Grace, believe me!"
Olivia tilted her head, feigning consideration. "So… you claim Isabella lies to me?"
Relief flickered in the girl's eyes, as though hope had suddenly bloomed in her chest. "Yes! Yes, Your Grace! She lies only to cast me in a false light. You mustn't trust her!"
"Mmm," Olivia hummed, glancing slyly at Isabella. "And here I thought my dear sister incapable of such wickedness. Tell me, Isabella, why heap your sins upon another?"
Isabella let out a low, mocking laugh.
The maid's face brightened, her posture straightening with desperate belief that she had triumphed. But the illusion shattered in an instant as Olivia's hand lashed across her cheek, the crack of the slap echoing in the chamber. The maid gasped, her cry breaking into sobs as scarlet bloomed across her skin.
"Y-your Grace…" she whispered through trembling lips, eyes glistening with tears.
Olivia seized her chin in a cruel grip, forcing the girl to meet her gaze. A cold smile curved her mouth as she leaned in.
"Oh, spare me your pitiful whimpering. Do you truly believe I would be so foolish as to trust you?"
Her laughter—low, sharp, merciless—cut through the maid's last fragile thread of hope.
She wailed again, a frantic litany of denials tumbling from her lips. "My lady, I swear—I had nothing to do with it. I never sent letters to Miss Elvira, please believe me!"
Olivia's eyes narrowed; a smile that knew cruelty hovered at the corner of her mouth. "Funny—because I never said you wrote to Elvira. That was a very honest—if awkward—admission."
Silence fell like a curtain. The maid's breath hitched; her voice shrank until she was little more than a trembling thing. Rumors about Olivia were poisonous; even the faintest hint of defiance in a servant could be fatal.
Olivia turned to Kira in a whisper. "Bring them."
Kira bowed and slipped from the room. Isabella watched, curiosity knitting her brow. "Bring what, exactly?" she asked, unable to hide the edge of anticipation in her tone.
"You'll see," Olivia said. "If your stomach is delicate, you may step outside." Her lips formed the invitation like a dare, and the hint of contempt in her voice made Isabella's face harden for a moment.
Kira returned swiftly, carrying a rough sack. Olivia moved to the bound girl with cool, methodical hands. She loosened the ropes enough to rebind the wrists in front of her, then sealed the gag in place once more. "Place her hands on the table," she ordered, and Kira obeyed—gentle as if dealing with a frightened animal. They brought over a sturdy wooden board and set it before them.
"Ah… Isabella, still here? Are you certain you wish to stay? The sight may not be to your liking."
With deliberate calm, Olivia tipped the contents of the sack onto the table. A hammer rolled against the wood, followed by the sharp glint of nails.
"Mmm… mmm…" The muffled whimper of the maid trembled through her gag. Isabella's eyes widened, her face paling, lips pressed tight as she recoiled and turned away. Yet her ears caught the shrill, broken cry that burst from the girl.
As Olivia had expected, the moment was swift—her expression calm, almost serene—she seized the girl's left hand and drove a nail through it. The hammer struck once, then again. Olivia's face did not flinch, her gaze fixed and cold as glass, while the maid's features contorted in sheer horror, her mouth a twisted mask of pain.
"There," Olivia murmured with grim satisfaction. "Your hands are secured. Now we can begin."
She tore the cloth from the girl's mouth, and a torrent of screams erupted—pleas for mercy, desperate sobs.
"Please, my lady, please—have mercy!" The maid's tear-streaked cheeks glistened, her eyes wild with panic.
Olivia's lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained hard, unblinking. With steady hand she raised the hammer once more and brought it down. Bone shattered beneath the blow. Blood seeped into the cracks of the wooden table as the maid howled, her face twisted into a grotesque mask of anguish.
"Hm. Still you refuse?" Olivia's head tilted slightly, her expression unreadable, as if she were watching an insect squirm.
"I didn't do anything! I swear, I beg you—" the girl wept, her eyes swollen, her mouth trembling.
Another strike. Another finger crushed, the maid's face jerking with each spasm. Olivia's own features remained untouched by pity, her expression as calm as though she were pruning roses in a garden.
"I will continue," she whispered coldly, "until you decide to confess."
But still the girl held stubborn silence, her tear-stained face quivering, refusing to utter Elvira's name. One finger after another was reduced to ruin.
"Hmm… it seems she will not speak, after all." Olivia studied the broken figure slumped before her, sweat dripping from her ashen face.
From behind, Isabella's trembling voice broke the tension. Her brows knit in fear, lips trembling. "Could she not be innocent?"
"Innocent?" Olivia's eyes flickered with disdain, her face sharp with contempt. "Will you call me blind, Isabella? Look at her. She is a traitor. Or… do you pity her now?"
"I—I…" Isabella faltered, her voice weak as her gaze lingered on the maid's ravaged features. "She shows no sign of confessing. Perhaps…"
Olivia did not wait. With graceful precision, her expression firm and composed, she crossed to a shelf and withdrew a golden dagger. Its blade caught the lamplight and gleamed against her pale, impassive face.
"If she will not speak," Olivia murmured, pressing her lips into a cruel smile, "then I shall silence the tongue that refuses to move."
She forced the girl's jaw open, her terrified face streaming with tears. The maid writhed, her eyes wide, pupils blown with horror, but Olivia's grip was merciless.
"Well then, my sweet," Olivia breathed, her calm expression chilling in its serenity, "if you will not speak with this tongue… let me relieve you of it altogether."
At last, broken by terror, the girl shrieked: "I am sorry! I never meant to poison you, my lady—I swear!"
Olivia froze, her face darkening, eyes narrowing like a storm behind glass.
"Poison me? What is this you speak of?"