The halls of the Duke's manor buzzed with whispers by mid-morning. Word of the slap had spread like wildfire, traveling beyond the household walls and into the drawing rooms of the capital's elite.
"She struck her husband?" an aristocratic lady gasped during tea. "Shameless!"
"It's no wonder the Duke sought comfort elsewhere. She's an unfit wife," another scoffed, her lips curling in disdain.
But not all opinions were scornful. Among the servants, quiet laughter rippled through the manor. For once, the cold and distant Duchess had shown a spark of fire, and her retaliation against the Duke seemed to stir a flicker of admiration in those who had silently suffered under the household's rigid hierarchy.
"About time someone put him in his place," a kitchen maid whispered, barely stifling her giggle.
"Serves him right," another chimed in, grinning as she scrubbed dishes.
Yet, none laughed as heartily—or as chillingly—as Kael.
In the dead of night, when the rest of the manor had settled into an uneasy quiet, Seraphina's chambers remained dimly lit. She stood by her desk, her daggers glinting faintly in the candlelight as she cleaned them, her mind preoccupied with the day's events.
A faint rustle by the window broke her focus.
She turned swiftly, her grip tightening on the dagger. A shadow slipped through the half-open window, moving with the fluid grace of a predator.
"Still so slow, little bird," a deep, familiar voice teased as Kael emerged from the shadows. His crimson eyes glinted with amusement, his lips curled into a smirk.
Seraphina's dagger was in her hand in an instant, its sharp tip aimed directly at his throat. "What are you doing here?" she hissed, her voice low but steady.
Kael chuckled, a soft, dangerous sound. He made no move to evade the blade, his gaze fixed on her with unsettling intensity. "I heard the news," he said, his voice laced with mockery. "You slapped your husband in front of his mistress. Bold, even for you."
Her jaw tightened. "If you're here to mock me, you can leave the same way you came."
"Mock you?" he repeated, his smirk deepening. "No, little bird. I'm here to congratulate you. You've finally started showing those claws of yours."
The blade inched closer, but Kael didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned in, his face mere inches from hers. "You're becoming more like me every day," he whispered, his voice like a dark caress. "It's... endearing."
Seraphina's eyes narrowed, her dagger unwavering. "I'm nothing like you."
Kael laughed softly, his chilling amusement filling the room. "Keep telling yourself that," he said, his hand moving with lightning speed to grip her wrist. His touch was firm but not painful as he gently lowered the blade.
"You're still my cute little bird, even with those claws," he murmured, his tone dripping with possessive affection. "But you'll need more than daggers to survive the games you're playing."
Seraphina pulled her hand back, stepping away from him. "I don't need your advice," she said coldly, though her heart pounded in her chest.
Kael tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps not. But you'll need me sooner or later."
Before she could respond, he was gone, slipping back into the shadows as silently as he had come. The cold night air rushed in through the open window, and Seraphina closed it with a sharp exhale.
She stood there for a moment, her dagger still in hand, her thoughts a whirlwind of frustration and unease.
*****
The glow of the fireplace flickered weakly against the cold stone walls of Seraphina's chambers. She sat on the edge of her bed, the memories clawing their way to the surface, as vivid as the day they happened.
It had been a crisp autumn afternoon when Alastair returned from the northern campaign, triumphant and handsome in his polished armor. She had prepared for his arrival with painstaking care: arranging his favorite dishes, lighting the manor with soft golden candles, and even donning the sapphire dress he once remarked suited her best.
But none of it mattered.
Instead, Alastair had entered the grand hall with Viviane on his arm, her laughter bright and airy as she clung to him like a jewel. The servants had whispered, their eyes darting between the Duke, his mistress, and the Duchess who stood frozen in place.
Seraphina clenched her fists as she recalled how he had barely spared her a glance, brushing past her as if she were no more than a fixture in the room. He had spoken to Viviane in a soft, affectionate tone she had never heard him use with her. Each word had been a dagger to her chest.
That night, she confronted him.
"Alastair," she had said, her voice calm but her eyes burning with quiet fury as she stood in the doorway of his study. "You've brought her here, into my home. Into our home. What do you take me for?"
Alastair had looked up from his desk, his expression cold and detached, as if she were an annoyance he had to endure.
"I take you for what you are, Seraphina," he replied icily. "The Duchess of Everell. A position you hold not because of love, but because of necessity. You are the daughter of the Marquis of Aelthwyn, and I need your family's support."
Her throat tightened, but she refused to let the tears fall. "So that's all I am to you? A tool? An accessory to your ambitions?"
Alastair rose from his chair, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the room. "You are what I made you," he said, his voice like a blade. "A Duchess, nothing more. You should be grateful I gave you that much, considering your… tainted bloodline."
The words struck her like a physical blow, but he wasn't finished.
"You think you can demand more? That you deserve more? You're a half-breed noble, Seraphina. Illegitimate. Born of scandal and shame. You'll never be anything more than that in the eyes of society," he sneered, stepping closer.
"And as for an heir…" He scoffed. "Do you think I'd ever allow my son to be born of someone like you? A disgrace to the Everell name."
Her breath caught, the weight of his cruelty suffocating. She had thought she could endure his indifference, his coldness. But this? This was a deeper wound, one that bled into her very soul.
"I see," she had whispered, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to remain composed. "Then I suppose I'll stop pretending that this is a marriage worth saving."
Alastair had dismissed her with a wave of his hand, returning to his papers as if she were already forgotten. "As long as you perform your duties as Duchess, you may do as you please. But don't forget your place, Seraphina."
That night, she had returned to her chambers, her hands trembling as she tore off the sapphire dress and tossed it aside. Everything she had prepared, everything she had hoped for—it had all been a joke. A cruel, hollow joke.
And yet, she refused to break.
Now, sitting in the dim light of the fire, Seraphina's lips curled into a bitter smile. She had learned long ago that to survive in this world, she couldn't afford to let her pain show. She was the Duchess of Everell, after all. A tool, a symbol, a façade.
But even tools had their breaking points.
Her fingers traced the hidden blade beneath her sleeve, a reminder of the life she had once lived and the strength she still possessed.
*****
The meeting hall was oppressively silent, save for the crackle of the hearth in the corner. Seraphina sat at the head of the long oak table, her posture straight and her expression unreadable. Around her, the Duke's council of elders shifted uneasily in their seats, their faces lined with exhaustion and irritation.
The meeting had followed the conclusion of a formal audience with her husband, Alastair, where he had all but ignored the matters at hand. Now, it was left to her to confront the growing financial crisis imposed by the king's latest decree.
"The audacity," one of the elders muttered, slumping into his chair. "That fool thinks he can impose such a burden on the people and remain unchallenged?"
"Typical of the crown," another scoffed. "Raise the taxes and let the nobles clean up the mess."
"The Duke barely contributes," another elder spat, his words a venomous jab. "He leaves everything to her as if this estate could run itself."
Seraphina's gaze remained steady, betraying none of the fury simmering beneath her composed exterior. She had long grown accustomed to such remarks. They spoke of her husband's negligence with open disdain, but their expectations fell squarely on her shoulders.
"It's chaos in the villages," one elder continued, his voice heavy with concern. "The civilians are struggling to pay the current taxes, and now this? If we don't find a solution soon, there'll be riots."
"The merchants are no better," added another. "Raise taxes on them, and they'll bleed the markets dry, driving prices even higher. The kingdom will starve before winter's end."
Seraphina's fingers tapped softly against the polished wood of the table, her mind racing. The elders' arguments were valid, but there was no time for indecision. She glanced at the pile of documents before her, detailing the estate's dwindling reserves and the growing unrest among the populace.
Finally, she spoke, her voice calm yet commanding. "We will impose the increased taxes on the aristocrats."
The room fell into stunned silence. The elders exchanged incredulous glances, their expressions ranging from shock to outright alarm.
"Tax the aristocracy?" one of them echoed, his voice laced with disbelief. "Duchess, that's a dangerous move. The nobility will revolt before they allow their coffers to be touched."
"And what of the Duke's standing?" another elder interjected. "The aristocrats will see this as an attack on their status. They'll turn against him—against you."
Seraphina met their protests. "The civilians are already at their breaking point. If we raise taxes on them any further, we risk widespread rebellion. Touching the merchants is equally dangerous; it will destabilize the economy and lead to scarcity."
She rose from her chair, her hands braced against the table as she leaned forward, her gaze piercing. "The aristocracy has the means to endure this burden. They've hoarded wealth for generations, while the common folk scrape by on nothing. If they want to maintain their lavish lifestyles, they'll comply—or face the consequences."
The elders exchanged uneasy murmurs, but none could refute her logic. Seraphina's voice softened, yet her tone carried a weight of finality.
"This is the best solution. The people need to see that we are not blind to their suffering. If we show them that even the nobility must contribute, we can restore some measure of trust."
One elder hesitated, then spoke carefully. "Duchess, while your plan is sound, it carries great risk. The Duke must support this, or the aristocrats will retaliate."
Seraphina's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Let me worry about the Duke."
The elders fell silent, their protests subdued. They understood well enough that Seraphina, not Alastair, was the true force holding the duchy together.