I will be the perfect wife this time-Chapter 105: The Broken Cage

Mathias fixed the Duke of Tharron, In that volatile instant, noble etiquette and imperial laws were nothing more than dust scattered by a gale. He required no formal accusation, no trial, and no warrant; the mere knowledge that this man had laid hands on Olivia—that he dared to inhale the very air breathed by the woman he had shattered—was provocation enough. Mathias did not merely wish to fight him; he craved his total annihilation. He wanted to tear the life from his throat and erase every trace of his existence from the earth.

Roland took a sharp, arrogant step toward the door, his intent unmistakable. Mathias did not flinch. He mirrored the movement, his massive frame baring the way like an unyielding monolith.

"I have come to see my daughter," Roland stated, his voice a glacial rasp, his eyes fixed on the wooden barrier.

"Your daughter is in Tharron," Mathias countered, his voice deceptively calm. He did not budge an inch, his knuckles whitening as his grip tightened on the door handle. "The woman behind this door is my wife. And I will not permit your eyes to fall upon her. Therefore, for the sake of your own life, I would appreciate it if you vanished from my sight immediately."

A flicker of Roland’s habitual arrogance flashed in his gaze. "Are you threatening me, son-in-law?"

Mathias let a dark, predatory smile curl his lips. "Yes, I am. So, get out."

"Your perspective is of no consequence to me, Duke Luceron," Roland sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "I am going inside."

He reached for the handle, but he was far too slow. In a blur of motion, Mathias lunged, seizing Roland by the collar and shoving him back with such explosive force that the older man stumbled several paces.

Mathias hissed, his green eyes glowing with a suppressed, feral rage. "I told you to leave. Do you crave blood? Because I am more than prepared to give you yours."

Roland opened his mouth to retort, but a voice saturated with venom hailed them from down the corridor.

"Welcome, welcome, Lord Tharron. We are honored by your presence—you son of a bitch."

It was Leon.

He approached with heavy, deliberate strides that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of the palace. His cravat was loosened, his collar hanging open like a man who had just stepped out of a bloodbath and was hunting for more. His aura wasn’t just terrifying; it was suffocating. Mathias released his grip on Roland’s collar, his focus snapping to his brother, who looked possessed by a singular, mad purpose.

Leon didn’t stop until he was inches from the Duke’s face. He wasn’t looking for a dialogue; he was looking for a slaughter.

"Draw your sword," Leon commanded, his voice low and jagged.

Roland blinked, momentarily stunned by the sheer, unadulterated loathing reflected in Leon’s eyes. "What—?"

"I said draw your steel!" Leon roared, his voice echoing through the hallway like a thunderclap. In one fluid, lethal arc, he unsheathed his blade. His aura surged, the steel shimmering with a ghostly, predatory light. "I am about to take your head, and I refuse to have it said that I butchered an unarmed man. Draw it, Roland, and give me the excuse I need to end you."

Roland drew his own blade, a dark, twisted smile spreading across his face. "Excellent. I was already in the mood for more killing today."

The stillness of the air shattered. Leon didn’t wait for a reply; he lunged forward, the clash of their blades ringing out like a death knell. Despite Leon’s raw power, it was immediately clear that Roland’s strength was a force not to be underestimated. The corridor became a blurred haze of silver and shadow as Leon swung his sword with a force intended to shatter not just Roland’s blade, but his very soul.

As Leon raised his sword for a crushing blow that threatened to split the stone floor beneath them, Mathias moved. With the lightning-fast reflexes born of a decade of combat, he stepped between them, his own blade catching Leon’s mid-air. The screech of steel against steel was deafening.

"Leon! Stop!" Mathias hissed, straining every muscle to halt his brother’s murderous momentum. He leaned in, whispering sharply into Leon’s ear. "I know the rage is eating you alive. I know he deserves this. But this is not the time, and it is certainly not the place for your personal vendetta. we are in the heart of the palace—the whole world is watching."

Leon roared, his eyes bloodshot and his breath coming in ragged, guttural hitches. "Get out of my way, Mathias! He deserves to rot! I will end him here and now!"

But Roland, instead of trembling, began to laugh—a low, disjointed sound that seemed to freeze the very air in the corridor. He straightened his jacket, a twisted, triumphant smirk spreading across his face as he took in Leon’s shaking frame.

"Such passion, Lord Leon," Roland sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "But perhaps you should direct that energy elsewhere. Instead of hunting me, perhaps you ought to keep a closer eye on your own wife. Wouldn’t that be for the best?"

The words struck Leon like a physical blow. His rage transmuted into a blind, white heat. He tried to lunge again, but Mathias held him with iron strength, his own heart thudding with a sudden, dark foreboding.

"I’ll kill you!" Leon screamed, his voice cracking with fury. "I’ll rip your tongue out!"

"Enough!" Mathias’s command barked like thunder, but the sound died in his throat as a soft click echoed behind him.

The heavy chamber door swung open.

The three men froze in their tracks.

Olivia stood at the threshold, framed by the flickering, amber glow of the candlelight from within. She did not look like a victim, nor did she even look blind. Her arms were folded across her chest, her posture radiating a cold, regal authority. On her lips sat a faint, mocking smile—the kind that promised total destruction.

Inside the room, her world had been a suffocating expanse of nothingness. But for Olivia, the darkness was no longer silent. Through the thick oak of the doors, the air had been torn apart by voices she knew all too well.

One voice in particular pierced her soul like a serrated blade. Her father. A cold, nauseating dread had seeped into her marrow. She knew why he was here; he hadn’t come for a daughter. He had come for the blood she could still feel, wet and phantom-like, on her hands—the blood of the woman she had "freed."

She had heard Mathias—his voice low and protective—standing as an immovable barrier. She had heard the hiss of steel leaving its sheath. Her heart had hammered against her ribs like a panicked bird trapped in a cage of bone.

Damn it, I didn’t expect him to come here. What if he hurts Mathias? The thought was unbearable. After everything she had done to keep him away from her father’s reach, all she could hear now was the lethal song of clashing swords.

She forced herself from the bed, her feet colliding with the cold stone floor as the world tilted violently beneath her. Without her sight, the familiar sanctuary of the room had transformed into a treacherous labyrinth of invisible obstacles. She stumbled, her hip catching the sharp corner of a table with a sickening thud, and a vase shattered somewhere to her left—the sound detonating in her ears like a gunshot.

"If anyone must die," she whispered, her breath coming in ragged hitches, "it will be me, not him."

She clawed her way up, her hands trembling as they brushed against the empty air until they found the biting chill of the stone wall. She traced the rough texture, her fingertips raw from the friction, guided only by the escalating symphony of violence outside. Every muffled shout and every clash of steel felt like a physical blow to her chest.

With a deep, shuddering breath, she turned the handle. She didn’t merely open the door; she stepped directly into the eye of the storm, ready to let it consume her.

Her sightless eyes seemed to pierce through Roland’s soul, stripping him of his arrogance. Having caught his venomous taunt to Leon, she asked in a voice like calm water over jagged glass: "Are you not the one who should take that advice, Father? Perhaps you should have watched your own wife more closely."

An absolute, suffocating silence fell over the corridor. Roland’s smirk vanished, replaced by a mask of murderous loathing.

"What did you say, my child?" he whispered, a terrifying edge to his voice.

Olivia! I told you to stay inside!" Mathias lunged to her side, his protective instincts igniting like a wildfire. He reached for her, his frame a trembling barricade of muscle and desperation.

​"Be silent, Mathias," she whispered. Her voice was unexpectedly steady, cutting through the heavy, suffocating air of the corridor like a silver blade. She tilted her head slightly, navigating the void by scent alone—tracing the cloying aroma of lilies mingled with the sharp, metallic tang of iron. She turned her sightless gaze toward her father.

​"You came for me, didn’t you, Father?" she asked, her tone dripping with a chilling, melodic defiance. "To punish the daughter who finally broke your favorite doll?"

Olivia’s smile widened, and though she could not see him, she locked onto the precise vibration of his voice. "You were advising Leon to keep an eye on his wife, yet you forgot that even a bird in a cage can find a way to flee... if someone is kind enough to open the door to freedom. Or perhaps," she leaned slightly forward, her tone dropping to a chilling silk, "the gates of the afterlife."