Married To Darkness-Chapter 508: To take revenge

"That part survived beautifully."

They both laughed—quietly at first, then more freely, the sound easing something unseen between them.

For a while they remained there, speaking of ordinary things: how early snow had once trapped half a village road, how Jean had nearly slipped into a river during first frost because she insisted stones were safe to cross, how Salviana used to hide under blankets just to avoid dawn prayers in winter.

Eventually a maid arrived to announce lunch.

They moved indoors together, where warmth gathered in the dining chamber and long windows reflected silver light across polished floors.

Lunch was simple by palace standards—fresh bread still warm from the ovens, herb soup, roasted vegetables glazed lightly with honey, and delicate slices of white fish scented with lemon.

Jean tasted the soup and sighed in approval.

"At least one kingdom understands seasoning."

Salviana gave her a look. "You have returned only moments ago and already insulted royal kitchens?"

"I am praising this one by implication."

"You are impossible."

"And hungry."

That made Salviana laugh again.

By the time the second tray arrived, conversation had wandered somewhere lighter.

"Tell me your favorite melody," Jean said suddenly, tearing bread between her fingers.

"My favorite melody?"

"Yes. The one you would choose if the world ended tonight and you were allowed one last song."

Salviana considered that seriously.

"That is unfairly dramatic."

"You love dramatic."

She thought for a moment, then smiled faintly.

"There is an old harvest melody from my village. It is not elegant, and court musicians would call it simple... but when my mother used to hum it, even storms felt softer."

Jean’s expression gentled. "You remember it?"

"Every note."

Jean leaned forward. "Sing it."

"No."

"Coward?"

Salviana laughed under her breath, she loved the audacity in their friendship. "You first."

Jean lifted a brow.

"My favorite changes," she admitted. "But lately... I think I prefer melodies without words."

"Why?"

"Because words demand truth?" Jean said lightly like a question, though something in her tone briefly darkened. "Music alone allows hiding."

That answer lingered longer than expected. Salviana noticed it—but before she could ask, Jean quickly brightened again.

"There was one violinist in the southern province," Jean continued, "who made half the audience cry and the other half fall in love with him."

"Which half were you?"

"The intelligent half."

"The crying half?"

"The half that stole his wine after the performance."

Salviana nearly choked on laughter. By the time lunch ended, warmth had settled around them so naturally that for a little while, the unease from earlier had thinned.

Yet beneath all the easy conversation, Salviana still carried the faint shadow of that name—

Anne-Marie. And though she did not speak it again, some quiet instinct told her the name had not entered her life by accident.

It had arrived for a reason. And soon, that reason would come looking for her.

The warmth of lunch had barely faded when Salviana’s expression changed, Jean noticed it immediately.

The ease that had softened her friend’s face moments ago gave way to something quieter, more restrained—something held down too carefully.

Jean set down her cup.

"What is it?"

Salviana hesitated, then exhaled.

"There is something I did not tell you."

Jean leaned back slightly, already suspicious. "That usually means someone has offended you."

"At the royal ladies’ tea gathering... before you returned..."

The moment she paused, Jean’s eyes narrowed.

"Yes?"

Salviana looked down at her fingers.

"Ava Layor claimed she had been intimate with Alaric."

The silence that followed was immediate and sharp.

Jean stared at her.

Then blinked once, slowly.

"She said what?"

Salviana lifted her eyes carefully.

"She said it in front of everyone. Casually. As though speaking of weather."

Jean’s chair scraped against the floor as she stood.

"That painted fool."

"Jean—"

"No."

Jean began pacing, fury rising so quickly it almost startled the room itself.

"That royal parasite said such a thing publicly?"

Salviana nodded, though gently.

"She implied that my husband still visited her. That I should not be surprised."

Jean gave a short, incredulous laugh.

"And you remained seated?"

"I was... stunned."

"What happened after?"

Salviana’s expression softened despite herself.

"Alaric found me later."

Jean stopped pacing.

"And?"

"He knew something was wrong. I did not even explain it properly, he stayed with me until I felt better."

That answer should have soothed the moment, but Jean’s anger only sharpened.

"So that girl lied, insulted you before royal women, and returned to breathing comfortably afterward?"

"Jean—"

"No," Jean said firmly, already moving toward the door. "Absolutely not."

Salviana rose quickly. "Where are you going?"

"To correct a mistake."

"Jean."

Jean turned.

"We are going back there," she said with perfect calm that somehow sounded more dangerous than shouting, "and we are giving Ava Layor a lesson she will remember every time she attempts speech again."

Salviana nearly laughed despite herself.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"You cannot assault a royal courtesan because of words."

Jean lifted a brow. "Words shape reputation. Reputation destroys women faster than blades."

That landed harder than Salviana expected.

Still, she shook her head. "It is over."

"It is not over until she understands your silence was mercy."

Before Salviana could answer, Jean had already crossed toward the dressing chamber. "You are coming."

"I am not." Salviana insisted.

Jean scoffed, "You are."

"I refuse."

Jean looked over her shoulder. "You may refuse while changing clothes."

Despite herself, Salviana followed.

Moments later they emerged dressed for movement rather than court appearance—Salviana in a deep muted gown with lighter layers suited for walking, Jean fastening the final clasp at her sleeve with military determination.

The moment they entered the grand corridor, two figures straightened nearby.

The assigned knights. Simon bowed first. A respectful hand crossed his chest.

"My lady."

Beside him, Heappal inclined his head with equal discipline. "Lady Jean."

Jean answered with a brief nod as though already accustomed to command.

Simon’s gaze moved between them.

"You are heading somewhere?"

"Yes," Jean replied.

"Where?" Heappal asked carefully.

"To educate someone," Jean said.