The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 62: Rescue her

Twilight never rose in the Black Vale.

The sky was a bruise-colored dome stretched too tightly over dead earth. Berith’s horse reared, its flanks quivering, nostrils flaring at the scent of something it couldn’t name. The skeletal trees bent like sinners’ mid-confession.

The deeper Berith went, the more the devil inside his chest clawed, tasting the air like a hound nearing blood.

He dismounted from his horse before it could stop. His boots hit the rotted soil, stumbling forward as his eyes caught the glimpse of her. His cursed blood had already begun to burn with the memory of her name.

Marcella.

She was cradled in the roots of an ancient gnarled tree, half-sunken into the earth as if it tried to claim her in a bed of damp moss and ash. Her silver gown now clung to her, smeared with blood, dirt, and old magic. Her limbs were limp, draped like a broken doll’s. Her silver hair sprawled around her head in snarled tangles, matted with soot and blood.

A flicker of golden light pulsed beneath her skin.

His boots pounded over charred roots and broken bones as he ran to her, the world narrowing until there was only a sliver of pale skin, a broken line of silver hair against the blackened earth.

"Marcella!" The name tore from his throat like a plea, like a prayer that had never been answered.

Berith dropped to his knees. His hands trembled as he reached for her, terrified to touch, more terrified not to. His fingers brushed her cheek. Cold. Too cold.

No response. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers, but it was there. She was alive.

A sound cracked in his chest, something between a gasp and a sob as he pulled her into his arms, cradling her to his chest. Her silver hair stuck to his skin, her head lolling back against his shoulder. His cursed warmth seeped into her frozen skin.

His breath faltered.

Gods—

"No," he whispered. Then louder, jagged. "No. No, no—please, not again—"

His mind ripped backward. A flash—blood pooling between them.

Her lips quivered, blood on her tongue. Her body shook in his arms, his name gasped like a confession. His dagger buried deep in her abdomen. Her eyes—wide, too wide—trying to forgive him before the light vanished from them.

He remembered the heat of her blood soaking into his hands. Her body in his arms, growing cold.

Berith blinked back into the present. Marcella’s body lay still against his, her lashes dusted with ash, lips tinged blue.

He shook her, cradling her face. "Open your eyes. Look at me. Marcella, look at me!" He pressed his forehead to hers, breath shuddering. "You came back to me, Gods... I’m so sorry."

Her lashes fluttered. A sound escaped her lips—soft, hoarse. "...Berith?"

"I’m here," he swallowed in relief. "I’m right here."

Suddenly, the devil under his skin pulsed—wild, furious, responding to the flood of his despair. The demonic mark bled light, burning through his tunic, flaring like an open wound.

His eyes snapped to the surroundings, to the scorched silhouettes, the powdered remains of once-powerful beings. He recognized the reek of their magic.

Demons. A summoning circle. Sacrificial blood.

They had tried to take her. But something had gone wrong or right.

Marcella had burned them.

His hands trembled as he touched her cheek, wiping the ash from her skin. "What did they do to you..."

Marcella whimpered softly, her body weak but still alive

Her body bore no wounds. Faint, glowing lines carved through her skin, runes seared into her flesh by some unholy rite. But she had unleashed it. She had become the Flame.

And the cost...

Dear gods, the cost—

Was it her soul?

His knees nearly gave out. His breath hitched—half growl, half sob—as he clutched her tighter, burying her against him as if sheer proximity could call her spirit back from wherever it wandered. "If you leave me now, I will burn this world to its bones," he growled,

His tears trickled down falling over her silver hair as he choked on his own words. ""I swear it," Berith cupped the back of her head, drawing her close to his chest. "I swear to the gods who abandoned us..I’ll end everything. I’ll take them all with me."

His voice fractured on a sob, raw and unrepentant, but he didn’t look away. She needed to hear him even if her soul hovered somewhere between planes. " I haven’t even earned your forgiveness yet. You don’t get to leave me with your ghosts again."

The runes beneath her skin flickered, dimmed—and for a breathless second, Berith thought he felt her exhale.

Hope, cruel and aching, surged in his chest.

The Black Vale pulsed around them, sensing the defiance in him, a thousand dead eyes opening in the dark. He didn’t care.

Let the devil within him writhe and wake. Let the Lord scream from his cursed throne in Ashenholt. Let Volden rot on his bone chair in the dark.

Berith held her tighter. She was alive. They would face what came next together. Even if it meant waging war against kings and demons, betraying his own blood.

Berith rose slowly, cradling her in his arms. One arm slid beneath her knees, the other curled around her back, pulling her near to his chest. Her head slumped against his shoulder.

His horse approached, ears twitching, its massive form lowering just slightly as if it understood what Marcella meant. Berith adjusted her gently, climbing into the saddle. He settled her against him, her side to his chest, his cloak wrapping around her. His gauntlet slid behind her shoulders, bracing her neck with care, his other hand looping the reins.

Berith held her close as they rode, his chin brushing her temple, eyes locked on the horizon. The wind tore past them, hollow and howling. The Black Vale stretched endlessly ahead, a graveyard of lost things.

The devil within him, pulsed--angry, furious that he dared to defy the Lord.

She is not yours, it snarled inside his bones.

Berith’s grip tightened around her. He lowered his head, breath brushing her temple, and let the rage burn slow behind his smile. "She never was," he whispered, "but she’s with me."

"And that’s enough to kill you." The devil screamed in his soul.

If this was what it meant to defy his curse, then so be it. He would carry her through every blood-drenched field, through flame and ruin. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

No gods.

No monsters.

No cursed throne would take her from him again.

Marcella stirred—barely. Just the soft twitch of her fingers against his chest, the brush of breath against his collarbone. But for Berith, it was enough to splinter the cold horror pressing in around them.

He looked down.

Her lashes fluttered like moth wings, pale and delicate against bruised skin. Her lips parted, "...light..." she whispered.

Berith leaned closer, his heart seizing. "What did you say?"

Her brows pulled together, wincing. "Too... bright..." She trembled, her fingers curling into his tunic, clutching blindly at him.

He pressed his hand to her cheek, trying to anchor her to him, thumb tracing over the soot and sweat. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."

****

When they reached the Ashenholt Duchy, the grand hall was abandoned of laughter, and clinking glasses. The ball had ended hours ago, and the guests had long since retreated to their towers and carriages, oblivious to the storm gathering inside the Montclair bloodline.

But four of them remained.

Lord Cassar stood near the hearth, half-drunk and wholly amused, with the goblet in his hand. His eyes, those gleaming serpent eyes never strayed from Berith.

Lady Elyria, regal as ever in her midnight silks, sat on the edge of the drawing room divan. Volden, the withered patriarch, leaned behind his wheeled throne, his eyes closed as if already mourning what hadn’t yet died. Beside him, Aurelia watched the doorway.

They had all known that this moment would come when Berith would break the law, choosing her over his own blood.

Berith strode through the marbled halls of Ashenholt like a storm in human skin, a madman. The chandeliers above him trembled.

He looked like war incarnate. And in his arms... was his reason.

Marcella.

She was unconscious in his arms, her dress torn, skin kissed by frost and ash. Berith carried her, like she was the last truth left in a world built on beautiful lies.

Of course he saved her.

"You brought her here?" Lady Elyria snapped, her gaze seared into him with a fury that belied her grace. "To this house, knowing she was meant to die today."

Berith crossed the room and lowered Marcella onto the velvet chaise. He looked down at her, brushing a coal-smudged strand of hair from her cheek with tenderness.

He turned and flashed a wicked smile at his mother. It was a terrible, beautiful thing--his smile. "Do you think I care what your Lord sees?"

Elyria took a single step forward, her hands fisting at her sides. "You think the Lord will see it that way? That the others will? You defy him with this treason, Berith. You risk not only yourself, but us all." Her voice cracked on the last word. She hated that it did.

Berith’s gaze swept across the room—each face a reflection of a different kind of judgment.

Cassar’s smirk faltered, wine forgotten mid-swish. Aurelia’s eyes gleamed with something volatile anger. On the other hand, Volden was quiet.

"It’s no use, Elyria," he said, voice graveled by centuries. "He has made his choice. The boy wants to burn."

Berith laughed. "Burn?" he repeated, dark amusement curling like smoke around the word.

Lord Cassar tilted his goblet, wine catching the light like fresh blood. He leaned one shoulder against the hearth, the ghost of his usual mockery curling his lips. "Well," he murmured, "this certainly reshuffles the deck. I do so enjoy it when prophecy gets properly fucked."

He took a sip, then narrowed his eyes over the rim. "What now, nephew?" Cassar drawled. "Will you spit in the Lord’s eye or run until the devil eats you from the inside?"

"She’s not an offering," Berith snarled, his voice rang with love, grief, and damnation.

"But she was," Cassar tilted his head, wine swirling lazily in his hand. "You always knew, didn’t you? The vessel of the Sealed Flame. The rarest kind. The only one who could reawaken the Lord. And you went and ruined it." His eyes glinted like a serpents beneath half-lowered lashes.

"We did everything to raise you for this, Berith. To serve him. To be his right hand. But now? You would throw it all away for her? For that girl?" Elyria said. Her hands trembled at her sides, though she would never let herself flinch.

"That girl," Aurelia added, stepping beside Elyria, "is a curse draped in gold. For her, you would damn your name, your house, brother?"

Their voices clanged in Berith’s skull like funeral bells rung too long. It all bled together into a single shrieking note, until something in him snapped.

Berith had enough. His magic flared within him, tearing from him like a scream. With the flick of his wrist, the velvet curtains caught flame, devoured in seconds by ghostfire. The settees erupted into ashes. The bookcase groaned, cracked, and then shattered. Centuries of tomes fell to ruin.

"Berith!"

"Stop, are you mad!"

"You defile this House..!"

But their voices turned meaningless, dead to his ears. Berith turned away from them, walking towards Marcella.

With a gentleness none of them deserved to witness, he slipped an arm beneath her legs, the other cradling her back. Her head came to rest against his collarbone, her breath brushing his throat.

"I’m done," Berith stated, carrying Marcella on his arms.

"You cannot leave!" Elyria shouted, rising amidst the ruin. "You think the Lord will let you go unpunished? That girl is marked. Where she walks, death follows.."

"She walks with me now." Berith said.

Cassar stepped forward, wine-slick fingers raised in mock appeal. "Nephew, be reasonable..where would you go? The world is no safer than these walls. The Lord will call. You’ll come crawling back.."

Berith turned his head now, gaze over his shoulder, "There is a land beyond your reach."

"You would abandon your own?" Aurelia whispered with disbelief.

Volden stirred at last, lifting his weathered gaze. "You’ll never outrun it," he said. "The fire in her veins. The devil in your soul. You will both burn."

Berith turned fully then. "If we burn," he said, "we burn together."

Aurelia stepped in front of him, "Brother... don’t do this please."

Berith looked at his sister. For a moment, the boy he had once been flickered behind his eyes. "I tried to be what you all wanted," he said softly. "I tried to be the perfect heir." His fingers curled tighter around Marcella. "But she saw me, and I would rather walk into exile with her than reign a kingdom of cursed."