The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 65: She is mine

"You’ve returned without announcement," said King Thomas with a slight smirk, his fingers elegantly sliding a knight into position. "I should be insulted, Berith."

Berith raised a brow, then slowly moved a pawn forward. "I prefer to move like the wind, Your Majesty. Silent and unseen."

Thomas let out a low chuckle. "Still the poetic war hound, I see."

They sat across from each other at a grand obsidian chessboard. Though a simple game, it had often served as the backdrop for their most serious conversations.

"Tell me," Thomas said, his gaze flickering to Berith. "How was your stay at Ashenholt?"

Berith leaned back, folding his arms loosely over his broad chest. "It was good."

"Well...?" the King prodded, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Well," Berith gave a half-shrug, "It was as expected. Cold in the halls, warm in the chaos."

"Ah yes, that sounds like Elyria’s version of hospitality," Thomas mused, absently stroking the polished head of a carved rook. "Pity I couldn’t attend the Flame ball hosted by your mother. Her events are always... interesting. I would’ve liked to see her again."

The corner of his mouth curled up. "She noticed your absence. Though, to her credit, she didn’t rage over it."

"That’s a mercy," Thomas said, chuckling again. Then, he sighed rubbing his temple. "I’ve had reason to stay, unfortunately. Cardania’s problems kept me bound."

"The ongoing issue?"

Thomas nodded grimly, moving his queen across the board, cutting through Berith’s front like a scythe. "After the sanctity verification in Ashenholt three weeks ago, the disappearances had decreased. We had hope. Even the High Priest believed the darkness was retreating. But in the last forty-eight hours..." He paused. "It’s begun again viciously."

Berith’s eyes narrowed, all traces of amusement gone. His gaze locked onto the chessboard, but his mind was elsewhere. The last forty-eight hours.

That night.

The night he found Marcella at the Black Vale.

Thomas continued. "Two days ago, the soldiers stationed near the Black Vale felt something. They reported strange energy."

Berith’s fingers curled slightly on the edge of the table. His mind replayed the moment he had stepped into that cursed Black Vale, the scorched trees, and Marcella’s body lying on the stone — pale, barely breathing.

But there had been nothing else. No creatures. No summoned demons. No cultists.

Yet, no one dared to investigate not even the border guards. Of course they didn’t. No soldier would risk stepping into the Black Vale.

"Your Majesty," Berith said slowly, "was the movement verified?"

Thomas nodded. "Our best scouts confirmed residual energy. The ground itself is scorched in sigils we do not understand. The priests from the sanctum are still deciphering them."

Berith’s chest tightened. He had seen those same symbols. The ones etched into the circle Marcella had been bound in.

The summoning.

The sacrifice.

His jaw tightened. "No one entered the Vale?"

Thomas shook his head. "Would you? Even our bravest won’t cross its border unless ordered. They know what lives there. Or what sleeps."

Berith said nothing. His mind spun with the implications.

"There’s more," Thomas added, softer now, his voice threading with unease. "The High Priest has sensed something unsettling. He says the air of Cardania hums with demonic energy."

Berith’s pulse thudded beneath his collar. "And what does the priest suggest we do?"

Thomas sighed, running a hand through his dark, greying curls. "We can’t close the borders. It would cause panic. We can’t issue a holy decree either; it’ll spark witch hunts."

"Then what?" His eyes flicked up.

Thomas looked at him, gaze piercing. "We send someone to Velmira."

Berith knew it was coming. Still, his body stiffened. He pushed a knight forward, taking one of Thomas’s pawns. "So, what do you want from me?"

Thomas continued, "The disappearances are thickest there. It’s closest to the Black Vale. No one trusts the governor anymore. We need someone the people believe in, someone who can get answers, negotiate, investigate and if necessary..." his voice dropped, "eliminate."

Berith’s jaw ticked. "You want me to go?"

"You are Duke of Cardania. You’ve been trained for diplomacy and bred for war. And more importantly.." Thomas set his king down beside the board and leaned forward, "you are the only one I trust with truth instead of madness."

Berith’s hands clenched, unclenched. He had just arrived from Ashenholt. But duty was not a choice. It was a burden one learned to bear without complaint.

He stood from the chair, his black coat falling around his legs. "Then I will go at dawn."

Thomas nodded, his expression proud and relieved all at once. "Thank you."

Berith turned to leave but paused at the threshold. "Your Majesty?"

"Yes?"

"I think," Berith said, "that the pieces are moving faster than we can see."

************

It was already night by the time Berith had returned to Montclair manor. He ascended the staircase, each step a reminder of the limited time he had before dawn would call him away to the south. He paused before Marcella’s chamber door, his hand hovering over the ornate doorknob. A battle raged within him—respect for her privacy clashing with an overwhelming need to see her, to speak to her one last time before his departure.

His heart won.

The door creaked open, and her scent hit him instantly—night jasmine, intoxicating and familiar. It was her scent, one that lingered in his memories, both cherished and painful.

Marcella lay asleep, her silver hair cascading over the pillow like a waterfall of moonlight. She wore a mint-colored night robe, its fabric clinging gently to her feminine curve. Her face held a softness that belied the turmoil they both knew too well.

Berith approached her bedside, his gaze drinking in every detail. He remembered the first time he saw her, a spirited eleven-year-old at the Queen’s birthday celebration. Even then, her wit had captivated him. Over the years, tales of her rebellious nature reached him—stories of selfishness, jealousy, and recklessness. Yet, when he met her again at his oath taking ceremony day, it was her audacity that shone through, disrupting the ceremony and, inadvertently, sealing their fates together.

Berith sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. Carefully, he lay beside her, maintaining a respectful distance. His hand reached out, hesitating before resting lightly on her arm. The contact was minimal, yet it sent a jolt through him—a reminder of the bond they shared, both in this life and the one before.

In their past life, he had grown fond of her long before his marriage to her sister, Rachel, was arranged.Their paths had crossed repeatedly, fate intertwining their stories in ways neither fully understood.

He closed his eyes, the scent of night jasmine enveloping him, transporting him to moments long past. He recalled the scandal she had caused at his ducal appointment, a bold move that had shifted the course of their lives. In this life, she hadn’t sought to recreate that moment, yet destiny had repeated itself. Her sister’s engagement to him had been broken, and Marcella had been revealed as the true vessel.

"You were always meant to be mine," Berith whispered, the words barely audible.

He studied her face, peaceful in sleep, and a pang of guilt pierced his heart. In their previous life, he had killed her, a betrayal that haunted him. Now, as he lay beside her, he feared that Marcella hates him as she has the knowledge of their past lives.

Yet, Berith couldn’t stay away. He leaned closer, his lips brushing her forehead in a gentle kiss, a silent apology for the pain he had caused.

Rising quietly, Berith cast one final glance over his shoulder, eyes lingering on the woman who had unknowingly become both his solace and his storm. Then, he slipped through the door and closed it behind him.

Marcella’s lashes trembled. A moment later, her eyes fluttered open.

From the moment she heard the gentle creak of her chamber door, her senses had been on high alert. She had felt him, the way the warmth of his body radiated across the bed even though he never quite touched her fully. And yet... he had.

The hesitant nearness of him lying beside her, as though he ached to close the distance.

And then... that breathless murmur. "You were always meant to be mine."

Her heart, traitorous and tender, clenched in a way that made her close her eyes again, not from exhaustion but from the flood of memories she could no longer suppress.

Did he remember?

The boy he once was, the one who had watched her at the Queen’s birthday with eyes too sharp for sixteen, too old for the youth in his face. The man he became—the one who carried the burden of his bloodline.

And the monster he turned into... when he killed her.

Marcella blinked up at the canopy above her, feeling the warmth of his arm still ghosting over her skin. Her body betrayed her, tingling at the memory of it, aching for something she didn’t dare name.

She turned onto her side, her gaze falling where he had laid moments before. The bedsheets were still warm. Her fingers reached toward that spot instinctively, trembling as she touched the fabric, as though it might still hold his breath, his scent, his longing.

The scent of night jasmine, her favorite, clung to her skin. Berith had always remembered that. Even in their last life, he used to bring her jasmine oil instead of roses. She hated roses. He never forgot.

And he hadn’t forgotten now.

Marcella pressed her face to the pillow, exhaling a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Her heart pounded knowing that no matter how far she tried to run from fate, it was already circling back to her. Always, always leading her back to him.

To the man who had once loved her before it turned to tragedy.

To the man who might love her still.

And to the man she wasn’t sure she could ever forgive—but wasn’t sure she could stop loving, either.

"Then why did you destroy me?" Marcella whispered.

But there was no one left to answer.