The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 66: Hesitation

The first light of dawn filtered through the gauzy curtains of Marcella’s chamber, casting a soft glow over the room. She stirred, her mind immediately recalling the warmth that had enveloped her the night before. Berith had been there, lying beside her, his presence as real as the lingering scent of night jasmine in the air.

She sat up, the silk sheets slipping from her shoulders. The spot where he had lain was now cold.

Rising from the bed, Marcella walked to the window, pulling back the curtains to let in the morning light. She watched as the manor’s staff began their daily routines, the world continuing as if nothing had changed.

After a moment, she summoned her maid, who prepared a warm bath for her. Once bathed and dressed in a pale blue gown that complemented her silver hair, Marcella descended to the dining hall.

The long table was set for breakfast, and the aroma of freshly baked bread and brewed tea greeted her.

As she took her seat, Silas, the manor’s butler, approached with a respectful bow. "Good morning, Your Grace."

"Good morning, Silas," she replied, pouring herself a cup of tea. "Has Duke Berith awoken yet?"

Sira hesitated, "My lady, His Grace departed for the south at first light. He should have reached the outskirts by now."

Marcella’s hand froze mid-pour, the tea spilling slightly over the rim of her cup. "He left? When?"

"Just before dawn, my lady. He received urgent orders from His Majesty and departed immediately."

She set the teapot down, her mind racing. Berith had been here, in her chamber last night and now he was gone, without a word.

"I see," she said quietly, her appetite suddenly gone. "Thank you, Silas."

As the butler bowed and retreated, the clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations around her faded into the background.

**********

The hallway leading to Berith’s study was lined with portraits of dead ancestors, men and women with sharp eyes and cruel smiles. They watched her, those oil-painted ghosts, but she didn’t flinch.

Marcella was used to being watched. Judged. Hunted.

The door to the study creaked as she opened it. She stepped into a world meticulously curated by the man she both loathed and couldn’t forget.

Rows of mahogany bookshelves towered above her, lined with ancient tomes bound in leather. Papers were stacked on the desk. Maps of kingdoms long vanished were pinned to the walls. And the air—gods, the air still smelled like him.

Marcella exhaled, pushing the door shut behind her, and rolled up her sleeves.

She searched.

Book after book, scroll after scroll. Riddles of bloodlines, arcane rituals, treaties written in forgotten tongues. Marcella poured over them, devouring knowledge like a starved wolf. Some pages sang to her, others hissed, but nothing gave her what she sought—proof of what he was hiding.

And then, as the late afternoon light began to dim, her fingers brushed the spine of a book unlike the others—worn black leather, no title. The moment she opened it, her vision swam.

The Vision

It hit her like a blow to the skull.

The scent of spice markets and blood filled her nose. The sounds of a bustling city surrounded her—bell chimes, hooves on stone, shouting merchants. And then there he was.

Berith.

Clad in dark traveling leathers, standing in the heart of a southern plaza. He was speaking to someone—a woman in cloak.

A figure emerged, gliding silently through the crowd. A dagger flashed in the sun.

The blade arced downward....

Marcella gasped, stumbling back. Her spine hit the edge of the desk, and she collapsed into the chair behind it, heart racing like a trapped bird.

"What... the hell..." she whispered, pressing her fingers to her temples. Her skin was clammy already.

That was a vision. Just like the one before the Flame Ball. The one she had foolishly dismissed as a dream—until it had unfolded with horrifying accuracy at Black Vale.

She knew better now.

Berith was going to be attacked soon. And this time, it would be a clean, quiet murder.

Marcella rose, each step to her chambers fueled by her instinct rather than thought. Entering inside her chamber, she slipped in her traveling cloak, grabbed the satchel she always kept ready, and tied her hair back with shaking hands.

But as she reached the door, her hand froze on the handle. A voice, dark and serpentine, whispered inside her mind.

"Isn’t this what you wanted?" it hissed. "His death? You dreamed of watching him bleed. Why stop it now?"

Her breath caught in her throat. "Yes," she whispered back. "I wanted him dead."

So many nights Marcella had stared at the ceiling, imagining the sword in her hand, the look of shock on his face, the life draining from those cold eyes. After all he had done—after the rebellion, killing her, killing Lucian—didn’t he deserve it?

"Then let it happen," the voice crooned. "Why do their hands bother you? Blood is blood, Marcella. Whether it stains yours or another’s, he dies all the same."

"No!" Marcella said aloud, chest heaving.

Not like this.

Berith was hers. His death was hers. If anyone was going to end him, it would be by her own hands her. Not some faceless assassin hired by nobles with grudges or agendas she didn’t understand.

"His death is written from my hand only," Marcella growled.

The voice inside her chuckled. But it did not protest again.

Marcella stormed out of the room, boots striking the stone floor with finality. She walked like a woman possessed—through the halls, past stunned servants. She ordered the servants to prepare a carriage for her and they followed her order without a word.

As she mounted the carriage and tore down the road leading south, one thought thundered louder than the hooves beneath her:

"I don’t save him because I love him. I save him... because he is mine to destroy."

And for the first time in days, her heart no longer trembled with fear.

It burned with purpose.

*******

The sun hung high over the southern city, casting its relentless heat upon the cobblestone streets. Berith, clad in his dark attire, led his horse through the bustling plaza, the reins loosely held in his gloved hand.

The marketplace was alive with activity: vendors shouting their wares, children weaving through the crowd, and the aroma of spices and street food filling the air.

Despite the vibrant surroundings, Berith’s thoughts were elsewhere. Each stall he passed, each scent he inhaled, brought memories of Marcella to the forefront of his mind. The jasmine-scented oil she favored, the way her eyes sparkled when she challenged him, the softness of her voice when she spoke of dreams long buried.

Berith paused near a vendor selling delicate glass trinkets, their colors catching the sunlight. One piece, a small orb with swirling hues of blue and silver, reminded him of the pendant Marcella wore during the Flame Ball. He reached out, fingers brushing against the cool glass, before pulling back.

The heat pressed down on him, beads of sweat forming at his brow. Berith removed his coat, draping it over the saddle. He turned sharply, eyes scanning the throng, but saw nothing out of place.

Still, the feeling lingered, a knot tightening in his stomach. He reached for the hilt of his sword, fingers grazing the worn leather, a familiar comfort.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the plaza. Berith knew he should seek shelter, rest before the next day’s negotiations.

He guided his horse toward the inn at the edge of the market, its wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze. As he dismounted, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, the feeling of being watched still prickling at the back of his neck.

*********

The carriage jolted, its wheels groaning against the uneven stones of the southern road. Dust billowed in its wake, clinging to the hem of Marcella’s cloak and the strands of hair that had escaped her braid.

She wasn’t ready for this journey. She had left in haste, packing only the essentials. My cloak, a few changes of clothes, and the dagger she always kept hidden. But there was no turning back now.

The decision to leave had been impulsive, driven by a vision that still haunted her thoughts. She had to warn him.

The rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels did little to soothe her anxiety. Each turn of the wheel seemed to be the ticking clock, reminding her that time was slipping away.

Marcella leaned back against the cushioned seat, closing her eyes in a futile attempt to find calm. But calm was elusive.

Memories of Berith flooded my mind. His presence beside her the night before, the warmth of his breath, the gentle touch of his hand.

The carriage hit a bump, jolting her from her thoughts. She looked out the window, the landscape changing as they moved further south. The lush greenery of Cardania gave way to the arid plains of the southern territories.