The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 67: The attack

The sun had surrendered to the horizon by the time the carriage clattered into the southern city. Marcella leaned against the window, her silver hair damp with sweat and dust. The air was thick here—stifling, unlike the crisp winds of Cardania.

In her past life, she had arrived in this city through the royal gates, escorted by banners and fanfare. The people had bowed. Streets had been swept before her feet touched them.

Now she entered as a stranger cloaked in road-dust, haunted by a vision she couldn’t ignore.

"Your Grace?" the coachman asked hesitantly through the small window separating them. "Where shall I take you?"

Marcella blinked. For a moment, she forgot where she was, forgot the heat pressing down on her skin, the ache of worry gnawing at her ribs.

She had no idea where Berith was or where he was staying.

"Find the nearest inn to the southern plaza," Marcella replied. "Somewhere discreet, not too crowded."

The coachman nodded and gave the reins a flick. The carriage rolled on.

By the time they reached the edge of the southern plaza, the sun had set completely. Lanterns flickered to life along the market streets, casting warm orange glows against the stone.

Marcella stared out, she remembered this place when the southern nobles had flocked around her carriage, dripping in gold and snake-oil smiles.

The coachman pulled up before a modest inn nestled beside a spice vendor’s cart. A worn wooden sign swung above the door—The Ember Nest. The scent of saffron and smoke filled the air.

Marcella stepped down onto the cobblestones. "This will do," she murmured.

"Would you like me to find lodging elsewhere, my lady? A more refined establishment..?"

"No, just... get me a room."

The coachman nodded and disappeared inside.

Marcella remained by the carriage, arms folded, scanning the streets. The vision had shown him alive—at least by late afternoon. She was already running behind time. Too late to find him in this maze of alleys and crooked politics. If he was still out there, she would need daylight to navigate.

The coachman returned and bowed. "A private room has been arranged, Your Grace. Supper is available if you wish."

She nodded absently and followed him inside.

The inn’s interior was warmer than she expected—clean, if plain. A hearth crackled near the corner, and the common room was quiet save for a pair of travelers murmuring over mugs of cider.

Marcella was led up a narrow staircase to a small but decent room overlooking a side street. A wooden bed sat against the wall, freshly made. A water basin had been placed at the side table, along with a linen towel.

She stepped in and closed the door behind her. For a long moment, she just stood there, staring at the empty bed. Then, she sank onto the edge of the bed, her satchel sliding off her shoulder and landing with a thud.

Marcella buried her face in her hands.

What was she doing?

Chasing a man she swore to kill, chasing a vision that may or may not be real?

Marcella unfastened the brooch at her collar and slipped out of her cloak. Her braid had loosened during the journey, strands of silver hair sticking to her temples and neck.

She caught her reflection in the water basin. She looked like a ghost wearing her own skin. She dipped her hands into the water and splashed her face, wincing at the cold. It grounded her, just barely.

Marcella walked to the window, leaning on the sill, her fingers clutching the window frame. Somewhere out there, Berith was breathing the same air. Maybe sleeping. Maybe plotting. Maybe dying.

The thought turned her stomach.

As she prepared to rest, a sudden commotion shattered the night. The boards creaked outside her room—too many footsteps.

The door exploded inward with a thunderous bang, splinters flying like angry wasps. Her scream barely left her lips when rough, filthy hands grabbed her by the arms.

Marcella thrashed, kicking, shouting but a cold blade against her neck stilled her.

"Stay quiet, and you won’t be harmed," one growled, grabbing her arm.

"Search the room," another one barked.

Marcella was shoved against the wall as two masked men tore through the room like hungry wolves. Their frustration evident when they found nothing of value.

"She’s got nothing’. Bring her out."

Marcella was dragged like a sack of flour into the inn courtyard. Broken furniture littered the once-cozy hall, splintered wood and upturned tables.

Outside, a horse neighed wildly.

Guests were haggard and frightened as they knelt in the yard, their hands clasped atop their heads, trembling under the cold dawn light.

She was shoved to her knees in the cold dirt. A rough hand yanked her head down. "Eyes on the ground, hands behind your head," the voice snapped. "Disobey, and you die."

Marcella’s heart hammered violently in her chest. This... this can’t be real. Things like this didn’t happen in Cardania. But here in the South? Safety was a forgotten concept.

"You’re making a mistake! Is this how you treat travelers?" she spat, defiance in her voice.

The tip of a dagger pressed behind her neck. "Want to try again, sweetheart?"

Left with no choice, Marcella was forced to follow their orders. She placed her hands atop her head, lowering her gazes. How could a land be so broken, so lawless?

Her wrists ached from how tightly she held them behind her head. Her knees dug into the gravel, sharp stones biting into her skin. It was all too fast, too violent.

The dacoits had burst through her door, pulled her out, ransacked her room and when they found nothing of worth, they dragged her outside like a sack of wheat. She had screamed, struggled, even bit one of them.

But when the dagger came out, she had to obey. She wasn’t stupid.

Now, lined up with the rest, a trembling mess of strangers and the innkeeper himself, Marcella fought to stay calm.

"Let them go."

Marcella’s heart stuttered. That voice. Why does it sound so familiar?

Her head snapped up instinctively before she could stop herself.

A tall figure stood at the edge of the yard, wearing a deep hooded cloak. Dust clung to his boots like he had crossed miles. The dacoits turned at once, yelling threats at him.

With a flick of his hand, he tossed the cloak back revealing tousled dark hair, metallic grey eyes, and a face she could sketch in sleep.

"Berith?" Her whisper barely reached her own ears, her heart skipping several beats.

He was here. He was alive.

Marcella forgot how to breathe. Relief crashed her down, comforting her.

On the other hand, Berith’s gaze slid over the crowd then landed on her.

Marcella? What are you doing here? Gods, are you hurt?

She didn’t nod, only stared at him.

His shoulders were squared like a lion ready to maul. The small smile tugging at his lips was the kind that said, You have no idea what mistake you just made.

One of the robbers stepped forward, sword drawn. "Sit down, cloaked bastard. You aren’t part of this."

Berith’s smile faded. "I don’t sit when murderers speak."

Oh gods.

Marcella had barely exhaled when chaos erupted.

A dagger shot toward him.

Berith dodged like he had seen it a second before it even happened. His cloak flew behind him as he lunged forward, snatching the robber’s wrist mid-air and twisting it with a sickening crack.

The man screamed and dropped.

Two more rushed him—Berith ducked, slid across the dirt. He swept one robber clean off his feet with a leg hook, then spun him into a punch that landed with a meaty thud.

Again, other dacoits charged at him. In a blur, he struck the man’s wrist. The dagger clattered to the ground. Another came from behind—Berith twisted, caught his neck, and slammed him into the dirt. A third lunged with a spear. Berith kicked the handle mid-air, shattering it in half.

Marcella was in awe, her mouth all parted open. Was she supposed to blink? Because her eyes were burning and she couldn’t tear them away. She had heard Duke Berith as the warlord, but she had never seen him fight in real.

A dagger came dangerously close to Marcella, but Berith pivoted just in time, holding it bare-handed, blood smearing his knuckles as he wrenched it away. With a grunt of rage, he drove his elbow into the assailant’s ribs.

They fell one after another. While the remaining dacoits fled. Some limped. Some crawled. A few never rose.

Berith stood in the middle, his sleeves torn and knuckles bloodied.

Why won’t you say anything? Marcella thought, still kneeling. Why do you always keep things to yourself?

He didn’t speak. But he stepped closer.

She rose slowly, her knees shaking, trying to hide it. Dirt clung to her palms. Her voice ached to rise—rage, relief, questions boiling within her like lava. But nothing came out.

Berith stopped a few paces away. You almost died.

Marcella bit her cheek. Her heart refused to settle. You left without any note, any message.

Would you have stopped me if I told you? 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

Yes. A laugh burst in her throat, caught halfway, then died. It wasn’t funny. None of this was.

That’s why I didn’t. Berith sighed, looking away.

Their conversation lived only in their heads. The space between them buzzed with everything unsaid. Regret. Fury. Maybe something more.

"Guests, you’re safe now!" someone cried. The innkeeper, perhaps. The others slowly stood, murmuring, embracing, weeping. Some cast glances at Berith like he was some divine warrior dropped from the sky.

Marcella watched him walk to the stable to check his horse.

Coward.

But her pulse—traitorous thing—beat a little faster anyway.