The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 469: Sleeping Goddess

The artificial night of the palace was thick with the scent of guttering candles and the lingering heat of their bodies.

On the makeshift bed of furs and discarded curtains, the world felt small, contained within the four walls of Soren’s office.

But as the designated "morning" hour approached, the illusion of safety began to fray.

Soren was the first to wake. He lay perfectly still, his massive frame anchoring the corner of the room.

Beside him, Eris was a vision of fragile peace, her snow-white hair fanned out across his bicep like a spilled silk shroud.

To anyone else, she looked like a sleeping goddess. To Soren, she looked like a timer running out of sand.

Slowly, almost breathlessly, he reached out. He placed his large, calloused hand over her abdomen, not to caress, but to listen again.

He closed his eyes, his consciousness diving beneath the skin, past the muscle, into the swirling vortex of the dragon-seal.

The moment he touched the magic, his stomach dropped.

The crack was worse. Much worse. Since the previous night, the fissure in the golden geometry of the seal had jagged outward, spreading like ice under a hammer.

It wasn’t just a fracture anymore; it was a leak. He could feel the primordial fire of Pyronox pressing against the thinning walls, hungry and ancient. The repair mechanism they replied upon, the natural resilience of the host, everything was failing.

Panic, sharp and metallic, rose in his throat. He swallowed hard, forcing his lungs to draw air.

Not yet, he thought again, his jaw tightening until it ached. If it means I have to rewrite the laws of magic myself, I will not let this be the end.

Eris stirred. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks before she opened her eyes to find him watching her. She didn’t miss the shadow in his gaze.

She was a creature of intuition, and the look on Soren’s face was one of a man who had just seen his own execution.

"What’s wrong?" she asked, her voice raspy with sleep but direct as a blade.

Soren forced a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned down, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

"Nothing, my empress. Just admiring you. You’re far more beautiful than the maps I was staring at all night."

Eris didn’t blink. She knew he was lying. She could feel the tension radiating off him, the way his magic hummed with a frantic, desperate frequency.

She knew he had been checking the seal. She knew he was seeing the same decline she felt in her marrow every time she stood up too quickly. But she didn’t push. Not yet.

There was too much to do, and the "day" was already demanding their attention.

The process of getting dressed was a slow, intimate ritual. They moved through the wreckage of the office, picking up discarded silks and furs.

Soren helped her with the laces of her stays, his fingers clumsy but tender.

As Eris reached for her over-robe, her eyes fell upon the desk. The maps were still there, the ink of their late-night collaboration stark against the vellum.

"We should discuss the situation properly," Eris said, her tone shifting into the professional cadence of a ruler. "The supply lines, Vetra’s network... we can’t let the momentum slip."

Soren stepped behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. "After breakfast," he murmured. "And after you’ve rested properly. You’ve done enough for one night."

Eris spun around, giving him a look that was pure, imperial ice. "Do not start with the ’rest’ again, Soren. I am not a convalescent."

Soren held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, a faint, tired smirk playing on his lips. "I meant... after we’ve rested. I’m exhausted too, Eris. I can barely see the lines on the map."

She softened, just a fraction. "Fine. After breakfast."

...

The weeks that followed were a blur of white and grey. The Long Dark held the empire in a frozen fist.

Blizzards became a constant, howling presence, burying the lower levels of the palace in drifts of snow. Inside, life continued in a strange, suspended animation.

Rael and Bjorn provided the only true levity, the young boy’s laughter echoing with other children through the halls as they chased the wolf through the frost-rimed gardens.

Eris divided her time between high-level strategy and clandestine visits to the library.

She checked on Ellyn periodically, finding the young scribe buried under a mountain of forbidden texts.

He was pale, his eyes bloodshot, but he was obsessive.

He was hunting for the dragon’s weakness as Eris has told him to, and though he hadn’t found it yet, he had found whispers, tales of "Soul-Binding Chains" and "Void Anchors."

In the residential wings, a different kind of frost was settling. Ophelia had grown cold. She avoided Rael, her movements stiff and her eyes distant. Whenever the boy tried to play, she would offer a brittle excuse and retreat to her chambers.

"Mama, why is Aunty Ophelia sad at me?" Rael asked Eris one afternoon, his lip wobbling.

Eris pulled him into her lap, her heart aching for the child.

She knew the tension between Caelen and Ophelia was reaching a breaking point, a fracture in their marriage that mirrored the crack in the sky.

"She isn’t sad at you, Rael," Eris lied gently. "She’s growing a sibling for you in her womb. Sometimes, that makes a person very cranky and tired. The baby is taking all her energy. You should try to be extra helpful to her, okay? Fetch her tea, or just give her a hug when she looks lonely."

Rael nodded solemnly, his little mind processing the responsibility. "I’ll be the best big brother. I’ll give her my favorite wooden soldier."

While Eris managed the family, Soren was a ghost in his own palace.

He spent his nights in the archives, researching the seal with a desperation that bordered on the occult.

Eris, for her part, had retrieved her ancient grimoire from its hiding place. The book was a living thing, its leather binding warm to the touch, its pages filled with the dark, jagged spells she had crafted in a lifetime she now barely remembered.

The book tried to "lose" itself constantly, sliding off tables, appearing in different rooms, as if the spirit within it was searching for a fresh soul to corrupt. Eris found it every time, her grip on its dark magic tightening even as it whispered of the price she would eventually pay.

And beneath them all, in the dark, forgotten veins of the palace, Bianca survived. She was a rat in the walls, living on scraps, waiting for the thaw, waiting for the moment the chaos would provide her an opening.

By the seventh week, the sun began to linger a few minutes longer each day. It wasn’t warmth, not yet, but it was a promise.