[ C H A P T E R 45 ]
OMNISCIENT
The mansion's halls seemed to echo with the ghosts of the past, as if time itself had wound backward to the fateful week when the land faced the threat of annihilation to extinguish the seer. Despite the absence of imminent danger, an eerie atmosphere persisted, trapping them in the same timeline as the harrowing events that unfolded before.
The interrupted tally of the ballots left the state without a new lord. Napoleon Jakare Lamperouge, the fleeing lord, left a trail of destruction by setting the streets of Edinburgh ablaze. The once bustling city now bore the scars of a one-day tragedy, leaving its residents to grapple with the aftermath.
Thousands lost their lives in the chaos, most of them belonging to the Moore Clans and their loyal servants. Civilians caught in the crossfire became unwitting casualties of the feud. Those who survived were left mourning for the fallen, their grief palpable in the somber air that hung over the duchy.
Amidst the devastation, the duke, a once steadfast pillar of strength, now stood in silence. The loss of his wife, the heartbeat of the duchy, and the dreams of a future with their unborn children weighed heavily on his shoulders. His silence mirrored the charred remnants of the city, as if he, too, had been consumed by the flames that claimed his beloved.
The duke found himself locked in a private agony. His gaze fixated on the urn that cradled the remains of the duchess—the only tangible fragment that remained of the woman he cherished. In the silent chamber, memories of a love now reduced to ashes echoed through the air, leaving the duke to confront the emptiness that stretched before him.
The fire that claimed his beloved wife's life left the once unyielding duke forever changed. The flames not only devoured the physical form of his cherished duchess but also consumed a part of him, scorching his soul in the process.
Haunted by the searing image of her turning to ashes before his eyes, the duke emerged from the fiery ordeal a mere shell of his former self. The vibrant spirit that once defined him had been replaced by a profound emptiness, a void that echoed with the silence of irreparable loss.
Gone was the unwavering strength that commanded respect, replaced by the shadows of grief that clung to him like an indelible mark. The spark of life that once animated his eyes was extinguished, leaving behind a hollow gaze that spoke of the profound sorrow etched into his being.
The duchy, once buoyed by the presence of their esteemed leader, now navigated uncertain waters with a duke who bore the weight of a tragedy too heavy to articulate. Every corridor of the grand mansion whispered the tale of a love extinguished in the flames, painting a somber backdrop to the once lively halls.
Her passing left a haunting reminder of the profound impact she had on the duke's life. In the aftermath of the fire, the surviving fragments of his heart clung to the ashes of their shared existence, forever marked by the indescribable pain of witnessing his wife burn to ashes in front of him.
"Your grace?" Cyan's voice echoed through the silent chamber, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere that clung to the air. His footsteps resounded, breaking the oppressive stillness as he approached the grieving duke fixated on the urn.
"Your grace, a legion from the Imperial Court is set to arrive in a week. We need your decision on how to approach this impending visit," Cyan's words held both urgency and a plea for the duke to redirect his focus to the pressing matters that awaited.
As Cyan continued to implore the duke's attention, Roshan remained lost in the silent contemplation of the urn before him. It was a month since the tragic incident, and the weight of grief had yet to loosen its grip on the mourning duke.
"Your grace, we need your—" Cyan started once more, only to be abruptly interrupted by Roshan's voice, the first utterance since the fateful event.
"I am grieving, Cyan," the duke's words cut through the air, a raw expression of the pain etched on his face. The unspoken agony lingered in the space between them.
"We all are, your grace. We all are grieving for her death. It has been a month, please, the people need the duke of Reidensteigh," Cyan pleaded, the frustration in his tone revealing the mounting pressure on their leader to reclaim his responsibilities.
"If you continue doing this, we shall lose the state. The entire Reidensteigh land will fall onto the Imperial Court, you will lose your title!" Cyan's desperate plea hung in the air, punctuated by a weary exhale as he ran his fingers through his hair.
"I lost my wife, and my children," the duke's voice broke the silence, a soft whisper carrying the weight of profound loss. A solitary tear traced a path down his cheek. "What more is there to lose?" he uttered, the echo of grief resonating through the hallowed halls of the once vibrant mansion.
Cyan exited the chamber, leaving behind the silent grief of the duke. The guards and the long, somber hallways guided him to the training ground, where he released an exasperated growl, the weight of his frustrations echoing in the open space.
"Hey, can you shut up?!" Blessime's annoyance cut through the air, her mourning disrupted by Cyan's outburst. She sat on a swing, seeking solace in her own thoughts.
Realizing his lapse, Cyan approached Blessime, enveloping her in a tight embrace. In normal circumstances, Blessime might have resisted, but she sensed something different this time. Cyan trembled in her arms, his soft whimper escalating into a continuous cry, laying bare the depth of his pain.
United in their sorrow, they shared a profound sense of loss. The mystery surrounding the duchess's passing left everyone in a state of mourning, grappling with questions that had no answers.
Blessime ended up crying alongside him. She didn't know what happened because Latisha didn't give any heads up. What the duchess said to her before is now haunting her. She should have asked why the duchess apologizes for unknown reasons, she should have expounded the statement and not ditched it.
After a long time, Cyan released his grasp and looked at her intently. "Are you going to leave me too?" he asked.
Blessime was caught off guard by the question. Her lips parted but no words were spilled. There is no more reason for Blessime to stay in the duchy because Latisha is no longer there. If she wishes to stay, her life will only be bound to conflict. She's a Moore, and the Moore Clan has been burned by Laviene herself. She still wonders why she didn't die from that flame.
"I have no reason to stay," she softly replied after a long silence.
Cyan's eyes were filled with pain as Blessime revealed her decision. "Am I not enough for you to stay? I can protect you," he pleaded, attempting to sway her resolve.
"This place is filled with my cousin's memories. I can't bear living here when I see her in every corner," Blessime softly explained, her hands trailing on Cyan's chest. "I also need to find Magnus; my brother might be alive. Laviene didn't hurt me, and maybe he didn't either."
"Can't you not go?" Cyan continued to plead.
"I must leave," Blessime firmly stated. "The legion will arrive, and if they see me, can your protection withstand an entire army? It is your life against mine. We already know that what we have is forbidden, and therefore we need to end it before it's too late."
"What if it's already severe?" Cyan questioned. His hands caught hers, placing them on his cheek. "I can stand against a thousand enemies if I have you by my side. We can surpass this together."
"No," Blessime insisted, pulling her hand away and distancing herself. "I don't want us to end up like the ducal couple. It is better if we end this now," she continued, turning away from him.
Edinburgh felt like a different place after the duchess was gone. They could almost hear the echo of her laughter in the wind. It wasn't just them who faced the reality after the incident, others too.
Laphel took off without a word, leaving everyone wondering where he went. His survival is still a shadow in the people who have been hoping for his return. Even Nethys, who's out West with Annika, is shielding her from the mess.
Logan's knee-deep in helping Hasan with the injured knights, and Erwan's practically juggling the state affairs. Mourning's on the to-do list, but duty's giving everyone the side-eye, demanding attention. It's like a gloomy parade of tasks, and nobody's got a front-row seat for mourning. The city's stuck in this weird limbo, juggling grief and responsibilities like a circus act.
In the aftermath of the tragic loss, opportunists seized the turmoil to further their own agendas. The impending arrival of the legion brought no olive branch; instead, it signaled a power play to wrest control from the lord and the Reidensteigh dukedom. Reports, rife with inaccuracies and bluffs, prompted the Imperial Court to intervene, sending the legion under the guise of quelling a supposed traitorous act.
Rumors circulated, suggesting a colossal argument between the ducal couple ignited the streets' flames. This narrative served as the pretext for the legion's mission – to dismantle the defense, apprehend the alleged traitor, and assert dominance over the state.
As Edinburgh's future hangs by a thread, the grieving duke faces a pivotal decision. In the midst of mourning his profound loss, he must navigate the delicate balance between personal grief and the responsibilities that weigh heavily on his shoulders. The choices he makes in these trying times will shape the destiny of the city and its people.
And he must decide now.
"Your highness..."
Wince's voice filled the place. He looked at the Hashire Prince sitting on a stone at the edge of a cliff with no zither instrument as his companion. The prince was just admiring the solace brought by the moon.
"The duke needs you," Wince uttered again. His voice was filled with urgency. Their only resort now is the Hashire Prince to do something for the betterment of the state.
"Are you sure I am the one he needs?" the Hashire Prince asked. Both of his hands were on his back, the wind blowing his regal attire and his long slick hair. He wasn't looking at the god of love, but he sure knows his agenda.
"We witnessed this before, the duke will neglect his position because of grief. He did it once, and he will do it again. The state needs him," Wince uttered, trying to convince the prince.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
Wince felt a tinge of relief that the Hashire Prince was listening. He moved forward again and this time, his voice was nonchalant.
"Remove the Duchess' memories in the mind of the duke and as well as everyone who knows that the duchess is a Moore. In that way, the duke and the duchy will no longer mourn for her," he said.
"That request is selfish for you to ask, god of love. You are created to guide these mortals to their soulmate, yet you are suggesting for me to break a red string?" the prince said, unbelieving.
"She is already gone," Wince softly said. There was pain in his voice. "It hurts me to ask for this, but I am desperate, your highness. The fate of Edinburgh lies on the hands of its current ruler," he continued.
"There is a bargain for this, god of love." Prince Raphael's body was lifted from the stone and slowly turned and faced Wince from below. The stone was huge, making a difference between them.
"Of course," Wince said. His voice filled with determination. "How about I hide the truth of your involvement in this story from the beginning?" he said. His voice contains a teaseful remark. Of course, the prince knew something others didn't, except for Wince. "You are that hunter, who shot Annabelle and Latisha with poison arrows," he continued.
The Hashire Prince's eyes gleamed with a glint of surprise, a hint of realization. Wince, standing tall, allowed a sly smile to play on his lips.
"Well, well," the Hashire Prince mused, the air tinged with a mix of amusement and curiosity. "You do have your ways of unraveling secrets, don't you?"
Wince chuckled. "It's my domain, after all. Love and secrets—they often go hand in hand."
The Prince crossed his arms, a regal demeanor emanating from him. "You're asking me to erase memories, manipulate the very essence of love. Such a request comes at a cost, and I'm not one to offer my services without fair compensation."
Wince nodded knowingly. "Name your terms, Prince Raphael. The fate of Edinburgh depends on your decision."
The Hashire Prince's gaze intensified, probing into Wince's soul. "I want a favor, a promise. When the time comes, and fate weaves its intricate threads again, you'll aid me in a matter of my choosing."
Wince hesitated for a moment, contemplating the gravity of the request. Finally, he nodded, sealing the pact. "Agreed. Your secret shall remain hidden, and when you call, I shall answer."
The prince smirked for the very first time, his stoic expression revealing a trace of satisfaction. "Very well, god of love. Let's proceed with your desperate request."
Wince took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. "Forgive me, your grace," Wince whispered to the moonlit night, a plea for understanding. "For the sake of Edinburgh, for the hearts intertwined in its fate, sacrifices must be made."
The stone beneath the Hashire Prince began to glow, an ethereal light enveloping the surroundings. As the memories of the duchess started to fade from the duke's mind, the god of love couldn't help but wonder if their actions were the right path or a tragic detour in the grand tapestry of destiny.
But at this moment, we shall leave it to the next book.
*~*~END~*~*