Isabella and the maid stood paralyzed, two statues of disbelief as Matthias burst into the chamber.
He was a specter of frantic urgency, his breath hitching in ragged gasps, his face drained of color. Of all the hours in the world, why this one? Why now?
Isabella's lips parted, but the air in the room seemed too thick for speech. Her voice faltered, caught in the dry hollow of her throat.
"It was... I... she..."
The sentence died unborn; the explanation withered before it could take shape.
Matthias was not listening. Not truly. His gaze was anchored—shackled—to the fragile form he carried in his arms.
In that single, crystalline heartbeat, the world outside that room ceased to exist. The simmering resentment for Isabella, the labyrinth of confusion, the weight of social judgment—all of it vanished.
There was only the girl.
He lowered her onto the bed with a tenderness that betrayed his trembling hands. Her skin was a furnace, radiating an unnatural, searing heat, and her breath came in shallow, labored hitches that tore at the silence.
Terror, cold and sharp, rose like a tide in his throat.
"Fetch a physician—now!" he roared, the sound vibrating against the walls. "Where is he?!"
The spell of Isabella's shock snapped. She lunged toward Kira, signaling with a desperate, frantic motion. The maid did not wait for a command; she turned and fled, her footsteps echoing like a fading pulse down the corridor.
Matthias sank to his knees beside the bed. He caught her hand in his—it felt impossibly small, a delicate bird consumed by a subterranean fire. He pressed her palm between his own, as if he could absorb the fever through his own skin.
"Bring me a towel," he commanded, his voice jagged, never once averting his eyes.
Isabella blinked, her mind a blurred landscape. "What?"
"In God's name, a towel!"
The scream was raw, primal—a side of him she had never glimpsed, a darkness that made the very marrow of her bones shiver.
She obeyed instantly, her fingers fumbling as she pressed the cloth into his hand. He took it with a desperate focus, beginning the grim task of bathing Olivia's flushed skin, the cool water mingling with the stains of blood.
Then, without so much as a glance in her direction, his voice turned to ice.
"Leave this room."
It was not a request; it was an exile.
"Get out," he added, the words thick with a suppressed, molten fury. "Go to your quarters. I will not have the servants whispering through the halls. Change your garments; Leon and the others will arrive by dawn, and someone must receive them... with some semblance of propriety."
He paused, his gaze fixed on Olivia's face. "I shall hear the truth from both of you later."
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the space between them. Isabella gave a sharp, curt nod. Without a word, she turned and retreated, the heavy click of the door marking her departure.
He continued to dry her damp hair, where crimson stains clung to the strands like spilled ink upon fresh snow. The sight—that violent collision of blood against her ethereal beauty—wrenched his heart with a pang too profound for words.
He could not bring himself to demand the truth from Isabella; he was not certain he wanted to know, not while Olivia drifted on the precarious edge between silence and breath.
His eyes swept the room. Glass glittered across the floor, scattered like the jagged remnants of a storm.
The narrative of the room was easily read: the shattered vials, the cloying scent of spilled tinctures, the chaos. It was a hauntingly familiar scene—another descent into the fraying of her mind.
At last, the door groaned open. The physician arrived in a flurry of haste, stepping gingerly around the crystalline shards. Time slowed, measured only by shallow, fragile gasps.
With expert precision, the physician worked, his hands aglow with the pale, rhythmic light of healing magic. As he withdrew, the jagged wounds that had marred her skin vanished, leaving behind nothing but the faint, ghostly memory of what had been.
"My Lord Duke," the physician began, his voice a cautious blend of reverence and concern.
"She is mended for now. The bleeding has ceased through the Grace, but she remains porcelain-weak. She has lost much blood and requires absolute sanctuary for both body and mind. Most crucially, she must not strain her arm; should she exert herself, the magic may unravel, and the abyss of the wound will open once more."
Matthias gave a curt, unreadable nod. With a silent gesture, he signaled Kira to purge the room of its debris as she escorted the physician out.
When the door clicked shut, he returned to his vigil. Guilt, sharp and predatory, began to gnaw at him. Was he the architect of this ruin? Had his hand pushed her toward this precipice?
Suddenly, her lips parted. A whisper escaped them—fragile, trembling, and devoid of consciousness:
"Cold..."
He touched her brow and found it had turned to ice. Without a second thought, he swept back the heavy linens and slid into the bed beside her.
He gathered her into the sanctuary of his arms, enveloping her in the radiant heat of his chest. He did not analyze the impulse; he only knew he must be the fire that kept her from freezing.
The silence grew soft, broken only by the sighing wind against the glass and the rhythmic cadence of their shared breath. Slowly, the morning light began to bleed through the heavy velvet curtains—pale, golden, and forgiving.
Olivia stirred. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with the leaden weight of sleep.
For a moment, she lay still, bathed in a warmth so tender and unfamiliar that she chose to linger there, surrendering to a rare, fleeting peace.
Then, the world sharpened.
She felt a pressure—a solidity beneath her palms. Her wrists felt strangely confined, as if held in place. A spark of panic ignited in her chest.
Am I dead? Is this the gilded cage of the afterlife? Or is this... Hell?
A shudder ran through her, yet she dared not open her eyes, paralyzed by the fear of what specter might be waiting for her. Then, a low, rasping voice shattered the stillness.
"Olivia... your hands. Please, be mindful of where they stray."
Her eyes snapped open. Matthias's face was mere inches from her own.
Disoriented, her gaze dropped. Her hands were pressed firmly against the lower curve of his abdomen—perilously close to—
She recoiled instantly, snatching her hands back as if she had touched molten iron. Her eyes locked onto his, wide with a vivid, electrifying shock.
In all the months of their hollow marriage, through every awkward encounter and cold exchange, this was—without question—the most mortifying moment of her life.
"What are you doing here?" she whispered, the question brittle and thin.
Matthias adjusted himself, sitting up with a slow, deliberate composure that felt like a shield.
"What do you mean by such a question?" he countered, his voice steady but edged. "Am I now a trespasser in my own home? Am I forbidden from this chamber?"
Olivia did not answer immediately. Her gaze swept the room, searching for the wreckage she remembered, but the chaos had been erased.
The shattered glass, the spilled medicines—all gone. She looked down at her arm; the jagged wound had vanished, leaving only smooth, unmarred skin.
"The maid has seen to the mess," he said, reading her confusion. "And the physician has seen to you."
"I see," she murmured, struggling to pull a veil of indifference over her mounting agitation.
But Matthias was not finished. He anchored his gaze to hers, his eyes searching, unrelenting.
"That wound, Olivia. Did you inflict it upon yourself? What truly transpired in this room last night?"
At that, she turned her head toward him, a sharp, jagged smile cutting across her pale face. It was a look of mocking disdain.
"Oh? Are you worried for me now?" she asked, her voice dripping with a bitter, inquisitive poison. "After all the venom you spat at me last night? Spare me the performance, Matthias. Return to your role—the indifferent husband. This masquerade of affection... it is utterly revolting."
The words struck him with a physical force, more visceral than he had anticipated. He recoiled internally, his lips parting as if to summon a defense, but his voice failed him.
A heavy, suffocating silence reclaimed the space between them.
Olivia was the first to break it, her voice now flat and cold. "And now, leave. Please."
"As you wish," he replied, his tone hardening into a mask of duty. He stood, but paused before reaching the door. "I shall go. But before I do, there is a matter you must attend to."
He turned back, his expression grim.
"The Empress has arrived. She has summoned us both to her presence. I have no idea what catastrophe you have invited upon us this time, but find your strength, Olivia. Prepare yourself."