the duchess's game

Matthias pulled her into his room, shutting the heavy wooden door behind them with a quiet finality. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the space, stretching the silence between them like a thread about to snap.

She stood before him, her figure small, almost fragile. For the first time, she seemed breakable, as if a single touch could shatter her entirely.

He sighed and lowered himself onto the couch, glancing at her as she hesitated before sitting beside him.

"Why did you do it?" His voice was measured, quiet, but firm.

She turned to him, her brows drawing together in confusion. "Do what?"

He exhaled deeply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Why did you defend me? And Leila? You said it yourself—we are enemies. So why stand up for me?"

A shadow passed over her face, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. She looked away. "I have my reasons," she murmured. "Please… don't ask me about it anymore."

There was a finality to her tone that left no room for argument. He could have pressed, demanded the truth, but something in him relented. He simply nodded.

Silence settled between them like dust in an abandoned room.

Then, softly, almost as if speaking to herself, he whispered, "They were green."

Olivia stiffened. "What?"

"His eyes," he said, turning to her at last. "You said you never saw them, didn't you? They were green." Her lips curled into a sad, wistful smile. "So, in the end… he did look like you."

His throat tightened. He nodded, barely able to force the words out. "Yes… he did."

A silence heavier than before fell upon them, pressing down like a weight neither could lift.

Then she spoke again, her voice softer this time. "Matthias… we are enemies. But do you hate me?" Her fingers tightened in her lap. "I know you don't love me. But do you hate me?"

His answer was immediate, sharp, as if it had already been carved into his soul. "No. I don't." He met her gaze, unflinching. "It's true that I don't love you… but you are still my wife."

She let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "You have every reason to hate me. You should hate me."

He studied her, his expression unreadable. "You're right. I do have every reason to hate you. But I suppose I also have reasons not to." His voice dropped slightly. "Like what you did today… and—" He hesitated. "And because you gave me a son. Shouldn't I be grateful for that?"

She let out a hollow, humorless chuckle as she stood, brushing down her dress. "I should go," she said. "You've cleared my head. Thank you for that."

She turned, pausing at the door, her smile fleeting but sincere.

He inclined his head. "You're welcome."

That night, neither of them slept.

And in that vast, empty mansion, every corridor, every chamber, every carefully adorned wall seemed to close in, making the space feel smaller than it had ever been.

The morning sun cast a golden glow over the palace corridors as Isabella stepped into the grand office, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor. The scent of ink and parchment lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of roses drifting in from the gardens below. She expected to be the first to arrive, as she often was, but to her surprise, Olivia was already seated behind the massive mahogany desk, her quill moving swiftly across a document.

"Good morning, Your Grace," Isabella greeted, her voice even yet respectful.

Olivia lifted her gaze, her expression unreadable, and gestured for Isabella to come closer. She did so without hesitation, knowing better than to question the silent commands of the duchess.

"These are the adoption papers," Olivia said smoothly, tapping the stack of documents in front of her. "They need to be delivered to the Imperial Registry today. Your task is to obtain the old woman's signature."

Isabella reached for the papers but paused as a small frown formed on her lips. She flipped through them quickly, noting something odd. "There are two forms," she remarked, raising an eyebrow. "And they're both blank."

"I didn't make a mistake," Olivia replied without missing a beat. "The second is a precaution. Have her sign both. I will fill in the details later. Just ensure both have her signature." Her voice was clipped, dismissive, as if the matter was too trivial for further discussion.

Isabella hesitated for only a moment before nodding. She had learned long ago that questioning Olivia was often futile. With a short bow, she took the documents and exited the office, her steps purposeful as she made her way down the palace halls.

Talia's chambers were bathed in soft candlelight despite the daylight streaming in from the large windows. The room smelled of aged books and lavender, a sharp contrast to the air of tension that thickened as Isabella entered.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, she presented the papers to Talia, who took them with mild curiosity. As her eyes scanned the documents, her expression shifted.

"There are two copies?" Talia asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.

Isabella offered a calm, professional smile. "Just a precaution, Lady Talia. A standard practice for security."

Talia's lips pressed into a thin line. It was clear she wasn't entirely convinced, but Isabella's reputation for efficiency and discretion had earned her trust. With a quiet sigh, Talia took up her pen and signed both.

Isabella wasted no time. The moment the ink dried, she gathered the papers and returned to the office, presenting them to Olivia with her usual efficiency.

"Here they are. Now, only Leila's and the former duchess's signatures remain."

A slow, satisfied smile crept onto Olivia's lips. She turned her attention away from the papers and fixed Isabella with a knowing look.

"Finish the rest of the work. I have other matters to attend to."

And with that, Olivia rose from her chair, moving with deliberate elegance.

The third floor of the palace was eerily quiet, its corridors lined with portraits of long-dead nobles whose painted eyes seemed to watch her every move. The room at the very end belonged to Louise—the former duchess.

Olivia did not bother knocking. Instead, she pushed the door open with the casual arrogance of someone who knew she would not be denied entry.

"Good morning, former duchess."

Louise looked up from her seat near the window, her frail hands clutching the fabric of her shawl. A flicker of fear crossed her aging features, her body tensing instinctively. She had never trusted Olivia—not since the girl was a child. There was something in her, something cold, calculated. A shadow of her father's cruelty.

"Your Grace," Louise replied carefully, her voice carrying the weight of both formality and unease. "Forgive me for not rising to greet you."

Olivia strolled further into the room, her fingers trailing lightly over the furniture as if inspecting an item before purchase. She picked up a quill from the bedside table, twirling it between her fingers as she spoke.

"It's been a long time since I last visited you, hasn't it?"

Aloise gave a slow nod. "Yes. Quite some time."

With a casual flick of her wrist, Olivia set the quill aside and lowered herself onto the bed, sitting just close enough for the tension to become suffocating. A playful smirk danced on her lips.

"You know," she mused, "you have beautiful eyes. Your daughter—though she takes after Lady Talia—has them too."

Aloise's breath hitched. Out of all the topics Olivia could have chosen, this was the one she had least expected.

Her silence seemed to amuse Olivia.

"Why so quiet?" she teased. "Don't you agree? Ah, but I nearly forgot—you've only ever seen her from a distance, haven't you? Do you even remember what she looks like?"

Aloise's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. The words cut deep, slicing through years of carefully buried grief.

Her patience snapped. "Enough with the games, Your Grace," she said sharply. "What do you want?"

Olivia's expression remained unchanged, but there was something darker beneath the surface—something calculating.

"Do I seem like a villain to you?" she asked, her voice light, almost childlike. "I'm only trying to help you reclaim what was stolen from you." Then, her smile twisted, turning into something more cunning. "Tell me, Louise—would you like to see her?"

Aloise's breath caught in her throat. "What?"

Without another word, Olivia placed the documents in her trembling hands.

Aloise's eyes darted across the papers. Both bore Talia's signature. The first was as expected—Leila's name was clearly printed. But the second...

Emilia Hamill.

Aloise's entire body stiffened. "What is this? Did Talia request that I adopt Emilia as well?"

Olivia leaned back slightly, toying with a strand of her sliver hair. "Let's say she did."

Doubt clawed at Aloise's thoughts. "This is no game, Olivia. These papers came from the Imperial Palace. Once signed, they are final. I will sign for Leila, but I refuse to be part of this deception."

Olivia moved closer, until their noses were nearly touching, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"And if I bring you Emilia—will you sign it then?"

Aloise's lips parted, but no sound came. The possibility—no, the hope—was too dangerous to entertain.

"She won't come," she whispered, shaking her head. "I know that."

Olivia tilted her head, her gaze steady. "And if she does?"

She grip on the papers tightened, her heart pounding against her ribs.

"If you bring her here," she finally breathed, "I will sign whatever you want."

A victorious smile curled at Olivia's lips. Rising gracefully, she dusted off the folds of her dress as if brushing away invisible specks of dust.

"Then," she declared, turning toward the door, "I shall return—with your daughter."

The golden afternoon light filtered through the grand windows, casting long shadows across the richly furnished chamber. Olivia sat with effortless grace, her slender fingers wrapped around a delicate porcelain teacup. The steam curled in the air, perfuming the room with the scent of bergamot.

A soft knock at the door interrupted the silence.

"Enter," she commanded, her voice even, unwavering.

The door opened just enough for Emilia to slip inside, her movements measured yet stiff, as if wary of the space she was stepping into. She bowed quickly, her eyes refusing to meet Olivia's.

"I greet Her Grace, the Duchess," she murmured.

Olivia observed her carefully, noting the reluctance in her stance, the way her gaze flitted to the floor as if searching for an escape. After what had transpired the night before, it was clear that conversation between them would not come easily.

"Come, sit. Have some tea, Miss Emilia."

The younger woman hesitated for only a fraction of a second before obeying. She reached for the cup in front of her, her grip firm yet uncertain, her lips barely grazing the rim as she sipped.

A silence stretched between them before Olivia, with the patience of a cat toying with its prey, finally spoke.

"So, Miss Emilia, I hear you attended the Academy. Tell me, what did you study there?"

Emilia straightened slightly, her tone carrying a quiet pride. "I was training to become a royal knight."

Olivia's lips curved, amusement flashing in her eyes. "A royal knight, you say? How interesting. That explains your short hair, your refusal to wear dresses, and those rather… masculine mannerisms."

Emilia's expression darkened. "Do you believe that knighthood is reserved for men?"

A sharp, amused laugh escaped Olivia. "Who ever said that? Is there anything a woman cannot do?" She tilted her head, the candlelight catching the silver sheen of her hair. "It is merely a matter of training, my dear. I do not question your choices."

"Then why comment on them at all?"

Olivia took a slow sip of her tea before responding, her voice carrying an edge of something unreadable. "Because cutting your hair, abandoning dresses, and adopting the mannerisms of men will never make you one. If you wish to prove your strength, do so as a woman. Erasing your identity will not change what you are."

Emilia's grip on her teacup tightened, her temper flaring. She slammed the cup onto the table, the porcelain rattling. "And by what right do you speak of me this way?"

Realization dawned almost instantly, and she stiffened. Raising her voice to the Duchess was no small offense. Regret flickered in her eyes as she hastily bowed. "Forgive me, Your Grace—"

Olivia waved off the apology, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "No need. But since you claim to be a knight, let us put that title to the test." Her voice turned lilting, playful. "I challenge you to a duel."

Emilia blinked, utterly caught off guard. "What?"

Olivia rose gracefully, the hem of her black dress flowing around her as she gestured toward the door. "Come. I will show you how a woman fights."

The training grounds stretched wide before them, the scent of dust and steel heavy in the air. The moment they stepped into the arena, Olivia plucked two wooden practice swords from a rack and tossed one toward Emilia, who caught it without hesitation.

It was a stark contrast—the young knight stood clad in a simple tunic and fitted trousers, her short hair tucked neatly behind her ears, her boots worn but sturdy. Across from her, Olivia was the embodiment of elegance. She wore an exquisite black gown that hugged her frame, its flowing skirts almost impractical. Her silver hair cascaded down her shoulders, her heels impossibly high, her nails long and painted a deep crimson. She looked like a porcelain doll, delicate and untouchable—yet there was nothing delicate about the way she held her sword.

"On my mark," Olivia said, her voice a velvet whisper. "I expect you to give me your best. No holding back."

Emilia set her jaw, tightening her grip. The humiliation from earlier still burned inside her. This was her chance to prove herself.

The second Olivia gave the signal, Emilia launched forward. Her strikes were quick, calculated—but Olivia was quicker. Every attack met with effortless precision, her blade moving as if anticipating each motion before it came.

Emilia's frustration grew with every parry. It was infuriating—how was she this fast, this agile, in that dress and heels?

And then, in a single deft movement, Olivia retaliated.

The shift was seamless. Her sword wove through the air like liquid silver, and before Emilia could react, her own weapon was knocked clean from her hands. It spun in the air before clattering onto the dirt.

And then—Olivia's blade was at her throat.

The Duchess smiled, victorious. "That is how a woman fights," she murmured. "I do not need to cast aside my femininity to match a man's strength. I will never seek their approval at the cost of my own identity. I am a woman, and I fight as one."

The words lodged deep within Emilia, striking something raw inside her.

After a moment, Olivia extended her hand. "Now, get up."

Emilia hesitated before finally grasping it, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. A small, begrudging laugh escaped her lips. "I think I understand, sister-in-law." She exhaled, shaking her head. "But tell me—how did you become this strong? I trained for years, yet I could barely touch you."

Olivia's expression remained unreadable. "Because noble-born warriors are trained differently than commoners. If you continue as you are, you will never become a royal knight. You must have realized that by now, haven't you?"

Emilia's fingers curled slightly. "They only accept nobles…"

A knowing smirk played on Olivia's lips as she stepped behind Emilia, lowering her voice to a whisper.

"And what if I told you there was a way?"

Emilia turned, her brows furrowed. "A way?"

"You are aware of your sister's adoption, yes?" Olivia's voice was silk and honey, intoxicatingly smooth. "What if we made it so you were adopted as well?"

The words were like a bolt of lightning. Emilia recoiled, her stance defensive. "What exactly are you suggesting? I would never do something that would hurt my mother."

Olivia chuckled softly, as if she had anticipated this answer. "You won't be the one hurting her. I will take full responsibility. I will tell her that it was my doing, that you had no knowledge of it. You would achieve your dream without betraying her trust. Isn't that ideal?"

Emilia wavered. Love for her mother clashed violently with her deepest ambition. The opportunity Olivia was dangling before her was dangerous, tempting.

"...You wouldn't do this without expecting something in return," she said at last.

Olivia laughed, the sound light yet laced with something darker. "It seems you understand me well. Let's just say I have someone I'd like you to meet. Will you come?"

Emilia hesitated. "...That doesn't seem too unreasonable. Fine, I'll go."

Without another word, Olivia turned, leading the way.

Unbeknownst to Emilia, they were heading toward the former duchess's quarters—toward a destiny carefully orchestrated by Olivia's ruthless hands.

She was merely a pawn in a much grander game, a piece Olivia would use to strike where it hurt most.

After all, she knew precisely what mattered most to Talia.

And she would take it from her.