Chapter 61: in Love and War

Aurora beamed when Cheri whispered the news.

"The Viscountess and your brother…?" Cheri nodded once, discreetly. "Last night," she confirmed, her voice soft but warm.

Aurora sat up straighter in bed, a flicker of amusement brightening her tired eyes. She had suspected something, yes—but her health had consumed most of her attention these past months. Since Seamus' death, everything had dulled. Her appetite. Her voice. Her laughter.

But not this morning.

"Interesting," she chuckled, the sound airy and rare. A spark of vitality fluttered to life in her chest. "It seems my intuition wasn't completely dulled after all."

"Careful, my lady," Cheri warned gently, offering her a delicate teacup—one filled with a calming brew prescribed by the apothecary for her nerves.

Aurora accepted it with both hands, her fingers slightly trembling, though the smile on her lips was the first real one Cheri had seen in months. She sipped slowly, then let her gaze wander out the window to where the wind bent the garden roses toward the sun.

"You know," Aurora said, voice still light, "I think they might actually be good for each other."

Cheri didn't answer with words. She simply nodded and poured more tea, a knowing little smile playing on her lips.

Later that day, in the study once filled with Seamus' personal effects, Elena sat behind a heavy wooden desk now refitted to serve as a war table.

Gone were the velvet chairs and shelves of poetry. In their place: maps, ink-stained reports, and a sprawling layout of the region's territories, with red and silver markers showing known and suspected Inquisition movements.

The Church was growing reckless—spreading itself too thin. Collapsing under the weight of its own aggression.

Good.

Niegal sat beside her, sleeves rolled to his forearms, handing her one intelligence report after another. Their rhythm was easy, practiced. Words were few. Glances many.

Their fingers brushed.

Neither moved away.

"They're moving toward the west," Elena murmured, circling an area with her pen. "Toward the smaller towns that refused to pay tithe."

"They're bleeding themselves," Niegal replied, his voice steady but firm. "The people are watching. They know."

She looked up at him then. Their eyes met—and stayed. A breath passed between them. Their bodies leaned just slightly, so close their shoulders nearly touched.

And their smiles?

"You've never asked why I never sent you away." She mused, teasing.

Niegal gave a half smile, "I didn't need to. You needed a mirror. Not a shield."

The moment hung quiet, thoughtful.

Outside the stone walls of Windswept Manor, the rumors spread like wildfire through the villages and cities of the United Territories.

The Witch and the Lion.

The Viscountess and her late husband's uncle.

A second chance… or a scandal?

Tongues wagged. Taverns buzzed. The people of the outer provinces, those who still remembered the sacrifices House Matteo had made, took the gossip with a grin. Let the Church fume. Let the nobles sneer.

But inquisition informants did not grin.

They reported.

And their superiors did not take the news kindly.

Fury rippled through the ranks of the Church like a plague. Scrolls were sent. Orders issued. Whisper networks reactivated.

Unacceptable.

Blasphemy.

She must be punished.

And somewhere in the north, in the shadowy court of Inquisitor nobles, Lee Rosaria, high patroness and longtime supporter of the Holy See, smiled wickedly.

Her laugh, cruel and cold, echoed through the stone halls beneath her estate.

Down, down, into the dungeon below.

Where a man knelt, arms shackled and hung high above his head, his head bowed in the darkness.

At the sound of her laughter, his head lifted.

Eyes gleamed.

Not with fear.

But with purpose.