civilwarnovels Chapter 218: Sweets and Smoldering Ash
Chapter 218: Sweets and Smoldering Ash
Isabella sat across from her, her eyes brimming with a quiet, rare joy as she watched Olivia eat with an uncharacteristic, ravenous appetite. It was a sight so entirely foreign that the maid couldn’t help but marvel at it in silence.
Feeling the weight of the gaze, Olivia paused, lifting her eyes from her plate. "Hmm? Is there something on my face?"
"No," Isabella replied softly, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "It is just... it’s beautiful to see you actually eating like this. Normally, I would have to stand over you and practically force every single bite down your throat. But now? You are devouring it without a single word from anyone. In fact, what exactly are you eating?"
Olivia looked down at the dish before her, the words stalling in her throat as she sank into the depths of a memory from just an hour ago.
Not even an hour had passed since he was standing right here, in this very room.
She had scratched the back of her neck, glaring at him with her usual sharp defiance. "Matthias, what is the Duke of this region doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be with His Majesty?"
"His Majesty?" Matthias had echoed, a faint, mocking smirk playing on his lips. "I thought you two grew close enough for you to call him ’Father’."
"He is a hypocrite, just like you. He lied to me, so do not interfere with what I call him," she had snapped.
"I wouldn’t dream of it," he murmured, turning his gaze down to Black, who was already clumsily weaving through his legs. "She’s getting angrier and angrier by the day, buddy."
"Matthias, I am standing right here, if you care to remember," Olivia had interjected, crossing her arms. "Now, get lost."
"Right, right—in your dreams. Look at yourself, Olivia, you look like you’re about to vanish."
"I am perfectly fine. It is none of your business."
"The health of my wife and my child is entirely my responsibility. Now, sit down."
Only then did she notice the massive container he was carrying. "What is that?"
Without a word, he had guided her to sit at the table and began unpacking the boxes. Sweets, meat, and eggs. It certainly didn’t look like the flawless presentation of a royal chef, but the aroma wafting through the air was undeniably heavenly.
He arranged the food onto her plates, sliding them forward. "Now, eat."
She had stared at the feast, skeptical yet enticed. "Where did you get this?"
"I cooked it myself," Matthias stated, completely deadpan. "Since you ate my cooking once before, I doubt you hate it."
A faint, amused breath escaped her. "Really? The Duke is playing chef again?"
"Olivia, eat and shut your mouth."
Returning to the present, Olivia stared at the half-empty plate, a soft, invisible warmth blooming in her chest.
She remembered how she had given in to the savory scent then, murmuring, "Fine, I will eat. But you really need to leave. Isabella will be here any minute. I only let you slip through the servant’s passage to avoid gossip, so don’t push your luck."
"Isabella again?" Matthias had muttered, rolling his eyes. "Now I understand why Leon says you two are so close. Fine, I’m leaving. Just make sure you finish your food—I am serious."
She had simply waved her hand in dismissal. "Just get out."
He had slipped out using the discreet side corridor meant for the duchy’s trusted staff, leaving her alone with the warm feast. Barely a minute later, Isabella had walked in through the main doors.
The fog of the memory faded, and Olivia looked back at her faithful maid with a calm, guarded expression.
"Let’s just say... I’ve taken a sudden liking to this kind of food," Olivia replied smoothly.
"Oh?" Isabella raised an eyebrow, a delighted smile spreading across her face. "In that case, the head chef definitely deserves a promotion."
"Perhaps," Olivia murmured, a rare, genuine laugh escaping her lips.
She finished her meal in a comfortable silence. But the moment the plate was empty, the lighthearted atmosphere vanished. Isabella’s expression shifted, turning solemn and businesslike. Reaching into her apron, she pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper and placed it on the table before the Duchess.
"What is this?" Olivia asked, her eyes narrowing slightly at the seal.
"It is a letter from Duchess Serene Tharon," Isabella explained softly. "Since you have been absent from managing your daily affairs over the past few days due to your exhaustion, I have been overseeing your correspondence. She states that she will be coming to visit you this very afternoon regarding an urgent matter."
"Really?" Olivia raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "That is unexpected."
Isabella hesitated, watching her mistress closely. "Is there a problem with that, Your Grace?"
"No," Olivia replied, her face morphing back into the unreadable, icy mask of the Duchess as she stared at the letter. "No problem at all. Go and personally oversee the preparation of the guest parlor and the royal tea. Ensure the corridors are secure. I will get ready to receive her."
The afternoon dragged on with an agonizing, heavy slowness. True to her word, Olivia spent the hours preparing, choosing a simple yet structured dress that cleverly concealed any early, subtle changes in her silhouette. Yet, despite the nourishing meal Matthias had left her, a strange, persistent lethargy clung to her limbs. Her stomach turned in small, unpredictable waves—a silent reminder of the secret she carried.
She trusted Serene. In a palace filled with venomous vipers and shifting alliances, Duchess Tharon had always been a solitary pillar of safety, a maternal shadow who had shielded her from the worst of the court’s cruelty. Olivia had no reason to doubt her intentions.
By evening, the golden sunlight had entirely withered away, leaving the palace bathed in a bruised, violet twilight. The heavy silence of the drawing room was finally broken by the quiet announcement of Duchess Tharon’s arrival.
When Serene entered the room, Olivia rose to greet her, a rare, genuine smile softening her usually icy features. She welcomed her with an uncharacteristic warmth, gently asking after her well-being.
"I am fine," Serene replied, her voice flat, lacking any trace of life.
Olivia motioned for her servants and Isabella to dismiss themselves after pouring the tea. "Leave us the room, and remain just outside the outer doors." Private audiences with Serene were a standard protocol for discussing sensitive family matters.
As they sat down across from each other, a suffocating, awkward tension settled over the room—the lingering, rotting ghost of Elvira’s funeral hanging heavily between them. Caught up in the solemn atmosphere, Olivia’s usually sharp gaze faltered for just a fraction of a second as she focused on comforting the older woman.
She didn’t notice Serene’s restless, trembling fingers pretending to adjust her posture. She didn’t see her discreetly burying a small, gleaming blue stone deep within the hidden folds of the velvet sofa cushions—a stone that faintly emitted a barely perceptible chemical odor.
Moving with a rare display of affection to soothe her guest, Olivia finally shifted closer, sitting right beside Serene. Without a word, she gently leaned her head against her shoulder, offering a silent comfort to the woman who had shielded her for so long.
Suddenly, a choked sob broke the quiet. Tears exploded from Serene’s eyes, cascading down her pale cheeks without restraint.
"I am so sorry, Olivia... I am truly, truly sorry," Serene wept, her voice trembling violently.
Olivia pulled back slightly, her brows furrowing in confusion. "Why are you apologizing? Whatever happened at the funeral is already forgotten. There is no need for this."
"Just... because, Olivia," Serene stammered, pulling her hands away and tightening her grip around a peculiar amulet around her neck—as if seeking protection or a countermeasure against something invisible. "I just needed to ask for your forgiveness."
Before Olivia could press further, Serene bolted upright, standing up abruptly.
"What is it? Why are you standing?" Olivia asked, completely bewildered. "You haven’t even touched your tea."
"I came here to see you, and I have seen you. That is enough. I must leave now; I have urgent obligations in the capital," Serene said hurriedly, her eyes darting away from the sofa.
Stepping forward, Serene lunged into a final, suffocatingly tight embrace, briefly pinning Olivia in place.
"I truly do not understand your behavior today, Serene," Olivia whispered against her shoulder, a growing sense of unease creeping up her spine.
"You will understand very soon, Olivia," Serene murmured cryptically against her ear. "And now, I must go. Take care of yourself."
Without waiting for a response, Serene tore herself away and rushed out of the room. The heavy wooden doors clicked shut behind her, followed by the distinct, metallic sound of the external latch dropping into place—whether by accident or design.
Olivia stared at the closed door for several long seconds, the sharp, metallic click of the external latch still echoing in her ears like an ominous warning. Within moments, an absolute, stifling silence settled over the room—a heavy, suspicious quiet that felt entirely unlike the usual peaceful aura of her chambers.
What on earth did she mean by ’you will understand very soon’?
The words hung in the air, but before her mind could dissect them, the first sign of danger struck. It wasn’t fire; it was a scent. A strange, chemical odor—a foul hybrid of burnt sulfur and something sickly sweet—suddenly began to waft from the direction of the sofa.
Olivia inhaled the scent instinctively. Within the next five seconds, a sudden, piercing coldness invaded the tips of her fingers. She tried to take another breath, but the air felt as though it had transformed into a thick, invisible gel that flatly refused to enter her lungs. The room, which had been cool and refreshing just minutes prior, began to heat up with terrifying speed, as if the walls themselves were turning into a sealed furnace.
"What is... this..." she whispered to herself. Her voice sounded foreign, hollow, and far weaker than she had ever heard it.
She turned toward the grand window, determined to fling it open and breathe in the crisp night air. She forced her right foot forward to take a single step, but it felt as though it suddenly weighed a thousand pounds of solid lead. She swayed, her balance instantly shattering. She tried to lift her arm to catch herself on the edge of the nearby mahogany table, but her limb completely defied her mind’s command; it remained dangling uselessly at her side, trembling faintly.
The magical poison was coursing through her veins with ruthless efficiency. With every single heartbeat, it claimed a new part of her body. Her muscles locked completely, and the temperature in the room continued to spike in terrifying waves, accompanied by a faint, low hissing sound bleeding out from beneath the velvet cushions.
The darkness began to creep into the edges of her vision, and the world around her blurred and tilted into overlapping black splotches. Her knees buckled entirely. Olivia fell. It wasn’t a sudden, dramatic crash, but a slow, helpless collapse as her body gave way against the hard wooden floor, leaving her stranded on her side, unable to so much as lift her head.
She could hear it clearly—the muffled, rhythmic thud of the guards’ footsteps out in the corridor just beyond the heavy doors. They were so close. Barely a few meters away.
Gathering every single remnant of oxygen left in her aching chest, she attempted to scream: "Isabella!... Guard—"
But the sound never came. It dissolved into a faint, strangled wheeze that died in her throat. The reinforced wood of the doors and the soundproofed walls guaranteed that her weakened voice would never reach anyone outside. They believed the Duchess was merely resting after a draining visit from the Duchess of Tharon; no one would dare disturb her without explicit permission.
And in that exact moment of absolute vulnerability, a thin, twisting ribbon of gray smoke slipped from the crevices of the sofa, followed by a faint, eerie blue glow.
Olivia watched with wide, terror-stricken eyes as a silent flame began to devour the velvet fabric—slowly at first, and then, fed by the trapped gas in the room, the blue fire violently erupted. Monstrous sheets of flame licked up toward the ceiling. The blistering heat from the blaze slapped against her pale face, and the fire began to spread across the wooden floorboards, crawling slowly, mercilessly, toward the exact spot where she lay paralyzed.
The fear for her own life was overwhelming, but the terror that pierced her soul in that second was far deeper, far more devastating.
She could barely move her trembling fingers. Yet, with a monumental, agonizing effort that cost her the very last remnants of her fading consciousness, she dragged her hand slowly, inch by inch, until it rested over her flat abdomen. She gripped the fabric of her dress over her unborn child in a desperate, protective claw, as if she could pull her baby deeper inside her own flesh to shield them from the encroaching hell.
Scalding tears welled in her eyes, blurring the monstrous shapes of the advancing flames as the suffocating smoke closed in. Her mind screamed one final, desperate plea into the encroaching dark before the unconsciousness took her:
My God... please, not again. Do not take them from me this time, too... my baby. Please...