Chapter 107: Unwanted Company

Cedric’s words were a bitter echo of the warnings Olivia had whispered before, yet Mathias refused to grant him the hollow pleasure of seeing a single crack in his resolve. With a lethal, glacial composure, he swept his gaze over the gathered servants and guards, who hovered about the scene like ravens scenting the iron tang of a feast.

He sheathed his sword with a slow, deliberate scrape; the metallic song of the blade returning to its scabbard acted as a grim period to the violence. Despite the blood seeping through his clothes, he adjusted his collar and straightened his posture, reclaiming his terrifying elegance.

A synthetic smile stretched across his lips—pale, hollow, and utterly devoid of warmth.

“I do not recall requesting an audience from any of you,” he murmured, his politeness more dangerous than a shout. “Why the assembly? Is there a celebration I was unaware of?”

The Captain of the Guard faltered, his voice thick with a mounting, clumsy unease. “But, My Lord… you are wounded, and… there was steel drawn. We thought—”

Mathias severed the sentence with a look as sharp and sterile as a scalpel. “Silence. Did I grant you leave to speak? Fall back. Immediately.”

The Captain attempted one final, desperate protest. “But—”

“Do you truly dare to defy my command?” Mathias’s roar erupted, echoing through the stone corridor and commanding an instant, absolute silence. The crowd recoiled as one, the very air seeming to thin under the suffocating weight of his fury.

Turning back toward Cedric and the Duke of Tharron, Mathias reset his feigned smile, fixing it like a porcelain mask. “I am truly honored by the visit of Duke Alistair and the Duke of Tharron. You must excuse me; my injury prevents me from escorting you to the palace gates. I wish you a safe journey.”

The two men returned the gesture with synchronized precision—two vipers acknowledging a predator who understood perfectly when to strike and when to coil. Cedric maintained the charade to the very end, his voice a smooth, treacherous silk.

“Indeed, Duke Luceron. We wish you a recovery that is… most swift.”

Mathias watched their retreat with a simmering, repressed fury, his frozen gaze anchored to their silhouettes until they finally vanished into the gloom. The moment the stifling tension snapped, Leon lunged to his brother’s side, his voice fractured with alarm.

“Brother! Are you alright? Your wound—”

Mathias did not offer an immediate reply. He turned his eyes toward Leon—eyes that had hollowed out into dark, bottomless pits of sheer exhaustion. “You could have died,” he whispered, the words jagged and choked in his throat.

“What? What are you talking about? It’s nothing,” Leon stammered, desperately trying to deflect the gravity of the moment. “Your injury is far more serious, and—”

But Mathias erupted. He surged forward, his hands seizing Leon’s shoulders with a violence that rattled the younger man’s very soul. “For God’s sake! I could have been forced to mourn you today! You and Olivia… the both of you are driving me to the precipice of madness! Whence comes this suicidal recklessness? Their steel was at your throats—do you truly not grasp the catastrophe that was inches away?”

Leon dropped his head, a genuine, trembling remorse washing over him like a cold tide. “I am sorry, Brother… my rage blinded my judgment.”

“Your sorrow will be of no use to me if I am forced to bury you,” Mathias breathed, his chest heaving with the agonizing effort to remain upright. Then, with a sudden, jarring coldness—a desperate suit of armor to shield his own torment—he added, “Regardless, I am going to tend to my wound. Stay with Olivia. I cannot bear the sight of either of you right now. Not after what you have done. All the two of you do is push me to the very edge of sanity.”

Behind the heavy timber of the closed door, Olivia leaned her back against the wood, having swallowed every bitter word. A searing, caustic regret flooded her chest, making her heart contract in a slow, suffocating rhythm.

The imagery of the heavy door becomes a physical manifestation of the emotional rift between the characters. Here is the scene reimagined with the depth and tone of a high-stakes English period drama.

The Hollow Echo of Rejection

She raised a trembling hand, searching the void, her fingertips grazing the rough grain of the wood as she hunted for the latch. But his final words—”I cannot bear the sight of either of you”—struck like a sudden frost, freezing her hand mid-air. Slowly, she withdrew, her fingers curling back as if the brass handle had transmuted into glowing coal. She remained there, a ghost haunting the silence, utterly alone behind the barrier.

Mathias retreated to his own chambers with heavy, measured strides, leaving a wake of shattered stillness behind him. The servants and guards dispersed like frightened shadows, vanishing into the dim alcoves of the palace. Leon was left standing solitary before the heavy timber, his breath hitching as he wrestled with the gnawing remorse beginning to hollow out his chest.

He raised a hand and struck the wood—soft, hesitant raps that seemed to fear the secrets lying beyond.

“Who is there?” Olivia’s voice drifted from within, sharp and brittle as a pane of frosted glass.

“It is I… Leon. May I come in?”

“Enter.”

He stepped into the room to find her standing with an unsettling stillness near the threshold. Her posture was rigid, her face as pallid as a marble bust in a moonlit cathedral. Leon struggled to find his voice; she looked strange, possessed by a quietude that felt like the calm before a storm.

“Hello, Olivia,” he began, his tone uncharacteristically hushed. “How are you… after yesterday?”

“I am fine,” she replied curtly, her gaze anchored to a fixed point in the empty air. “What is it you want? You do not grace my chambers without a provocation.”

Leon rubbed the back of his neck, the heat of shame rising to his face. “I… I wanted to apologize. I am sorry for being so harsh with you, for shouting in your face. I was desperate, and the world had grown so convoluted that I lost my senses.”

A faint, hollow smile touched Olivia’s lips—a smile that never reached the desolate beauty of her eyes. “Very well. Your apology is accepted. Now… get out.”

“I am leaving; do not fret,” Leon said, turning toward the heavy oak door. “And… thank you, for protecting Isabella.”

He was halfway across the threshold when her voice caught him like a physical tether. “Wait.”

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder with a quizzical look. “Yes?”

“Can you… would you mind leading me back to my bed?”

Leon’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. He cast a glance at the bed, which sat barely a few paces away in the candlelight. “Your bed? I don’t follow. It is right there, Olivia.”

For the first time, Olivia turned her entire body to face him. Her eyes were wide, hauntingly beautiful, but they were vacant—fixed on a point far beyond him, staring through his very soul rather than at his face.

“I cannot see, Leon.”

A sepulchral silence collapsed upon the room. Leon recoiled a step, his eyes widening as a paralyzing shock took hold of his tongue. “What? What are you saying?”

“Exactly what you heard,” she replied with a terrifying, calm resolve. she extended her hand into the empty air, searching for a support that wasn’t there. “I see nothing. I am entirely blind.”

“Does this…” Leon stammered, his mind racing to connect the fragmented echoes of the previous night. “Does this have something to do with what happened? Is this why Mathias insisted I stay with you?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“And when will your sight return?”

“I don’t know. Leila mentioned I might recover soon.” Olivia crossed her arms tightly, her fingers digging into the silk of her sleeves as if to hold herself together. “Now, cease your interrogation and simply assist me.”

Despite the crushing weight of her confession and a fleeting flicker of sympathy, a familiar, mischievous glint began to dance in Leon’s eyes. He shook off the initial horror, replaced by the shadow of the old, troublesome Leon.

“Of course,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a playful, conspiratorial lilt. “I shall take you to your bed.”

He reached out, his hand closing around her wrist with more firmness than she anticipated, and began to guide her forward. Olivia’s brow arched, a sharp, knowing smirk cutting through her pallid composure.

“Really, Leon? Do you take me for a fool? Where exactly are you taking me?”

He replied simply, his pace never faltering, “To your bed.”

“And has my bed suddenly migrated leagues away?”

Leon’s lips curled into a daring smirk. “Well, you never specified whether you meant the bed in your own chambers… or the one in Mathias’s.”

He came to a halt, and the heavy, ornate doors of Duke Mathias’s private wing loomed before them. Olivia stiffened, her sightless gaze snapping toward the doors as if she could physically sense the glacial aura of the man brooding behind them.

“Are you insane?” she hissed, her voice a sharp whisper of dread. “Do you want him to rain his curses down upon us both? Did you not hear a single word he said out there? We are the last people he wishes to see.”

Leon leaned in closer, his voice sliding into a conspiratorial murmur. “That is precisely why I brought you here. You are the only one capable of speaking to my brother when he becomes like this. Go in there and thaw his rage, Olivia—otherwise, he won’t speak to either of us. He’ll make our lives an insufferable hell. You know how he is; he ignores people as if they are invisible when he’s truly angry. Do you really want to be left alone in the dark, in your condition?”

Olivia’s jaw tightened. “You are the most insolent person I have ever met,” she whispered.

“Using the word ’met’ in your state? I don’t think that’s quite right,” Leon teased. “You should say ’the most insolent person I’ve ever heard.’”

“When my sight returns,” she vowed, her voice low and dangerous, “be certain that I will pay you back for this, you scoundrel.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you will. It doesn’t matter now.”

With a swift, decisive motion, Leon pushed the heavy door open. He placed a firm hand on the small of her back, nudging her into the lion’s den, and whispered one final instruction: “Go on—soothe his anger. And for heaven’s sake, try not to pick a fight for once. Agreed?”

Olivia flashed her middle finger with a sharp, defiant smirk, her voice a low hiss as she spat a single word at Leon: “Piss off.”

But the retort was cut short. She felt a sudden, firm grip envelop her hand. The air shifted, bringing with it the heavy, scorched scent of tobacco and old smoke. Mathias was there, his voice vibrating with a bone-deep exhaustion.

“I retreated to escape the two of you,” he murmured, “and yet you haunt my footsteps, still bickering. Have you no mercy? I am truly, deeply tired.”

“Brother, she just insulted me! Did you not see that?” Leon protested.

“He was the one mocking me first!” Olivia countered.

Mathias turned his head toward Leon, his gaze dark and uncompromising. “Get out. I will settle my score with you later. I wish to speak with my wife. Alone.”

“You’re throwing me out for her?” Leon scoffed, though he backed away.

“Do I need to show you where the door is as well?”

Leon grumbled a final, bitter remark—”Fine, enjoy your wife. I’m leaving”—and vanished, the heavy door thudding shut behind him. Mathias turned back to Olivia, his hand still anchored to hers.

“Come,” he said simply. He guided her toward the edge of the high, silken bed and pressed down on her shoulders until she sat. “You can wait here until I finish tending to my wound.”

Olivia didn’t argue. For once, she allowed herself to be pliant, a silent witness to the unseen movements in the room.

A long, heavy silence stretched between them, broken only by the rustle of fabric. Then, a sudden, dull thud echoed near her feet—the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. It was an unnatural noise, followed by an even deeper stillness.

“What was that sound?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

Mathias didn’t answer.

“Have you finished with your wound? Or are you simply refusing to speak to me?”

The silence grew denser, more suffocating, until the air felt thick with a sense of wrongness.

“Mathias? Are you alright?”

Receiving no reply, she pushed herself up to stand. She tried to navigate the few feet toward the sound, but her lack of sight betrayed her. She stumbled, her knees giving way, and she collapsed—not onto the floor, but directly onto him.

She felt the searing heat of his body beneath her. Her hands scrambled blindly across his chest and upward until they found his face; it was burning, radiating a fever so intense it felt like he was being consumed from within. His breath was ragged, a frantic, shallow staccato.

He managed only a single, broken syllable, a ghost of a whisper: “Oli..via…”

Then, she felt his body go completely limp beneath her touch, his weight settling into the heavy, terrifying stillness of unconsciousness.

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