Chapter 114: The Shroud of White Lace

What? Wait—what madness is this?” he roared, the sound tearing from a throat constricted by rising bile. His voice, once a clarion call that led armies, cracked like a splintering wooden shield under the blow of a traitor’s axe. “Have you lost your mind, Serene? What are you raving about? You are speaking in riddles… stop this sick jest at once!”

​He spun around, his frantic gaze searching for a sanctuary—for a single lie to cling to—in the faces of the palace staff. But he found none. The downcast eyes of the servants, who stared at the floor as if the marble were a mirror of their own shame; the heavy, funeral silence of the guards; and the pitying, poison-laced looks of the courtiers were the only proof he needed.

​Their collective silence was more than just a lack of words; it was a thousand rusted needles, stitching a shroud for his heart while it was still beating. In that silence, he realized the home he had bled for was gone, replaced by a mausoleum of broken promises.

It is a lie!” he hissed, the words escaping like steam from a fractured boiler. His voice trembled with a terrifying, fragile rage—the kind of anger that precedes a total collapse. “My Alisha would never do this. She wouldn’t… she couldn’t.” He was chanting it now, a desperate mantra to keep his soul from splintering. “You are all mad! This is some cruel trick, some sick game to test my resolve, isn’t it? Tell me!”

​He turned to flee, his instincts screaming for the only reality he understood. He wanted to run back toward the iron gates, back to the mud and the carnage of the front lines where the world was honest. There, enemies wore recognizable uniforms, and blood had a clear, singular purpose. In the trenches, death was a clean blow; here, it was being delivered through whispers and pitying glances.

​But he didn’t even make it three steps before Serene’s voice cut through the stagnant air. It didn’t carry the comfort of a sister; it fell with the heavy, metallic finality of a guillotine.

​”The ceremony is reaching its end in the Spring Hall at this very moment,” she stated. Her tone was a barren wasteland, utterly devoid of its usual warmth. “If you wish to continue living in this pathetic fantasy, then run. But if you truly wish to witness your own execution—to see the life you fought for being handed to another—then come and see for yourself.”

​The words struck Lucius with more force than any mace. As much as he wanted to strike the cruel honesty from her mouth, a feral, masochistic need to prove them all wrong drove him forward. He needed to see her face. He needed to see the lie in her eyes.

​A carriage lurched to a halt before them, its blackened wood gleaming like a hearse. The wheels ground against the gravel with a sound like teeth gnashing in hunger. Serene didn’t wait for his consent; she seized his hand. Her grip was surprisingly iron-clad, the strength of a woman who had already mourned what her brother was about to discover. With a strength born of cold necessity, she dragged the broken warrior toward the door, pulling him out of his denial and into the heart of his nightmare.

​”I will show you the truth myself,” Serene whispered, her voice a chilling promise that vibrated through his very bones. “So that you can finally stop clinging to the ghost of a woman who is already gone.”

​Across the city, the air in the Spring Hall did not feel like spring at all; it was suffocating, heavy with the cloying, funerary scent of lilies and the sharp, bitter tang of a betrayal that had finally solidified into reality. The vows—those sacred, hollow words—had already been spoken into the cold air. The ink on the register was dry, a permanent stain on the history of the Empire. Alisha was now, by law and by blood, the Duchess of Tharron.

​She stood at the altar, a vision of ruined purity. Her arm was linked with Roland’s, a sickening mockery of a union that felt more like a prisoner bound to her captor. As the sea of guests swarmed forward, their voices rose in a dissonant cacophony of hollow congratulations and poisoned blessings. To Alisha, they weren’t people; they were vultures circling a fresh kill.

​She kept her gaze fixed on the cold, unyielding marble floor, refusing to look up, as if the stones could offer her a sanctuary the living would not.

​Beneath the fine, delicate lace of her sleeves, she could still feel the phantom weight of the shackles, a cold ghosting against her skin that no amount of silk could mask. Every congratulatory pat on her shoulder, every “well-wish” from a smiling courtier, felt like a fresh bruise on a body that was already failing her.

​She was drifting, her consciousness receding into a vast sea of grey numbness. Her soul was retreating, pulling back into the darkest, most distant corner of her mind—a place where the sounds of the celebration turned into muffled echoes, and where the agony of her reality could no longer reach her. She was a hollowed-out shell, a bride dressed in a shroud of white lace, waiting for the world to simply end.

​”I will show you the truth myself,” Serene whispered, her voice a chilling promise that vibrated through his very bones. “So that you can finally stop clinging to the ghost of a woman who is already gone.”

​Across the city, the atmosphere in the Spring Hall was a far cry from the life its name suggested. The air was suffocating, thick with the cloying, funerary scent of lilies and the sharp, metallic tang of a betrayal that had finally solidified into law. The vows—those hollow, sacred echoes—had been spoken. The ink on the register was dry, a permanent stain on her soul. Alisha was now, by blood and by decree, the Duchess of Tharron.

​She stood at the altar, a vision of ruined divinity. Her arm was linked with Roland’s in a sickening mockery of a union, a shackle of flesh and bone hidden beneath the finery. As the sea of guests surged forward, their voices rose in a dissonant cacophony of hollow congratulations and poisoned blessings. To Alisha, they were not well-wishers; they were vultures preening over a fresh kill.

​She kept her gaze anchored to the cold, unyielding marble floor, refusing to look up. She felt that if she did, the sheer weight of their collective hypocrisy would crush the breath from her lungs.

​Beneath the intricate, fine lace of her sleeves, she could still feel the phantom weight of the iron shackles ghosting her wrists—a cold, phantom reminder that no amount of silk could ever erase. Every celebratory hand that grazed her shoulder felt like a fresh bruise, a violation disguised as a gesture of goodwill.

​She was drifting, her consciousness receding into a vast, grey sea of numbness. Her soul was retreating to the furthest, darkest corner of her mind, seeking a sanctuary where the light of the hall couldn’t reach it, and where the agony of her reality could finally turn into a muffled, distant echo.

The sudden, violent commotion at the great doors shattered the refined atmosphere, the sound of the heavy wood striking the stone walls echoing like a death knell. A murmur rippled through the hall—a collective, terrified intake of breath that made the very blood in Alisha’s veins turn to ice.

​She slowly lifted her head, her sapphire eyes widening as they met a sight that would haunt her for the next twenty years.

​”Congratulations on your marriage, Duchess Tharron. I pray you enjoy a life of profound marital bliss.”

​The voice struck like a thunderclap in a silent cathedral. Alisha’s head snapped upward, her breath hitching in a throat that had forgotten how to swallow. There he stood: Lucius. He was a vision of war and heartbreak, still clad in the dust-stained regalia of a conqueror, his presence turning the opulent hall into a battlefield of ghosts. For a fraction of a second, the empty shell she had become vanished, leaving only the terrified girl who wanted to tear off the white lace and throw herself into his arms, begging for a sanctuary that no longer existed.

​But the heavy, possessive hand of Roland tightened around her waist—a shackle of flesh and bone that anchored her to her nightmare. His fingers dug into the silk of her gown, a silent, bruising reminder that she was his property now, a trophy won through blood and manipulation.

​She could see it clearly now—the look in Lucius’s eyes. It wasn’t the fiery rage she had expected; it was something far worse. It was a devastating, hollow disappointment. It was the look of a man who had survived a thousand swords on the front lines only to be felled by a single, silent betrayal in the one place he thought was safe.

​Roland nudged her sharply, a cruel, physical reminder of her role in this theater of shadows, before bowing with a sickeningly smooth elegance.

​”We thank you for your blessing, Your Majesty,” Roland drawled, his voice dripping with triumphant venom. Every word was a calculated strike, a victor gloating over his fallen rival. “Your presence here is indeed a singular honor for us. To have the Emperor himself witness our union… it is more than we dared hope for.”

​Lucius’s gaze did not flicker toward Roland. He did not grant the Duke the satisfaction of his attention. Instead, his eyes remained anchored to Alisha, tracing the contours of the white dress that should have been worn for him. He looked at the silk that was supposed to represent their shared future, now repurposed as her shroud—a beautiful, shimmering lie that covered the wreckage of their promises.

​”Yes,” Lucius replied, his voice a flat, dead rasp that seemed to drain the very warmth from the room. “A great honor indeed, as I can see.”

​He turned his gaze to Roland then, but there was no fire in his eyes—only the cold, impenetrable hardness of a mask carved from stone. The warrior had retreated behind his armor, burying his agony beneath a layer of imperial steel. “Well, I have accomplished what I came for. If you will excuse me, I shall take my leave. The air here… it has grown quite thin.”

​He began to turn away, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his combat boots echoing against the pristine marble like the ticking of a countdown that had already reached zero. Each step was a deliberate distance placed between him and the woman who was now a stranger. But then, he stopped.

​The silence that followed was so absolute it felt physical.

​Lucius turned back, reaching into the breast of his tunic. He reached for Alisha’s hand, his fingers prying her clenched palm open with a gentleness so profound, so devastatingly familiar, that it hurt more than any blow Roland had ever dealt her.

​”I forgot,” he whispered, his voice a low vibration that only she could feel. His eyes met hers for one final, agonizing heartbeat—a shared eternity of what should have been. “This belongs to you. It has served its purpose.”

​He pressed a small, silken object into her trembling palm: the handkerchief.

​Alisha looked down, her vision blurring as she recognized the delicate fabric. It was the very talisman she had tied to his sword the day he left—a sacred vow made of lace and hope, a promise that he would return safely and she would be waiting to untie it. Now, it was returned.

​The silk was no longer pure; it was stained with the faint, grey grime of the front lines and the lingering scent of iron and smoke. It was a relic—a piece of a dead love that had been carefully preserved in the heat of battle, only to be discarded in the cold reality of “peace.” To Alisha, it felt as though he had placed a piece of his own bleeding heart in her hand and told her to keep the remains.

Her voice was no longer that of a noblewoman; it was a broken, jagged thread, barely holding together as she whispered:

​”Thank you, Your Majesty… for returning it to me.”

​The title—Your Majesty—was the final nail in the coffin. It was a formal distance that stretched wider than any ocean.

​Lucius turned, his spine rigid and unyielding as a drawn bowstring. Each step he took toward the exit was a silent, agonizing battle against the primal urge to draw his blade and paint the pristine white marble red with the blood of every smiling guest. He wanted to watch the hall burn. His heart was a bleeding ruin, a hollowed-out cavity of grief, but the crown upon his brow felt like a ring of burning lead. It forced him to keep his chin high, his stride regal, even as the only world he ever cared to conquer turned to ash behind him.

​In his wake, the air didn’t clear; it grew colder as Serene stepped forward. Her silhouette cut through the stifling atmosphere of the Spring Hall like a shadow falling over a grave. It escaped no one’s notice—least of all the trembling bride’s—how Roland’s eyes remained anchored to his sister. Even with his newly claimed prize secured at his side, his gaze held a dark, unsettling fixation on Serene, a hunger that burned with a predatory, unnatural light.

​”Congratulations to you both,” Serene said, her voice a hollow chime that lacked even a flicker of sincerity. She turned to Roland with a cold, practiced grace that masked the storm beneath her skin. “Pardon me, Duke Tharron, but might I have a word in private with the Duchess? There are… matters of state and sisterhood to attend to.”

​Roland offered a jagged, knowing smirk, his eyes lingering on his sister’s face a moment too long, tracing her features with a familiarity that made the skin crawl.

​”Of course,” Roland drawled, his voice thick with a sickeningly triumphant undertone. “Take all the time you need, Princess. After all, the Duchess isn’t going anywhere. She is exactly where she belongs.”

Serene seized Alisha by the wrist, her fingers digging into the pale skin with a strength that offered no room for protest. She hauled the bride—the “New Duchess”—out of the celebratory light and into the shadows of a secluded antechamber. The moment the heavy oak door groaned shut, the latch clicking like a final judgment, the facade of nobility crumbled into ash.

​The silence that followed was more violent than any scream.

​Serene stood before her, the sister Lucius loved and the friend Alisha had betrayed. She began to clap—a slow, rhythmic, mocking sound that echoed against the stone walls like a taunt from the gallows.

​”Exquisite. Truly exquisite,” Serene spat, the words dripping with a venom that burned through Alisha’s numb defense. “I should applaud your performance, Alisha. The tragic bride in white. The ’Purest Pearl’ of the Empire.”

​Serene stepped closer, her eyes flashing with a raw, unfiltered disgust that made Alisha want to recoil, to vanish into the shadows.

​”All those years,” Serene continued, her voice rising in a sharp, jagged crescendo. “All those nights spent whispering vows of eternal love for my brother… and in the end, you wed his sworn enemy. You chose the man who has spent his entire life trying to dismantle Lucius’s soul. Tell me, does the Tharron gold feel heavier than your conscience?”

​Alisha opened her mouth, her throat a desert of parched silence, but no words came. The “bitter pill” Roland had forced upon her, the child now anchoring her to this nightmare, the threat of her father’s “unmarked grave”—it all sat behind her teeth like a wall of lead.

​”I thought you were my friend,” Serene hissed, her features twisted in a mask of betrayal. “I loved you. I supported you against every courtier who whispered behind your back. I believed in the ’sacred bond’ you shared with my brother. Could you not have waited? Not even a single month for the man who was bleeding for you on the front lines? Was his bed not even cold before you invited Roland into yours?”

​Serene leaned in, her breath cold against Alisha’s tear-stained cheek. “You didn’t just break Lucius’s heart today, Alisha. You murdered the only version of him that was still human. I hope you enjoy your new title… and I hope the silk of this dress feels like a noose every time you close your eyes.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep