Chapter 8
At the Four Dukes‘ estate, Alistair rubbed his brow, feeling an inexplicable emptiness inside, as though he had lost something incredibly important.
Perhaps it was just a fleeting feeling.
He stayed by Isabeau’s bedside, waiting for her to wake from the poison.
Gazing at her serene sleeping face, a thought crossed his mind: he thought of Elvira from the palace.
When she slept, she would curl into herself, her brow furrowed as if burdened by endless thoughts.
Suddenly, Isabeau’s lashes fluttered, and her eyes slowly opened.
Upon seeing Alistair, her face lit up with joy.
“Your Majesty, you came to save me? I’m in so much pain, I’m so afraid. I fear I might die here and never see you again… never be able to marry you…”
She did not say the last words, but Alistair understood.
He rose, cold and distant, and said, “The poison is no longer a threat. I have matters to attend to. I must leave.”
Isabeau quickly rose, boldly taking his hand in hers.
“Your Majesty, could you stay with me a little longer? The poisoning was no accident. I believe… it was my sister, Elvira, who did this. She must have held a grudge after you punished her, and now she’s plotted her revenge. I have no enemies in the estate, except for her. She is my sister, though a bastard. That day, I begged her to admit her fault, but she refused and even threatened me, saying…She said if you favored her, she would find a way to take revenge. I never expected her to strike so quickly.”
As she spoke, she coughed softly into a handkerchief, her hand trembling as she covered her mouth.
The cloth was stained with blood, dark and ominous, as if her life were fading with each breath.
Alistair’s expression hardened. “It was not her. She is too timid, too lacking in both the means and opportunity to carry out such a plot.”
Isabeau’s gaze flickered for a moment, her eyes cold as she continued, “Perhaps you’re right. I must have been unlucky. But if I die, surely you’ll show more favor to my sister. That might be what she wants.”
“I will have the matter investigated.”
Alistair’s resolve softened, and he reluctantly agreed to her wishes.
By the time he returned to the palace, the sky was darkening. Lord Chamberlain stood before him, his face pale and filled with despair.
“Your Majesty…the east wing burned. Lady Elvira…perished.”
At those words, Lord Chamberlain could no longer hold back his tears.
Alistair stood frozen, struck by disbelief. He could hardly process what he had just heard.
Moments passed, and he finally regained his composure, his voice shaking with fury. “What is this nonsense, Silas? Are you trying to deceive me? Is she not in the palace? Where is she?”
Alistair’s rage was palpable. His hands gripped the Chamberlain’s throat, his strength nearly choking the life out of him.
With bloodshot eyes and a chilling presence, he growled, “You’ve conspired with her, haven’t you? You let her escape, didn’t you? How dare you!”
Despite nearly suffocating, Lord Chamberlain did not confess. His voice was hoarse as he gasped for breath, pleading, “Your Majesty, I swear it’s the truth! Please, go to see for yourself. I beg of you, spare me!”
After a long silence, Alistair exhaled sharply, shoving the Chamberlain away. Without another word, he rushed to the smoldering ruins.
Chapter 8