Chapter 47: Chapter 46. Continue to Capital
The envoy left the camp behind, the sound of hooves and wagon wheels filling the morning air. The sun had climbed higher when they moved away from the camp, it’s like promising a new day ahead for them, with no assassins or another ambush. The path wound through tall trees, their leaves still wet with dew, and the air smelled of damp earth mixed with smoke from the night’s fires and dried blood.
Vivianne sat near the window of her carriage, watching as the forest passed by. In front of her, Sarah de Wyndham is reading an erotica book, she said is the way of coping with the situation, and Vivianne couldn’t care less. After the ambush, the road felt longer and the trips seemed more tense.
The knights ride their horses in a steady pace, not breaking the formation. At the front, Maxim leading the Borgia knights being all vigillant all the time. His huge figure is hard to miss, making his horse look like a standard horse with him on it. On the flanks, Mara and Red kept watch. Mara’s sharp eyes scanned the trees, while Red making sure that the troops formation remain intact.
Between them, the Wyndham knights moved with more discipline and wariness than the day before. Though still uneasy, they followed the Borgia routine, keeping their formation close and tight. Some even spoke to the Borgia knights riding nearest to them, short words about the road, the weather, or the strength of their mounts.
The road itself stretched long and winding. At times it climbed steep hills, the carriages groaning as horses strained against their harnesses. At other times, it dipped into quiet valleys, where rivers glimmered like silver threads between fields of grass.
The road stretched onward as the Borgia envoy made their steady march toward the capital. The morning air was clear, touched by the smell of earth and the faint sweetness of early blossoms. Hooves beat against the dirt path in a steady rhythm, while wagon wheels groaned and banners snapped high above. The crests of Borgia and Wyndham fluttered brightly in the sunlight, carried proudly by the knights who rode at the edges of the column.
Now and then, small farms appeared along the road. Farmers paused in their work as the envoy passed. Some leaned on their tools, their faces hard and watchful. Others kept their distance, silent and wary, as if unsure whether the envoy is a promise of safety or a shadow of danger.
Children peeked out from behind wooden fences and low stone walls. Their wide eyes followed the procession, unblinking and curious. Some pointed at the fluttering banners, whispering among themselves. One or two dared to wave before their mothers pulled them back. Not a single villager stepped forward to greet them. Respect, fear, or both, no one could tell.
For many, the Wyndham banner brought mixed feelings. The Wyndham family had long been known as the most loyal supporters of Princess Morwenna de Erengrad, the woman who once shocked the empire by choosing her mate. Not just any alpha demon, but the Demon King himself, Ashkareth, the most feared being in centuries. No royal of Erengrad had ever taken such a path, and her choice sent waves of anger through the noble courts. To the highborn, it was a betrayal, an unforgivable stain on the purity of their bloodlines.
Yet Wyndham had stood firm behind her. They defended her decision openly, shielding her with both their words and their steel. This made them enemies of many noble houses, whispered about in court, and despised behind closed doors. But for all the anger, no one dared move against them. Wyndham’s armies are massive, their knights hardened and disciplined, stronger even than the royal knights themselves.
When Princess Morwenna left the empire and her daughter, Roxanne, was given the Borgia territory, the balance of power shifted. Borgia became a principality of its own, a land where mixed bloodlines were not hidden but honored. Wyndham then made their choice clear: their loyalty belonged not to the throne, but to the Grand Duke of Borgia. They bowed to Roxanne, declaring themselves her vassals, a bond of oath and steel that reshaped the map of power in Erengrad.
The villagers along the road knew these things, at least in part. Rumors had spread quickly enough. It explained their silence as they watched the banners pass by. To see the Wyndham crest was one thing; to see it ride alongside the black and crimson of Borgia was something else entirely. That sight alone set shivers in the spine.
The Borgia banner carried its own weight of fear. Wherever it flew, it drew uneasy stares. People whispered of what it meant, what kind of knights marched beneath it. Unlike the other houses of the empire, the Borgia soldiers bore the marks of the mixed blood openly, a frightening sight to those unaccustomed.
Some knights rode with twisted horns curling from their brows, others with eyes that glowed faint red even under daylight. A few showed sharp fangs far larger than any werewolf’s, teeth that gleamed white as they smiled. And then there were those like Roxanne herself—dangerously beautiful, pale, and far too powerful. Her presence carried the weight of both wolf and demon, a charm that unsettled even as it fascinated.
The villagers felt all of this, even if they could not put it into words. To them, the sight of the Borgia banner is enough. It’s a reminder that the world around them is shifting. Old traditions were breaking, the balance of power is changing, and the empire they had always known was no longer the same.
From the edges of the road came hushed voices. They carried just enough for sharp ears to catch. "It’s because of the emperor’s marriage, isn’t it?" one man whispered, clutching his hoe as though it might shield him.
"Of course. If not for that, the Borgia would never be marching to the capital," another muttered, leaning closer to his neighbor.
"They would have stayed in the North, far from here." The last words were spoken with a hint of fear, almost like a prayer.
Marvessa heard every word. Her sharp hearing did not miss a single whisper. Riding alongside Mara, her expression tightened with each passing murmur. She had endured enough of the frightened gossip, and patience had never been her strength.
With a swift motion, almost too quick for the human eye to follow, she slipped a tiny weapon from her belt, a small dart tipped with a sleeping draught. Her wrist flicked lightly, and the dart flew across the air. It struck the dirt near the whisperers’ feet, releasing a faint mist that carried the potion’s effect. Within moments, the men sagged to the ground, slumping as though exhaustion had finally claimed them.
Mara turned her head at the sound, watching the villagers collapse. Instead of scolding, she only smiled faintly, her amber eyes amused. She had known Marvessa long enough to recognize that streak of mischief, a kind of ruthless impatience dressed in elegance.
"They’re so loud," Marvessa muttered, her tone sharp yet almost childish in its frustration. She let out a small huff and leaned back, resting against Mara’s chest as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her gaze drifted forward again, toward the carriage carrying the Grand Duchess.
Mara only shifted slightly, feeling amused, steadying her horse with one hand while letting Marvessa’s weight settle against her chest. A faint grin touched her lips, the kind that came when someone’s habits were equal parts troublesome and endearing.