A Cold Greeting

The next morning, the castle was abuzz with activity as Olivia's orders for a grand feast were being carried out، servants hurried through the halls, while Olivia sat in the office, quietly attending to her work alongside Isabella. The air between them was thick with silence until Olivia broke it with a simple question.

"At what time will the knights arrive?" she asked, her voice soft but carrying a trace of tension.

"I believe they will arrive around dusk, milady," replied Isabella.

"Ah, very well." And once again, the silence returned, both women lost in their own thoughts. Their relationship was nothing more than a surface-level connection, a mere dynamic of manager and subordinate. There was little more to it than that.

"Let's finish up the work for today, I have something to think about. You may leave," Olivia said, her tone dismissive.

Isabella left without a word, as she always did. Olivia, alone now, found herself lost in thought. Why had Isabella never once questioned her actions in their previous lives? Even then, she had always remained quiet, always following Olivia's decisions without protest. But the question lingered unanswered in her mind, and her thoughts soon shifted to her husband. The prospect of seeing him again, after all that had happened, was a psychological blow. She had never loved him, not truly, but to face the man she had condemned to death just the day before was a humiliation she was not prepared for. She paced restlessly in her study, her anxiety growing with every passing moment.

As the hour grew late, she moved to the window, folding her arms tightly, her eyes scanning the horizon. She had to see them—her knights, returning from the front lines. And there he was, at the head of the procession, his posture steady, his presence commanding. The sight of him, so strong, so resolute, was enough to make the hearts of every woman watching falter. Olivia's gaze lingered on him, her emotions a tangled mess of sorrow, pity, and regret. He may not have been the perfect husband, but he had stayed by her side until the very end, despite her indifference.

As they approached the gates, Olivia knew what she had to do. It was the duty of the lady of the house to greet the returning knights. Of course, she had never done so before, but today was different. She walked towards the door, only to find Isabella standing there, waiting.

"Isabella!" Olivia called sharply.

Isabella turned, a slight surprise flickering in her eyes. "Yes, my lady?"

"What are you doing here?" Olivia asked, her voice tinged with impatience.

"I thought you wouldn't come, so I planned to greet the knights on your behalf, as I always do, milady," Isabella replied, her tone respectful yet uncertain.

Olivia studied her for a moment, her expression unreadable, before dismissing her with a wave. "Stay then," she said, her tone softened just slightly.

The gates swung open, and the knights rode in, their arrival met with the excited cheers of the castle servants. But a strange hush fell over the crowd as they caught sight of Olivia standing at the gate. For a moment, there was only stunned silence, followed by murmurs that spread quickly among the servants.

"Is that really her?"

"It can't be! The duchess never greets us."

For a long moment, no one could quite process what was happening. Mathias turned to his brother, Leon, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"Leon, is that a ghost of my wife standing there? It's impossible. Olivia never comes down to greet us."

Leon, equally stunned, leaned closer. "You say it's impossible? I'm more surprised that the ghost is standing so close to my wife. What on earth is going on here?"

The crowd remained frozen, staring in shock, until Olivia's sharp gaze pierced through them. Her voice, though cold and distant, cut through the air.

"Welcome home," she said simply, her words a chillingly indifferent greeting.

The words were the coldest greeting one could imagine, two simple phrases delivered without a change in her impassive expression. She turned and walked back into the castle, her footsteps echoing in the stunned silence. She was afraid to raise her eyes and meet Mathias, fearing what might show on her face.

"Hey, Leon," Mathias muttered, still staring after her retreating figure. "Was that really my wife? Do you think she's finally lost her mind?"

Leon chuckled, though it was laced with a hint of sympathy. "Oh, man, I really feel for you. You've been suffering for two years, and now you have to deal with her madness."

Mathias eyes hardened, his voice low but firm. "Leon, there are limits to what you can say."

Leon fell silent, swallowing his words. Though Mathias had responded with a hint of sarcasm, there was no mistaking the protective edge in his tone. Even as the others murmured about the coldness of Olivia's greeting, Mathias would not tolerate any disrespect toward his wife, not even from his own brother. He turned toward the soldiers, his gaze darkening with authority.

"Does anyone here have an issue with the duchess's greeting?"

The soldiers fell silent, their eyes avoiding his as they stood rigidly at attention. Despite Olivia's cold demeanor, respect for her position as the duchess was a matter of course.

"No, my lord," one of them spoke up, voice tight. "We are grateful that the duchess herself saw fit to greet us."

Maceo's expression softened just slightly, but his words remained firm. "Good. Let's remember that next time."

Meanwhile, Olivia sat alone in her room, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She reached for a glass of water, but it slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor. She curled up on the cold stone floor, pulling her knees to her chest, her mind swirling with the faces of those she had betrayed in her past life—faces that now haunted her like ghosts. The guilt gnawed at her, and the weight of it all seemed unbearable. She looked at her hand, noticing the blood staining it from a shard of glass, and for a moment, she thought it was the blood of those whose deaths she had caused.

At that moment, Kira entered the room in a hurry, rushing to her side.

"My lady, your hand is bleeding. We must tend to it immediately."

Olivia didn't respond, lost in her thoughts as Kira went about cleaning the wound and applying a dressing, her words a blur of meaningless chatter.

"There, it's done," Kira said softly, her hands brushing away the last of the blood. "You should have called me sooner, milady."

"Leave," Olivia replied softly, her voice hollow.

Kira hesitated, but then nodded. "As you wish, milady." She left the room without another word.

Nightfall came, and the knights gathered in the great hall with the duke and his assistant. It was customary for the leader to dine with his men after their return from the front lines, but they were met with an unexpected sight—a feast unlike any they had seen before. The table was laden with an array of dishes, meats, and delicacies, everything a weary traveler could dream of. The knights, however, were not hungry. They stood in silence, confused by the lavish spread before them, their minds still occupied with the strange greeting they had just witnessed.

The duke looked at his assistant with a perplexed expression.

"Leon, did you inform my sister-in-law about preparing the feast?"

"What?!" Leon replied, taken aback.

"You mean to say you didn't?" the duke responded sharply, his voice filled with disbelief.

"Head servant, step forward."

The head servant approached, bowing.

"Yes, my lord."

"Who gave the order for this feast to be prepared? As far as I know, you've always prepared simple fare, even when the knights returned from battle," the duke inquired, his gaze unwavering.

The servant hesitated before replying, "My lord, it was Lady Isabella who ordered it, and she said it was at the Duchess's command."

"What?!" The duke's voice rose in astonishment.

A thick silence fell over the room. No one had touched the food yet, unsure of what to make of the situation. Preparing a feast was normally Olivia's responsibility, but she had never issued such an order. If Isabella had done so without Olivia's approval, it was a direct challenge to the authority of both the duke and the duchess. Tension thickened in the air.

"Call Lady Isabella," the duke commanded firmly.

Minutes later, Isabella stood before him. The duke's voice was laced with suspicion.

"Sister-in-law, I must ask—did Olivia truly request this feast to be prepared?"

His doubt was unmistakable, yet necessary. Isabella, however, remained unfazed, well aware of his mistrust.

"Yes, your Grace. Everything was done according to the Duchess's orders. If you doubt me, you may ask her yourself," she answered calmly.

The duke nodded, but his suspicion lingered.

"Well, I didn't mean to question you. I was merely wondering," he said, though his tone betrayed some uncertainty.

Once Isabella confirmed that the feast had been organized by the duchess, no one dared touch the food, fearful it might be a trap. Mathias observed the scene carefully and, without a word, took his seat at the head of the table. He began eating from his plate.

"Your Grace!" came a chorus of voices.

Malthus raised a hand, signaling for silence. The room fell quiet, and he continued eating until he had finished his meal.

"It's not poisoned. Eat," he said flatly, his voice unwavering.

The others, embarrassed by their hesitation, awkwardly began to eat. Meanwhile, the duke, consumed by thoughts of his wife's strange behavior, stood up and left the room in frustration. He sought the solitude of his study, determined to make sense of the unsettling events unfolding around him.