The Villainess's Secret Bedroom Service
Chapter 148: Altair Who Lives For Love

Chapter 148: Altair Who Lives For Love

Altair carefully set the ink-smeared quill down, allowing the viscous black liquid to dry upon the coarse surface of the parchment. With calculated precision, he meticulously folded the letter into a slender scroll, securing it in place with a thin black ribbon. Affixing the message to the leg of the large, dark messenger raven, which had patiently perched on the narrow windowsill, Altair granted the creature its task.

As the raven gracefully took flight, the rhythmic flapping of its wings pierced the oppressive tranquility of the Temple’s stillness, leaving in its wake a fleeting disturbance. Rising from his seat, Altair retrieved a sharp-edged letter opener, its polished surface gleaming under the muted light, before slowly making his way toward the small rectangular mirror mounted on the wall adjacent to the chamber’s exit.

Overcome with an uncharacteristic hesitance, he stared at his own reflection, a contemplative silence enveloping the room as he grappled with impending decisions. Tucking aside his flowing white hair, his long fingers traced the contours of a familiar, stinging mark etched upon his skin. Resolute yet haunted, he turned around, his gaze locked upon the mirrored manifestation of his own conflicted expression, when once more, Mephisto’s insidious whisper breached the confines of his consciousness,

"You will live to rue this choice. Once the die is cast, you will relinquish all that you have fervently dedicated your life to. They will wage war in your absence, and you will be rendered powerless to intervene. Ponder every facet meticulously, Altair, for the toll exacted may prove beyond recompense."

Silent and resolute, Altair withheld any acknowledgment of the demon’s insidious prodding. With unwavering determination, he applied the cold steel of the letter opener to the nape of his neck, prompting the dark crimson mark to quiver ominously in response.

In a deliberate exhale, he steeled himself and traced the keen edge of the instrument along the cursed, demonic brand, keenly aware of the sticky warmth of his own blood pooling over his fingertips. With each meticulous movement, he persisted until, finally, the offending fragment of flesh, shamefully emblazoned with the taint of the demonic stigma, was completely carved out from his form.

Engulfed by the searing torment radiating from the raw, gaping wound, Altair instinctively shielded the afflicted area with his trembling right hand, surrendering to the throes of agony. It marked a pivotal juncture, an unforeseen precipice that loomed before him—a profound loss of every tenet that had steered his course throughout the expanse of his life. A surrender not just of faith and power, but of his very essence.

It was the end.

The end of Altair whose sole purpose in life was revenge.

And it was the beginning.

The beginning of Altair who now lived for nothing but love.

With another deep exhale that echoed through his empty room akin to a loud gust of relentless wind, the man pressed his cold palm harder against the back of his neck and allowed the healing abilities of his borrowed powers to cover up the deep wound left by the letter opener.

Throughout the intricate mending, Mephisto maintained an uncharacteristic silence, preserving a stoic demeanor. Yet, as Altair’s exhalation waned, Mephisto’s resolute stillness mirrored his own, culminating in the demon’s voice punctuating the air once more.

"Will you simply disregard my presence henceforth? Recall, I shall not forsake you until the final grains of your hourglass have dwindled to naught. My boundless influence remains at your disposal, Altair, until the very extent of its potential is fully realized."

"Fear not, demon, for your powers shall surely prove invaluable in the days to come."

"Oh? Pray, have you already devised a cunning scheme?"

Mephisto’s unexpectedly buoyant tone left Altair feeling a sense of unease. He cleansed his hands, now stained with blood, employing a pristine white towel. Once that task was complete, he resumed his place behind the desk, meticulously extracting a trove of ancient documents left to him by his father and then, with utmost care, he arranged the weathered papers upon the polished wooden expanse of the desk.

He paused momentarily, seemingly gathering his thoughts, and after a few lingering moments of silence, he eventually resumed, his voice measured and deliberate,

"A plan, you say? Yes, one might say as much. I intend to harness your powers when I confront the elusive figure of Amarath."

***

"Rosalie?" The deep, unfamiliar male voice reverberated within Rosalie’s mind, causing her to furrow her eyebrows in bewilderment.

"Well, Rosalie, the pact has gained full potency. Are you prepared to relinquish what is rightfully mine? Nine months is all you possess. I shall await your arrival then."

With a sharp jolt, Rosalie’s body sprang awake, and she found solace in the familiar confines of the bedroom she shared with Damien.

Gradually, she turned her head to the left, as if anticipating a specific sight, and there was Damien, seated beside her. His pallid, fatigued face bore the marks of enduring restless nights and insufficient nourishment.

He appeared to be drifting in and out of sleep, not fully immersed in the realm of dreams, his hands securely clasping his wife’s left hand.

"Damien?"

The duchess murmured his name softly, her struggle evident as she sought to reclaim mastery over her own voice. But even this subdued utterance was sufficient to rouse Damien. As he opened his deep, golden eyes, he immediately enfolded Rosalie in a tender embrace, audibly releasing a prolonged, relieved breath as his lips grazed her shoulder.

"At last... Rosalie, you are awake! I can’t express how relieved I am!"

The duke swiftly withdrew, his gaze darting frantically across his wife’s body, as if assuring himself that he was not succumbing to a hallucination. Only after he was satisfied with what he saw did he embrace her once more, allowing the weight of his sturdy frame to settle gently upon her delicate form.

He tenderly placed a light, dry kiss on Rosalie’s neck, his voice a quiet murmur as he repeated,

"Thank you... Thank you for not leaving me. Thank you for awakening, Rosalie."

Gradually, the lady returned his embrace, sensing a peculiar, engulfing pressure diffusing through her chest.

All at once, the memories flooded back—the sudden collapse at the gathering, the eerie, foreboding dreams, and the ominous, resonant voice that seemingly sealed her destiny.

She was with a child.

A fragment of her being she had relinquished to preserve herself and remain with the man she cherished.

Now, this precious fragment of her soul demanded sacrifice due to that very choice, and the weight of it was mercilessly tearing her apart.