The Villainess's Secret Bedroom Service -
Chapter 79: The Graveyard
Chapter 79: The Graveyard
Upon receiving an umbrella from one of the attentive maids who still remained awake, Rosalie finally stepped out into the night. Almost immediately, a refreshing gust of cold air enveloped her, causing her long wavy hair to dance like a cascade of silken serpents.
With her much-needed stroll resumed, she embarked upon her journey, treading along the damp yet immaculately clean path paved with square beige stones and entrusting her meandering to the path’s somewhat desolate guidance. Despite the lateness of the hour, the expanse surrounding the duke’s stately mansion remained bathed in deemed illumination. The warm, enchantment-sustained radiance within the spherical lamps persevered, albeit diminishing beneath the weight of the October rain’s downpour.
Despite the somber moodiness of the rainy season, the girl somehow discovered a certain enchantment and even romance within the dark atmosphere it cast. Perhaps it was intertwined with her penchant for classic romance novels. Those stories, rich with the rainy Western ambiance that she admired so much, always managed to evoke feelings of mystery and melancholy that never failed to captivate her heart.
"Under different circumstances, I might have deemed this rainy season the very essence that transports me into the realms of a novel."
Lost in her contemplations, Lady Ashter continued her journey along the stone pathway. She relished the invigorating, rain-kissed air, allowing her mind to wander through both profound reflections and fleeting musings. As the minutes slipped away, fatigue gradually crept into her legs, while the night air, crisp and determined, had already found its way beneath Rosalie’s attire, wrapping her in a delicate, damp embrace. It was then that she paused, coming to the realization that she had completely strayed from her chosen path.
’Well, this is simply fantastic!’
She squinted her eyes, hoping to uncover even a solitary clue to her whereabouts. Yet, as before, the outcome remained unchanged – she was undeniably lost, stranded without a sense of direction.
’So much for living in such a vast estate... I’ve been always talking walks with others so I rarely paid attention to my surroundings, and now it finally backfired... Now, seriously, which way should I be going?’
With her focus now razor-sharp, Rosalie discerned a significant change. The once-familiar stone pathway had given way to a trail of black circular stones. This route, she realized, had remained unexplored ever since she had entered Damien’s home.
Having decided to venture to her left and spent what seemed like a good thirty minutes of additional walking, eventually, Lady Ashter found herself in a secluded place reminiscent of a modest yet intricately designed garden with a short, metal fence surrounding it in a square shape.
At the heart of this square garden, obscured by the curtain of descending raindrops, stood a tall, enigmatic figure cloaked entirely in somber black with their head hung lifelessly upon their chest. As Rosalie’s eyes regained their focus, she instantly recognized Damien’s uniform, entirely soaked, its thick fabric now outlining his powerful body like the thinnest piece of cloth, and rushed toward him, blind to the dangers of slipping on the wet stone and hurting herself.
"Your Grace! What are you doing there?!"
Positioning herself in alignment with Damien’s figure, Rosalie raised her arm, using the umbrella to shield him from the rain’s descent. Despite her efforts, this act failed to break his silent reverie. He remained rooted in place, a solitary figure detached from his surroundings.
Allowing herself a few moments of hesitation, Lady Ashter leaned slightly closer and asked, her resounding voice filled with genuine concern,
"Your Grace? Why do you stand alone in the rain? It is freezing out here, you might catch a cold!"
At last, her words seemed to pierce Damien’s detachment. Gradually, he pivoted his head, his somber countenance lightening as he gazed down at the girl before him. His lips, pale and trembling, curled into a faint, warmth-tinged smile.
"Lady Rosalie..."
In that very instant, it seemed as if the impenetrable shroud of darkness enveloping him had, at last, begun to disperse, ushering in a slender, almost intangible thread of illumination into his desolate existence.
Throughout his life, Damien had dwelled in shadows, even as he endeavored to envelop himself in all that was radiant and brilliant. Yet, his relentless pursuit of light, including the realm of magic, failed to alleviate the ache stemming from the vast, insatiable gaping hole within his chest.
However, in this moment, despite being enfolded by darkness and the biting cold, drenched beneath the inky deluge of rain, the unattainable light he had long yearned for was now standing right before him. Even the depths of her eyes, though reminiscent of the gray expanse of the overcast sky, gleamed more brightly than the stars.
Silent yet decisive, Damien reached out, relieving Rosalie of the umbrella. He then positioned it to shield both of them from the rain, his frigid golden gaze remaining firmly fixed upon the contours of the girl’s face.
"Your Grace? Is something the matter? What is this place anyway?"
Remaining wordless, the duke executed a subtle nod, his gaze directed toward two black marble plaques that bore an uncanny resemblance to tombstones. Struggling to decipher their inscriptions, Lady Ashter narrowed her eyes and quietly read,
"Dorian Dio... Elizabeth Dio... Damien’s parents?"
Her eyes slid over the names on the plaques repeatedly, as though attempting to convince herself of their veracity. The novel had never disclosed that Damien’s parents lay buried behind the mansion’s facade, nor had it hinted at the presence of this miniature graveyard nestled within a garden tinged with a curious sorrow. Encountering such a peculiar arrangement proved more than merely enlightening; it was profoundly unsettling.
As Lady Ashter stood in reverent silence, her gaze fixed upon the resting place of the duke’s parents, Damien drew in a deep breath, and finally broke the silence,
"I’ve spent my whole life convinced that family is not important to me. Despite the Emperor’s earnest attempts to embrace me as his own, a fragile barrier persisted between myself and those tethered to Rische. Even when I embarked on my inaugural battle at a mere fifteen years old, a part of me resisted the notion of returning alive."
His words, as chilling as his tone, caused Rosalie to involuntarily flinch and raise her gaze. Yet, the duke pressed on, forestalling any potential intervention.
"You know, Lady Rosalie... Every conquest I secured for this empire bore scant weight in my heart. I had assumed that I was waging war to safeguard my people. Yet, as years went by, I came to grasp that I yearned for a grander purpose, something more substantial, more profound... And now, as I stand here, confronting my parents’ resting place, I finally see it: the sole reason why I was able to fight the way I did was that I was not afraid of losing anyone or hurting anyone by losing my own life."
Rosalie’s slender, pallid hands clung tightly to the folds of her coat, her form now quivering not only from the chill but from an overwhelming wave of sorrow.
’I remember it now... He delivered a similar speech to the Emperor back when the latter suggested Damien unite with Evangelina prior to his last conflict against Izaar. Fueled by his profound affection for Evangelina, coupled with his anticipation of a protracted and arduous war, Damien’s fear of perishing led him to orchestrate a charade, sparing the young woman from undue heartache by fostering the belief that their emotions remained unrequited... So, why is he saying this now?’
As if having read her mind, Damien slowly turned around and placed the handle of the umbrella back in the girl’s hand.
"His Majesty has chosen our wedding day. It’s the final day of October. And... I leave for the Northern border on the very next day."
His words, solemn yet softly spoken, unfurled from his lips like an ominous incantation. A fleeting pause ensued, the duke momentarily locking eyes with Rosalie, a hint of anguish flitting across his gaze. And then, with a single step, he withdrew, retreating from her presence, leaving her ensconced within the cold, solitary embrace of the October rain.
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