Chapter 11
11
S he swallowed hard, fighting against the lump in her throat. Unshed tears burned behind her eyes as she stood there, staring at the stunning ice-blue gown. Sunlight danced across the intricate crystal work, transforming the dress into a shimmering frost. Beautiful. Delicate. Feminine.
Everything she wasn’t. Everything she couldn’t be.
“It’s gorgeous, Mother,” Skylar managed; the words felt hollow, inadequate. “But I… I can’t wear it.”
Her gaze drifted to the bed where her mother lay propped against a mountain of pillows, her swollen belly a stark reminder of the life growing within. The once-vibrant woman looked so fragile now, her face etched with lines of exhaustion from years of uncomfortableness and months of pain. Skylar’s chest tightened at the sight. The cloying scent of medicinal herbs mingled with the sour tang of illness, threatening to overwhelm her.
“Why ever not, my darling?” her mother asked, her tone soft but probing, a hint of strain underlying her words.
The question hung in the air, suffocating. Skylar’s lungs constricted, each breath a desperate attempt to hold back the storm of emotions brewing within her. She met her mother’s gaze, and something inside her snapped.
“Because I don’t know who I am anymore!” The words erupted from her, raw and ragged. Years of pent-up frustration and confusion poured out in a torrent. “Am I Duke Skylar Anathemark? The Crown Prince’s friend? The kingdom’s protector? A monster?” Her voice cracked, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. “Or am I your daughter, meant for pretty dresses and balls—a lady?” She gestured helplessly at the gown, its soft rustle a mockery of her turmoil. “I’ve never known who I’m supposed to be.”
From the corner of her eye, she caught Melody’s shocked expression. The realization that she’d never lost control like this before anyone only intensified her feeling of exposure.
Cool, trembling fingers cupped her cheek, and Skylar instinctively leaned into her mother’s touch. “Oh, my sweet girl,” her mother murmured, love suffusing every word. “You are, and have always been, my beloved daughter. The rest… it was necessary, but it was never meant to define you.”
Skylar allowed herself a moment of vulnerability, savoring the comfort of her mother’s caress. “But it has defined me.” The admission fell from her lips, barely audible. “I don’t know how to be anyone else. I’ve been the Duke for so long, always strong, always unyielding. How can I just… change?”
Her mother’s grip tightened slightly. Drawing a sharp breath, she continued with steely resolve beneath her frail demeanor. “Then I’ll help you remember. To enjoy a garden stroll, to converse with gentlemen, to befriend ladies at tea parties. To be the woman you were always meant to be.”
Skylar swallowed hard, the bitterness of unshed tears coating her tongue. How could she explain that she’d never truly lived as a lady, as a Duke’s pampered daughter? Her world was one of rough play, of commanding subordinates, of fighting and even loving as a man would. The familiar weight of her sword, the constricting pressure of her chest bindings—these were her reality. It wasn’t about remembering; it was about becoming someone entirely new.
“Mother, I—” she began, but her mother cut her off, urgency coloring her tone.
“Once your brother is born, you’ll leave this place. I’ll send you far from the Clawbornes and their schemes.”
At the mention of the royal family, Skylar tensed. She pulled back slightly, searching her mother’s face. “What do you mean?”
Her mother’s gaze flickered to Melody and Fern, and when she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, tinged with a fear that chilled Skylar to the bone. “We worry about your closeness to the Crown Prince. He’s… not unlike his father.”
The weight of unspoken burdens etched into her mother’s face made Skylar’s stomach churn as realization dawned. Right. This was why she had taken on this role, who she had been protecting her mother from all along.
“Lyinell gets what he wants,” her mother continued, her eyes drifting to the stern face of Skylar’s father in the portrait above the fireplace. “And if he can’t have it… he destroys it.”
Defensive heat flared in Skylar’s chest. “The Crown Prince isn’t like that,” she protested, sharper than intended. Arye’s face flashed in her mind—the intensity in his eyes when he spoke of protecting the kingdom. Of protecting her. “He cares about the people, about doing what’s right. He’ll be a good ruler.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Is that all he is to you? The future King you serve?”
Heat rushed to Skylar’s cheeks, her heart thundering against her ribs. She opened her mouth to deny it, to brush off the implication, but no words came. Instead, she found herself engulfed in her mother’s embrace, the swell of her pregnant belly pressing between them.
“Oh, my dear,” her mother whispered, stroking her hair. The gesture was so familiar, so comforting, that Skylar felt herself melting into it. “I had hoped… but I see now. You love him, don’t you?”
Skylar couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. She nodded, the admission feeling like both a release and a noose tightening around her neck. Tears flowed freely, soaking into her mother’s nightgown.
“I’m so sorry, my darling,” her mother murmured, her voice thick. “You must forget him before it’s too late, before he finds out.” The last words were barely audible. “Before he develops feelings for you—twisted, wicked, unhinged.”
Skylar didn’t answer. She knew her mother was thinking of the King, not Arye. But she was right. There was no future for them, no happily ever after. She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder as silent sobs wracked her body, her chest heaving with each ragged breath.
Suddenly, a flutter against her abdomen—her unborn brother making his presence known. Her mother gasped, then chuckled softly, the sound warm despite the heaviness of the moment.
“Well, it seems someone wants to comfort you,” she said, humor lacing her words.
Skylar leaned away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She managed a watery smile, placing her palm gently on her mother’s stomach. “Hello, little brother,” she murmured, her words soft and wonder-filled. “I can’t wait to meet you.”
Another kick pressed against her hand, stronger this time. For a moment, the weight of her responsibilities, her fears, her uncertain future—all of it faded away, replaced by a surge of protectiveness for this new life.
Her mother’s face suddenly contorted in agony, a low moan escaping her lips. Fear clawed at Skylar’s insides. “Mother? Fern!” Her voice was sharp with concern, her body tensing as if preparing for battle. The healer was already moving, reaching for a vial.
The Dowager Duchess nodded, her breath coming in short gasps as Fern administered the medicine. “Just… another contraction. They’re getting stronger now.” She forced a smile, though Skylar noticed the strain. As the pain ebbed, her eyes took on a distant, dreamy quality. “Don’t worry, my dear.” Her tone grew gentle as she spoke. “This will all be over soon, and then…” She paused, a mysterious twinkle in her eye. “Then I have a surprise for you.”
Skylar raised an eyebrow, curiosity overriding her concern. “A surprise?” She couldn’t keep the skepticism from her tone. In her experience, surprises rarely boded well.
Her mother’s expression brightened, a hint of excitement breaking through the pain. “I’ve found someone,” she confided, barely containing her enthusiasm. “A wonderful man, kind and gentle. He can give you the life you deserve, away from all… this.” She gestured vaguely, encompassing the wig, the chest bindings, the sword, the weight of their family name.
The implication hit like a physical blow. A husband. Her mother had found her a husband. The abrupt shift from their conversation to this… it was jarring. She felt the walls closing in, her carefully constructed world threatening to crumble around her.
Skylar opened her mouth, ready to explain, to remind her mother of her feelings, but caught Fern’s eye. The healer gave a subtle shake of her head, her expression a mixture of sympathy and warning. The message was clear: it would be futile to try reaching the Duchess in this state, and unwise to cause her any stress.
Swallowing her protests, Skylar returned her gaze to her mother. That hopeful face, flushed with a mix of pain and anticipation—she couldn’t bear herself to shatter that joy. Not now, not when her mother needed peace and calm to bring this pregnancy to term.
So she nodded, forcing a smile of her own. The muscles in her face felt stiff, unnatural. “That sounds… lovely, Mother,” she lied, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “I look forward to meeting him.” She prayed her mother couldn’t hear the insincerity, couldn’t sense the dread tightening its grip on her heart.
Before her mother could respond, Fern cleared her throat softly. The healer moved closer, her face grave. “Pardon the interruption, Your Grace,” she said, addressing both Skylar and her mother. Her voice was low and urgent, a stark contrast to her usual calm demeanor. “But there’s something you should know.” She hesitated, glancing between them. “There are rumors of unrest in Thorncrest. They are preparing for war.”
Skylar frowned, her mind immediately shifting to strategist mode. Her posture straightened, her focus sharpened. Gone was the vulnerable daughter; in her place stood Duke Skylar Anathemark, protector of the realm. “That seems unlikely,” she mused, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Especially given the delegation that’s meant to arrive soon. Are you certain of this, Fern?”
The healer nodded, her expression troubled. “I have family in Thorncrest, Your Grace. The Spinewoods appointed my brothers. I thought you should be aware.”
Spinewood. The royal family of Thorncrest. Not a good sign, but not enough evidence to justify immediate action. She’d have to inform Arye, prepare for the worst while hoping for the best.
A sharp pain lanced through Skylar’s chest, as if talons were scraping against her ribs from the inside. The Gryphon, restless and agitated. She gritted her teeth, suppressing the beast’s influence.
Turning back to her mother, Skylar’s voice took on a note of urgency. “Mother, please be careful. If Thorncrest is indeed planning something, it could be dangerous for you. I need you to increase security around the estate.”
The Dowager Duchess waved a hand dismissively, though Skylar didn’t miss the flash of fear in her eyes. “Of course, my dear. But I’m more worried about?—”
A commotion outside the room cut her off. Raised voices, the sound of a scuffle. The noise grew louder, more insistent. Suddenly, the door burst open, revealing a palace guard. He was red-faced and panting, his uniform disheveled and sweat-stained. Behind him, Skylar could see the Anathemark guards trying to hold him back, their faces a mixture of anger and embarrassment at the breach in security.
The guard’s eyes darted around the room wildly before landing on Skylar. Relief washed over his features, quickly followed by a dawning realization of his impropriety. The scent of his sweat, sharp and acrid, mingled unpleasantly with the lavender and medicinal herbs.
“Your Grace!” he exclaimed, then seemed to remember himself, bowing hastily. “My deepest apologies for the intrusion, but it’s urgent.” He tried to step closer, but the Anathemark guards grabbed him, forcing him back.
“How dare you barge in here!” one growled, his face flushed with anger. “This is the private chambers of the Dowager Duchess!”
“Let him speak,” Skylar commanded, her voice cutting through the chaos. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to her. She could feel her mother’s gaze on her, and for a second, she wondered if this was the first time her mother truly saw her as Duke Skylar Anathemark.
Skylar caught Melody’s eye, silently communicating. The servant understood immediately, moving to block the guard’s view of the dress on the bed. With practiced efficiency, she covered it, hiding the evidence of Skylar’s true identity.
The Anathemark guards reluctantly released the palace messenger, but forced him to his knees, his head bowed to the floor in supplication.
“Speak,” Skylar ordered, her voice low and authoritative. It felt natural. This is who she was. “What news is so urgent that it couldn’t wait for a proper summons?”
The guard lifted his head slightly. “Your Grace, the war council is gathering this afternoon. You’re needed at the palace immediately. Please, you must come with me at once.”
Skylar’s mind raced. A war council, so soon after Fern’s warning about Thorncrest? This couldn’t be a coincidence. She glanced at her mother, seeing the fear and worry etched into her face.
Before Skylar could respond, her mother spoke, her voice taking on an authoritative tone despite her weakened state. “My good man,” she said, drawing the guard’s attention. “Surely you can spare a moment for my son to say a proper goodbye? After all, it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.”
The guard hesitated, clearly torn between his urgency and respect for nobility. “Of… of course, Your Grace. My apologies.”
Skylar turned back to her mother. The tension of their unfinished conversation, of all the things left unsaid, hung heavy between them. She knelt beside the bed, taking her mother’s hand in hers.
“I have to go,” she said softly, her words laden with emotion. For a moment, she was just Skylar again, a daughter saying goodbye to her mother. “But I promise I’ll return soon. Please, be careful. Increase the guards, and don’t trust anyone you don’t know personally.”
Her mother nodded, squeezing her hand. Pride and sorrow tinged her words. “Go, my darling. But remember, no matter what happens out there, you’ll always be Skylar to me. My beloved child.”
Skylar leaned down, pressing a kiss to her mother’s clammy forehead. “I love you, Mother,” she whispered. “Both of you,” she added, placing a gentle hand on the swollen belly.
As she straightened, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever lay ahead. When she spoke again, her voice was steady, authoritative. The vulnerability of moments before was gone, replaced by the commanding presence of the Duke. She nodded to the palace guard, who scrambled to his feet.
“Lead the way.”