Chapter 29
29
T he sky was just beginning to lighten, the first hints of dawn painting the horizon in shades of pink and gold. But for Skylar, it felt like the darkest night of her life. Her physical wounds had healed, the bruises faded, but the memories remained etched in her consciousness like acid on metal. How ironic that medicine could mend the body, yet leave the mind in tatters.
She paused at the estate’s wrought-iron gates, her fingers ghosting over the unfamiliar weight of Arye’s sword at her hip. The guards snapped to attention, their eyes widening as they recognized her.
“Your Grace,” one stammered, bowing deeply. “We were expecting you.”
“At ease. Has there been any news?”
The guards exchanged glances before the older one spoke. “The Dowager Duchess. She’s…”
“Out with it,” Skylar demanded, her patience wearing thin.
The guard swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “We’ve been told it could be any moment now, Your Grace.”
Without another word, Skylar pushed past them, her feet carrying her swiftly across the grounds. The lavender-scented air felt even more suffocating than usual, each breath a struggle against the growing knot in her chest.
As she burst through the main doors, Skylar nearly collided with Melody, who was hurrying down the stairs with an armful of bloodied linens.
“My lady!” Melody gasped, her eyes widening as she took in Skylar’s appearance. “We’ve been so worried. Why are you arriving so late?”
Skylar forced a smile, grateful that news of the attack hadn’t reached the estate. “Just some unexpected business at the palace.” She gestured toward the upper floors, her heart hammering against her ribs. “How is she?”
“This way, Your Grace. Quickly now.”
They ascended the stairs in tense silence, the only sound the soft padding of their feet on the plush carpet and the distant, muffled groans of pain. As they neared her mother’s chambers, the cries grew louder, interspersed with urgent voices.
Melody pushed open the door, revealing a scene of controlled chaos. Skylar stepped into the dimly lit room, the flickering candles casting dancing shadows. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and the unmistakable metallic tang of blood that made her stomach churn.
Fern, the family’s healer, stood at the foot of the massive four-poster bed, her brow furrowed with concentration. Two younger apprentices flitted about, fetching water and clean linens.
And there, in the center of it all, was her mother. The Dowager Duchess lay propped up against a mountain of pillows, her face flushed and contorted with pain. Her silver-streaked hair clung to her sweat-soaked brow, and her hands gripped the sheets so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
“Mother,” Skylar breathed, rushing to her side.
The Dowager Duchess’s eyes fluttered open, focusing on Skylar with difficulty. “My darling,” she gasped, reaching out with trembling fingers. “You’re here. I was so afraid you wouldn’t make it.”
Skylar clasped her mother’s hand, wincing at the strength of her grip. “Of course I’m here.”
A particularly strong contraction wracked her mother’s body, and she cried out in pain. Fern’s voice cut through the tension. “It’s time, Your Grace. Push now!”
What followed was a blur to Skylar. She heard agonizing cries and urgent instructions, felt the crushing grip on her hand, and found herself whispering prayers to trees, roots, gods, and other deities she wasn’t sure she believed in, begging for her mother’s safety.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a new sound filled the room—the piercing wail of a newborn.
“Here he is!” Fern announced, her voice brimming with emotion. “A healthy boy!”
The room erupted in a flurry of activity. Fern quickly cleaned and swaddled the infant while her apprentices tended to the Dowager Duchess. Skylar stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the little Duke in Fern’s arms.
“Would you like to hold him, Your Grace?” Fern asked gently, offering the baby to Skylar.
Skylar hesitated, her hands trembling slightly as she reached out. The precious bundle in her arms was both foreign and strangely familiar. She gazed down at the tiny face, taking in the button nose, rosebud lips, and wisps of silver-white hair—so like her own.
“Hello, little Duke,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Welcome to the world.”
As if in response, the baby’s eyes fluttered open, revealing irises of the most startling blue—even lighter than her own. For a moment, Skylar forgot to breathe. A confusing mix of emotions surged through her—love, protectiveness, and a sharp pang of something that resembled dangerously close to resentment.
Her mother’s weak voice drifted from the bed. “His name is Conley. After your father’s grandfather.”
“He’s beautiful,” she managed, gently rocking the baby. She tried to ignore the voice in her head that whispered that he was the one who’s taking everything from her. That he was the one who will stay at Arye’s side.
Tearing her eyes away from Conley, Skylar looked at her mother. “How do you feel?” she asked softly.
The Dowager Duchess chuckled weakly. “Like I’ve been pregnant for a decade.” Her attempt at humor was punctuated by a grimace. “Come, let me see you both.”
Carefully, Skylar made her way to the bed, perching on the edge as she cradled Conley. Her mother’s eyes filled with tears as she gazed at them.
“My children,” she murmured, reaching out to stroke Conley’s cheek. “Both of you, together at last. Oh, how your father would have loved to see this day.”
A sharp gasp from her mother shattered the tender moment. Skylar looked up, alarmed, to find her mother’s gaze fixed on something at Skylar’s hip.
“That sword,” she said, her brow furrowing. “I don’t recognize it. The hilt… is that a gryphon?”
Skylar’s hand instinctively went to the weapon, her fingers tracing the intricate design. “Yes,” she admitted, her cheeks warming. “It’s… it’s from the Crown Prince. A gift.”
The Dowager Duchess’s face paled slightly, worry etching itself into the lines around her eyes. “And your father’s sword?”
Skylar swallowed hard, knowing the significance of the exchange. “It’s with the Crown Prince for the time being.”
A heavy silence fell over the room. Skylar could feel her mother’s gaze bearing down on her, searching for answers she hesitated to give.
“Skylar,” she began, her words gentle but firm. “I know you care deeply for Prince Arye. But you must understand, it’s impossible for you to stay by his side. To live as a man until your dying day… it’s too dangerous.”
Shame and frustration burned Skylar’s cheeks. “I know that, Mother,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “I’m not a fool.”
“Of course not, darling,” her mother soothed, reaching out to touch Skylar’s arm. “But I fear… I fear the Prince may develop feelings for you. For who you pretend to be.”
The words hung heavily between them, oppressive in their implications. Skylar thought of Arye’s intense gaze, his possessiveness, the way he’d begged her to stay. She swallowed hard.
“He might already have,” she admitted. “But it doesn’t matter.”
Relief washed over her mother’s face. “Which is why, my dear…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve been considering your future—how to ensure your safety and happiness.”
Skylar tensed, sensing where this conversation was heading. She glanced down at Conley, who had fallen asleep in her arms, blissfully unaware of the turmoil surrounding him. Of his own fate.
“I’ve spoken with Marquis Edwards,” her mother continued, her voice growing stronger despite her obvious exhaustion. “He’s expressed interest in a marriage alliance. It would be a good match, Skylar. A life far from the capital and the burdens of our family.”
“Mother.” Skylar’s words cut through the air. “You want to marry me off, hide me away like I’m some sort of liability?”
The Dowager Duchess flinched at her daughter’s tone. “No, never that. But you must see how dangerous it is for you to remain near the Clawbornes. True to their name, they never release their prey once it’s in their claws.”
“Mother, please?—”
“This way, you can have a life of your own,” her mother pressed on, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “A chance at happiness.”
Skylar gently placed Conley in her mother’s arms, needing to move, to think. She paced the room, her mind racing. She remembered meeting the Marquis a few years ago—he was older than her and Arye, but undeniably handsome and charming. The kind of man any noble lady would be thrilled to marry.
But he wasn’t Arye.
The thought came unbidden, and Skylar banished it with a shake of her head. She couldn’t afford such thoughts. Not anymore.
“I understand your concerns, Mother.” Skylar turned to face the bed, her posture rigid. “But I’m not sure I can just… walk away from everything I’ve known. Everything I’ve ever been.”
Her mother’s expression softened. “Oh, my darling girl. I know it’s not easy. But you can finally be yourself. Isn’t that worth something?”
Tears pricked Skylar’s eyes as the weight of a lifetime of deception suddenly crushed her. She moved back to the bed, allowing her mother to pull her into a tight embrace.
“It’s over,” Skylar whispered, her voice muffled against her mother’s shoulder. “It’s really over, isn’t it?”
Her mother stroked her hair, just as she had when Skylar was a child. “Yes, my love. You did well.”
They stayed like that for a long moment, until Conley began to fuss. Skylar pulled away, wiping her eyes and trying to compose herself. She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders as if donning armor.
“I should let you rest,” she said, forcing a smile. “Both of you need your sleep.”
Her mother caught her coat as she turned to leave. “Skylar, promise me you’ll think about what I’ve said. About the Marquis.”
Skylar hesitated before nodding. “I will, Mother.”
At the door, she turned for a final glance, noticing her mother holding something in her hand—a small, ornate picture frame. With a jolt, Skylar recognized it as the painting of her late father that usually stood on the nightstand. Her mother was gently kissing the image before lowering it to show it to Conley.
“Look, my love,” her mother whispered to him, her voice thick with emotion. “You have a son. A true heir to carry on your legacy.”
The words pierced Skylar’s heart like a dagger. She watched as her mother’s tears fell silently onto the blanket, a mixture of joy and sorrow etched across her face. In that moment, Skylar understood the depth of her mother’s sacrifice—ten long years of pregnancy, the constant pain and discomfort, all to fulfill her late husband’s deepest wish.
She must have truly loved him.
The realization made Skylar’s chest ache with admiration and envy. Would anyone ever love her that deeply? Could she ever allow herself to be loved like that? By the Marquis, perhaps?
“Your Grace?” Fern’s soft voice broke through her thoughts. The healer stood beside her, carrying a tray of herbs and bandages, concern etched on her face. “Are you alright?”
Skylar nodded, composing herself. She glanced at Fern, remembering their previous conversation. “Fern,” she said softly, her words low and urgent. “What you mentioned last time, about your family in Thorncrest… get them out. Discreetly. War is coming, and it won’t be pretty.”
The healer’s hands trembled, nearly upsetting the tray. “I… I understand, Your Grace. Thank you for the warning.”
Skylar slipped out, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She leaned against the wall, eyes shut tight. The full impact of recent events—the attack, Arye’s rescue, her brother’s birth—hit her with staggering force. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice, about to plunge into an unknown future.
“My lady?” Melody’s voice came softly from beside her. “Are you alright?”
Skylar opened her eyes to find her servant watching her with concern. She managed a weak smile. “I’m fine, Melody. Just tired.”
Melody nodded sympathetically. “It’s been a long night for all of us. Perhaps you should rest? I can have a bath drawn for you.”
The thought of scrubbing away the grime and memories of the past day once more was tempting, but Skylar shook her head. “No, thank you. I need to think. I’ll be in the study if anyone needs me.”
She made her way down the familiar corridors, her footsteps echoing in the quiet of the early morning. The study had always been her sanctuary, a place where she could be herself. Now, as she entered the room, she felt like a stranger in her own skin.
Skylar moved to the large window, gazing out at the estate grounds bathed in the gentle glow of dawn. She could see the countless lavender fields in the distance, their purple hue just beginning to show in the growing light.
Perhaps her mother was right.
Skylar closed her eyes, trying to imagine the life her mother wanted for her. A quiet life in the countryside, far from the palace. Children of her own, perhaps. A man who loved her for who she is.
It wasn’t the future she’d imagined for herself. It wasn’t a future with Arye.
But maybe, just maybe, it could be enough.