Chapter 09
The Duties of a Grand Duchess
The north never saw sunlight.
More precisely, heavy, dense clouds split sky from earth and cut off every ray of light.
If this were the imperial capital, dusk would have painted the sky by now.
But there was no red twilight—only deepening black.
Though no sunbeam reached her and no statue of the Goddess stood nearby, Ninia knelt by the window and prayed.
For her, prayer was as natural and habitual as eating or grooming.
During her years as a Saint, she had never known “personal time.”
Her days were crowded to the point she could scarcely breathe, and prayer had been her only true contact with the Goddess—her single refuge for solitude.
…
Ninia slowly opened her eyes. The room was as still as a chapel.
No attendant priest, no aide to help with adornments.
Not even a watcher.
She could be alone whenever she wished, prayer or no prayer.
I thought I’d grown used to silence.
Until the decision to send her north, she had been left entirely on her own.
That powerless confinement had gnawed at her mind.
This was better than the prayer tower, yet some part of her still felt stifled.
Lowering her neatly folded hands, Ninia looked up at the window.
The ashen clouds seemed heavy enough to block not only the sun but also her prayers to the Goddess.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
Becoming Grand Duchess still didn’t feel real.
She hadn’t glimpsed even the hem of her husband’s cloak since that first encounter during the forest attack.
Though she now held the highest rank after the Saint, no duties, no obligations, had been given to her.
Nothing.
The word itself seemed to corrode the heart.
She stroked the white-tinged ends of her hair.
Unlike her once-shining golden locks, those pale tips felt like something used up.
Should I cut them off?
The hopes she had cherished while imprisoned had withered since meeting Tarahan, leaving not even a trace.
Knock, knock.
As she toyed with her hair, a flat knock echoed.
Before Ninia could fully rise, the door opened.
“Ah—”
Her knees went weak and she sank back down, locking eyes with a maid.
The woman’s face was blank, but her cold gaze accused Ninia as if to say, What are you doing there?
“I… just lost strength for a moment,” Ninia murmured, half in excuse, and stood.
The maid watched briefly, then approached with a tray.
“Your meal.”
Soaked oatmeal, stew, and tea gone slightly cold were set on the table.
In wartime it was almost luxurious, yet by noble standards it was meager.
Lastly the maid placed a small packet of medicine beside the dishes: the same fever-reducing pills Ninia had first swallowed upon arrival.
More than a week had passed, but a faint heat still lingered in her body.
A physician had examined her again and prescribed three more days of antipyretics.
Ninia accepted both diagnosis and prescription without comment.
The doctor had only given her a strange look before leaving.
So she made no complaint about the plain food either.
When she had worked charity in the Goddess’s name, she had often fasted and eaten the simplest fare to share the poor’s lot.
Compared to the boiled roots and dry grains of those days, this meal was generous.
“Thank you.”
She lifted a spoon.
Because the northern climate hindered farming, vegetables and fruit were dearer than gold, while meat was cheaper.
The stew’s meat was likely deer, or perhaps reindeer.
The maid remained standing until Ninia finished, as etiquette demanded.
But just as she had not helped when Ninia nearly collapsed, she now offered no gesture of care.
Though Ninia ate only enough to quiet her hunger, the meal always felt endless under the maid’s sharp hostility.
That first meeting had felt like being pricked by needles.
She hadn’t shown her confusion, but it lingered.
I never expected a warm welcome, she thought.
Yet the issue wasn’t just this maid.
Every cleaner in her chamber, every servant she passed in the halls, looked at her with the same wary dislike.
Among the destitute, many had avoided or even resented her when they learned she was a Saint—but their eyes had held fear and despair born of famine and war.
Given time, food, and healing, they had often opened their hearts.
This was different.
“I’ll clear these,” the maid said the moment Ninia set down her spoon.
The clash of dishes on the tray sounded deliberately harsh.
Even after the maid left, a chill of disdain lingered.
Cold…
Alone again, Ninia felt the room’s chill seep into her bones.
The great warming brazier burned steadily; the cold wasn’t from the air.
Had the priests’ former indifference ever hurt like this?
No.
Their coldness had been expected.
But these strangers’ stares pierced like thorns.
Being alone is harder than I thought.
Was it because she didn’t know the reason for their hostility?
Or because she still remembered the praise of her past?
Guessing brought no answer.
She rubbed her chest.
The heaviness and ache eased only slightly, yet the inner chill lessened a bit.
She reached for the cloth on the nightstand.
Needle, fabric, and bright threads were the only companions that set her heart at ease.
“…Mmm.”
She must have fallen asleep while embroidering.
Night already?
Everything was dark, but oddly her body felt weighted, as if someone pressed down on her.
What—?
Her senses sharpened.
The air was cold, carrying an outdoor scent.
She was not alone.
“Any later and it wouldn’t have been fun.”
A low, mist-like voice pressed through the night.
Startled, Ninia tried to rise, but the presence above her didn’t budge.
The candle on the table flickered.
Tarahan loomed over her, backlit by red flame.
“Why… how…?”
She had never realized how shock could steal speech.
Words trembled out in fragments, her eyes locked on him.
Those crimson eyes—an inheritance from his mother’s line—marked him as a remnant of the annihilated barbarian tribe.
Legends said those red eyes ensnared souls and that their bodies were half-demonic.
Ninia had heard such rumors and dismissed them.
But facing him now, the stories felt true.
“Aren’t you my wife?”
His reproach cut deep.
It wasn’t something a man who had vanished for half a month after a paper marriage should say, but Ninia couldn’t immediately grasp the meaning.
At length her expression shifted in realization.
“…I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to come.”
They had never shared a wedding night—an act that held not only marital meaning but the duty of a Grand Duchess.
I knew of the duty…
but never imagined it would apply to her.
She was Grand Duchess in name only, certain Tarahan would never seek her out.
“You collapsed, so I couldn’t,” he said.
A large hand gripped the back of her neck.
Gooseflesh swept her body.
She recalled the forest ambush, the same hands that could snap a neck with brute force.
Fear was inevitable.
Her mouth went dry.
After a long silence she managed a single word, and Tarahan’s face twisted.
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you a wind-up doll instead of a Grand Duchess?”
Her repeated apologies only sharpened his irritation.
When she mumbled another “sorr—,” he clicked his tongue.
“Not a Saint, useless in body as well.”
His crimson gaze raked her like claws.
The hand on her neck slid to her cheek, locking her eyes to his.
“What use do I have for you?”
Ninia could not answer.
His contempt made her feel less like a wife than a discarded object.
She knew this was no normal conversation between spouses.
The words forgive me formed again, but she swallowed them and forced her dry lips to move.
“I… I’ve never… experienced this. If you’d give me another chance…”
“Another chance?”
She bit her lip.
Her face and neck, pale as paper moments before, flushed deep pink.
Eyes downcast, she exhaled a tiny breath.
“I’ll… try.”
Her voice was as fragile as a southern breeze in the northern cold.
Tarahan frowned, then finally withdrew.
“You’ve spoiled my appetite.”
With that, he turned away.
Ninia stared blankly after him until the door slammed shut with a sharp bang.
Late that night, left alone, she could not sleep for a long, long time.
