The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 2: Bargain with the Devil

The throne room stunk of death. Blood pooled beneath the golden dais, its surface shimmering like a cursed mirror. Torn banners of the royal house hung limply from the walls, their once-proud insignias now scorched and blackened.

The air was thick with smoke, the metallic sting of blood, and the lingering screams of distant skirmishes–Berith's rebels still hunting survivors.

Marcella Valemont knelt on the cold, wet marble floor, trembling. Her silk gown–the same one she'd worn to Lucian's coronation, was torn and bloodstained. Her once-gleaming crown lying discarded beside her.

Her breath came in short, frantic gasps, but no amount of air could fill her lungs. Around her, bodies littered the room—Sir Gareth with his throat slit, Lady Isolde's glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling, and there, in the corner... Lucian's bloodied signet ring glinting beside a severed hand.

The memory struck: Lucian's laughter as he slipped that ring onto her finger, his voice warm as summer wine. "For when you're ready to rule beside me." She'd sold his love for a crown. Now his corpse rotted in the rubble.

Marcela had been a queen—a manipulative, cunning queen who bent the world to her will. And yet here she was, at the feet of the man she had wronged the most, begging for a life she had already ruined.

Duke Berith Montclair. The man who had won.

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He descended the dias, his obsidian armor glinting in the dim torchlight, streaked with blood--her blood, Lucian's blood, the kingdom's blood streaked his greaves. His broad shoulders and towering frame made him seem less a man and more a devil, a living nightmare brought to life. His black eyes, cold and endless, pinned her in place.

"Please," she rasped, her voice raw and broken. "Spare him."

A lie. Lucian was already dead. She'd seen his body. But begging for the living would've meant admitting she'd lost.

Duke Berith loomed above her. His dark eyes bore into hers, cold and unfeeling, as if weighing the worth of her words.

He crouched, tilting her chin up with his sword. "Spare a ghost?" His thumb brushed her cheek, smearing blood. "You always were a terrible liar, wife."

Her heart pounded violently in her chest. Marcella clutched at the edge of her ruined gown, trying to summon the strength to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

This was the end. She knew it as surely as she knew the blood on her hands.

Her lips quivered. "It wasn't supposed to be like this." she whispered, as if saying the words would undo them.

Berith laughed. A slow, rich sound that reeked of victory. "Do you mourn the dead, Marcella? Or do you mourn the fact that they will never kneel before you again?"

Marcella clenched her fists. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose completely. Not yet.

"I never wanted this," she said, but the words felt hollow.

Berith tilted his head as if studying a curious specimen. "No? What did you want, then?" He brushed a strand of bloodied hair from her face, his touch gentle in a way that made her stomach turn. "Power? Glory? A throne built on the bones of those who loved you?"

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as she shook her head. Marcella wanted to argue, but deep down, she knew the truth. This wasn't just about his rebellion or the kingdom's fall.

This was about her. Her greed. Her selfishness. Her ambition.

She had ruined everything.

Lucian. Sweet, innocent Lucian. Marcella had dragged him into her schemes, seduced him into loving her, and abandoned him the moment she no longer needed him. His incorruptible soul had been shattered by her lies.

And now, even he had fallen. She had seen him being dragged from the battlefield; his body thrown before her like a trophy.

Marcella had told herself love was weakness. That devotion was a shackle she could never afford to wear. But as she remembered Lucian now, she realized—too late—that she had been wrong. So terribly, devastatingly wrong.

"Lucian," Marcella choked, the name slipping from her lips like a prayer. She raised her head to look at Berith, tears streaking her blood-stained cheeks. "Please."

His brow arched, "Please?" His armor creaked as he rested one gloved hand on the hilt of his sword. His face was so close now that she could see the faint scar cutting across his left cheek—a scar she remembered. A scar she had gifted.

But it was his eyes that held her captive.

Black. Bottomless. Soulless.

"Your life," His lips curled into a cold smile, but there was no warmth in it. ".. you'll trade it for him. Why?"

Marcella nodded, the tears falling freely now. "Yes." Her hands tightened into fists against the marble floor.

And now, with nothing left to bargain, nothing left to offer, she had only one thing she could do.

"Very well," The faintest smile touched his lips. It wasn't kind. It wasn't warm. It was cold and cruel. "If you wish to die, I will grant you that mercy."

Before she could process his words, he moved.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her into an embrace. For a fleeting moment, she felt the ghost of something familiar—the warmth of his chest, it felt almost... gentle.

But then a sharp pain speared through her stomach. She gasped, looking down to see the glint of steel buried deep in her flesh. Berith's blade.

Red-hot and searing, the dagger had ripped through her abdomen. Her hands flew to the hilt of the blade.

Pain. Heat. The coppery taste of blood flooding her mouth.

Her body sagged forward, resting against his chest as strength drained from her limbs. She could feel her life slipping away. Blood seeped through her gown. Her fingers slick with the warmth of her own blood spilling from the wound.

"Hush," Berith murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. His tone was soft, almost tender, "Run farther this time, little queen."

Marcella tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Her vision blurred, her mind slipping into a haze of pain and regret.

She could feel his arms tightening around her, pulling her closer as if to savor the moment. The heat of his body was the last thing she felt, even as the cold began to creep into her veins.

"Goodbye, Marcella," Berith whispered.

The world began to fade. The pain ebbed, replaced by a strange, numbing emptiness. Her thoughts drifted, fragmented and incoherent, as darkness closed in around her.

Marcela thought of Lucian—his smile, his kindness, the way he had loved her despite all her flaws.

Then, she thought of Berith—the man she had loathed, feared, and betrayed. The man who had ultimately killed her.

And she thought of herself.

Not the queen, not the schemer, not the manipulator. Just Marcella.

She didn't want to die. Not like this. Not with her soul stained by her sins, her heart heavy with regret.

"If I had another chance," Marcela thought, her mind slipping further into darkness. "I would do better. I would..."

The words trailed off as the void consumed her.

But death wasn't the end.

*******

Pain.

It was the first thing Marcella felt. Not the searing agony of a fresh wound, but a dull ache, like an echo of death refusing to release her.

Marcella awoke screaming.

The taste of blood lingered, sharp and cloying, but her mouth was empty. The memory of the blade was still there—a ghost of pain that made her hands shake as she clutched her stomach.

The wound—it was gone. No blood, no gaping tear in her flesh. Just the rapid hammering of her heart.

She was alive.

But how?

Marcella fluttered her eyes open. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, painting her skin in fractured colors.

For a moment, Marcela thought she was dead. No, she knew she was dead. She remembered the blood—her blood—pooling beneath her, staining the marble floor of the throne room.

And yet... she was here.

She blinked again, the bright light forcing her to squint. The familiar scent of beeswax candles and old wood tickled her nose.

This was her room. Her old room.

Not the queen's chambers.