Chapter 75: Chapter 74. Crimsonveil Tower
While Ashkareth departed to rally the demon race under his command, Morwenna chose to remain behind. She stayed in the Wyndham estate with her daughter and daughter-in-law, unwilling to leave them, especially now that she knew she was going to be a grandmother. Before he left, Ashkareth had assigned one of his most trusted aides, a demon warrior clad in black armor, to guard his wife.
The afternoon is quiet. The biggest reception room buzzed with the sound of strategy and voices, Roxanne and the others deep in discussion. However, on the terrace, where sunlight filtered through vines and porcelain cups gleamed on white linen, Morwenna and Vivianne shared a quieter world.
Steam rose from their tea as Morwenna stared out at the garden, her expression distant. "War is coming," she murmured at last. "And I never expected that the center of it all would be my daughter."
Vivianne smiled faintly, unsure what to say. She remembered no such war ever happening in her past life. The Grand Duke of Borgia had never stepped foot in the capital; Roxanne remained someone in the background in Vivianne’s previous life. There were stories about internal conflict among the demon race, but she had never known whether it was caused by Ashkareth or by something else entirely.
What she did know was that the current Demon King had ties to the Black Covenant, a forbidden circle that practiced ancient, outlawed magic. In her past life, the Black Covenant was sent to search for her alongside the emperor’s shadow knights.
And in this life, she can see the ruin of the Black Covenant Guild in her mate’s hand in less than a week. And with such a background, to have such a group under his name isn’t something to boast about, especially for the current demon king. Ashkareth might have an effortless time running the demon race flat with his power.
"You mated with the Demon King. How could you not expect your child to be exceptional?" ’Vivianne?’ she asked at last, her voice filled with honest confusion.
Hearing that made Morwenna laugh, a clear, light sound that broke the stillness of the afternoon. "You’re right," she said, warmth flickering across her face.
Then, as if a memory had been waiting to be spoken, Morwenna began to tell Vivianne about her past, about the years she had spent locked inside the Crimsonveil Tower. Within the royal palace, the tower stood tall and narrow, its windows forever draped in heavy red cloth.
The crimson fabric fluttered faintly in the wind, visible from the gardens below, a silent reminder to everyone in the palace that a forgotten life was kept there. The red curtains symbolized the end of a bloodline; behind those walls lived a child who should never have been born.
"I was not the daughter of the Empress," Morwenna said softly. "My mother was a maid. A lowly servant girl who never had a name worth remembering." Her voice carried no bitterness, only the calm weariness of someone who had already outlived her pain.
"I couldn’t even cry for her," she continued, her gaze unfocused, drifting toward the horizon. "Because I don’t know anything about her. Not her face, not her scent, not even the sound of her voice." The sunlight caught in her eyes, turning them faintly violet as she added quietly, "The Erengard royal blood is strong. Instead of silver or white hair, I was born with gold."
Vivianne understood immediately. She had heard that before, from Dietrich himself, who often spoke of his golden hair with pride, calling it the mark of legitimacy, the proof of true royal blood. To him, the color was sacred, an unbroken thread to the ancient kings.
She looked at Morwenna, her heart tightening. How cruel it must have been, she thought, to carry the same mark that should have earned her honor, yet only brought her shame.
Morwenna’s expression did not change, remaining serene and distant, as though she were recounting someone else’s life. "They used to say the sun favored the Erengards," she said. "That golden hair was a blessing of the gods. But when I was born, they said it was mockery—proof that the bloodline had been polluted, that gold had turned to dust."
Her fingers traced the rim of her teacup absently. "I remember the Empress once coming to see me, only once. She stood at the door and stared for a long time. Then she told the guards to close it and never open it again."
The silence that followed was heavy. Vivianne said nothing. She simply listened, her hands folded on her lap, her heart aching for a woman who had learned to wear her loneliness like a crown.
Morwenna turned her head slightly, her profile framed by the soft afternoon light. "In that tower," she murmured, "I learned that even blood can be a cage."
She told Vivianne how she had searched for her mother for years. As a child, she had begged the guards for answers, questioned the maids who brought her food, and even bribed an old steward with her only trinket, a silver hairpin. But no one would speak. In time, she came to believe that the Empress had her mother killed the moment she was born, to erase the humiliation and shame of her existence.
The Crimsonveil Tower was her world. Its walls smelled faintly of dust and incense. The corridors were lined with portraits of forgotten ancestors, and every step she took echoed against stone floors polished too clean, as if to make up for the stain her bloodline left behind. The tower became her prison, her cradle, and her cage.
If anyone asked about her, the Emperor and Empress told them she was terribly ill—a fragile genius, too weak to appear in public. Servants were forbidden to speak her name. When nobles passed near the tower, they would avert their gaze, pretending not to see it.
Once a year, she was allowed to attend the Grand Ball. It was her only glimpse of the outside world. On those nights, she was dressed in silver silk and jewels that sparkled like stars, her hair styled in perfect waves. But even then, she was forbidden to speak to anyone. The illusion magic that changed her eye color had to be maintained the entire time, hiding the truth that ran in her veins.
"Not even the nursemaid who raised me," Morwenna murmured, "nor the servants who cleaned my room were allowed to see my true eyes."
She had been told that purple eyes were dangerous, an omen, a curse, a sign of spirits that could not be controlled. But as she grew older, she began to understand the truth. Purple eyes were not a curse. They were a mark of power.
"Purple eyes are rare," Morwenna said quietly. "Those born with them carry a deep bargain with life. We can hear the whispers of the spirits and see the threads that bind the world together. That is the kind of power women like us possess. And you, my dear, have something even greater—you can command the spirit kings themselves. That makes you powerful, even if you are an omega."
She looked at Vivianne with calm certainty, her voice steady, almost prophetic. "You have the power to rise on your own. To be free. To fight beside the one you love."
"I was locked away," Morwenna said after a moment, her gaze distant. "I wasn’t strong enough to break free. It was Ashkareth who saw my worth and took me away from that place." Her eyes found Vivianne’s again, steady, searching, as if she could see through every layer of silence the younger woman carried.
Vivianne wanted to tell her she wasn’t that strong. That she had never been. In her first life, she had been used, broken, and tossed aside like an ornament once admired and then forgotten. The most beautiful omega in the empire, but an empress without dignity, without freedom.
Morwenna smiled softly, as if she had heard the thought. "You’re alive again and able to mend what was broken because of your power."
Vivianne froze, eyes wide, her cup trembling slightly in her hand. She lifted her gaze in shock, meeting Morwenna’s calm, knowing eyes.
"The spirits told me," Morwenna continued gently, "that you’re an old soul. Someone who has lived twice."
A faint smile curved her lips. "Do you want to share your story?"
-
Erengard Royal Palace
Dietrich’s anger is uncontained. The moment Gerhard walked out of the palace gates and vanished from sight, something in the emperor snapped. He struck his desk with his fist, the sound echoing through the hall like a thunderclap. The ink bottle shattered, spilling black across the imperial seal, staining the map of his empire.
"Find him!" Dietrich roared. "Search every corner of the capital—every inn, every port, every damned alleyway! There’s no way he can disappear in an instant!" The guards bowed, their faces pale, and hurried out of the chamber. The heavy doors slammed shut behind them, but their emperor’s fury lingered like a storm.
Gerhard is the one man he trusted, the only man who could deal with the chaos that surrounded the throne, the one who he trusted to do all the dirty deeds for the throne, and the only one he depended on to control the nobles. The empire moved because Gerhard held its gears together. His mind, his diplomacy, and his loyalty, Dietrich had built his reign around them.
And today, he just sent his resignation. Right after, he was worried about Roxanne’s sudden power, a power Dietrich had never felt before. And the control he has with Gerhard is now ripped from him with a single resignation.
The emperor began to pace, his hands gripping the edges of his cloak so tightly the fabric tore. His throne room, with its banners and golden pillars, felt suddenly hollow, like a kingdom without air.
"Coward," Dietrich muttered under his breath. "He thinks he can leave me now, when everything is like this?"
He turned toward the balcony, pushing the doors open so violently the hinges screamed. The capital stretched below him, rooftops gleaming under the morning sun, the streets already buzzing with soldiers searching for the missing chancellor. Yet even as he watched, he knew it was useless. Gerhard is too clever, too careful. If he wanted to vanish, not even the crown itself could stop him.
Dietrich gritted his teeth, fury burning through every vein. His reflection in the glass caught his eye: the face of a ruler who could command thousands yet couldn’t hold on to the one man who understood him and was afraid of a single alpha female.
"He owes me his life," he whispered, voice trembling not from weakness, but from the weight of betrayal. "And he’ll regret ever thinking he can walk away."
The emperor turned back toward the throne, his expression hardening, eyes dark with resolve. "If the South shelters him," he said to no one, "then I will burn the South to ash."