CHAPTER 108: CHAPTER 107. BECAUSE OF HER

Liselotte slipped out of the Silvaris Palace under a silence so complete that it felt like the night itself was holding its breath. Johan de Langride had sent the message well in advance, and the ones who came for her were shadows more than people. They didn’t speak when they entered her chambers. They didn’t bow. They didn’t even look at her long. They simply moved.

The three of them travelled through passages that Liselotte had never seen, though she had lived in the palace for years. Narrow stone corridors hidden behind walls, stairways that curved into darkness, and a low hallway lit only by the faint glimmer of old torches that had not been used for decades. Every step was certain, every turn already known. They never hesitate once.

The palace felt full of soldiers, priests, and guards that night, but somehow they avoided them all. Liselotte only realised how easy and fast their movements were when they reached the inner garden and she still had not heard a single footstep.

No one addressed her as Empress Consort. No one offered a curtsey or lowered their eyes. They treated her only as someone who must be moved. At first it struck her, sharp and cold, a reminder of how her title had never protected her from anything. Not the lonely nights. Not the whispers. Not the look in Dietrich’s eyes that turned darker each month.

But Liselotte didn’t correct them, nor did she insist on her place. Titles are useless when the emperor wanted her dead. Better to live without honour than die with a crown on her head.

Outside the palace, two very large horses waited, already saddled. One of the two women quickly helped her onto the large warhorse and positioned her in front of it. Their armour didn’t clink. Their breath didn’t break. They were trained to disappear.

"We will not stop once we leave the capital," one of them said, the voice low and steady.

The woman who had guided her through the halls turned her head slightly. "Unless you plan to return to the Rothschild estate," she said.

Liselotte’s chest tightened. She remembered the letters. She recalled the words her brother had spoken. The cold tone of her mother. "Be patient. Endure. Do not make trouble."

As if her fear is an inconvenience. As if her life is something that could be ignored. "No," Liselotte managed, the word small and hoarse in her throat. "Please. Keep me safe."

For a moment, her voice trembled. She had not allowed herself to sound fragile in a long time. The woman nodded once, accepting her plea without pity. "Then hold on," she said quietly. "We will move fast."

They rode through the night without pause, the cool air brushing against their skin and the sound of hooves carrying them farther and farther from the palace. The lights of the Silvaris Palace grew dim behind them, shrinking into the dark as the distance widened, and Liselotte didn’t turn back even once.

It felt to her as though the life she had just left was dissolving into something unreal, like a dream vanishing upon waking. Every stride of the horse seemed to pull her from the world she had known into something unfamiliar and uncertain, and the absence of hesitation in her chest surprised her more than fear ever could.

The forest behind the palace was thick with old trees whose branches curled overhead like a vaulted ceiling, the shadows heavy and deep, and the riders guided their mounts along narrow hidden paths that only those trained in secrecy would know.

At last the trees began to thin, and the darkness opened into a wide clearing at the edge of the forest. Liselotte lifted her gaze and felt her breath tighten in her chest, for the land before her was filled with people and power.

Torches burnt in steady rows across the plain, forming a glowing field of warm lights that shimmered like a reflection of stars that had fallen to earth. Suits of armour glinted in the firelight, and banners lifted and rippled in the night breeze.

The black and crimson of Borgia stood fierce and bold, the deep blue of Wyndham held steady discipline, and several other noble houses had joined them, their colours woven into a gathering that could only mean one thing. This was no secret escort. This was a force prepared for war.

At the front of the assembled forces stood a massive warhorse, slightly larger than the warhorses she rode at the moment. Seated upon it was Roxanne de Borgia, her figure upright and calm, a quiet power settling around her.

In front of her, resting back against her chest where she was held securely, sat Vivianne. Her posture was relaxed, her breathing even, and her hair, loosened from rest and touch, fell softly around her, framing the calm and clear glow of her violet eyes. She didn’t shine like a jewel meant for display; instead, she carried a quiet warmth, like a candle that refuses to flicker even when surrounded by wind.

The knights escorting Liselotte from the palace slowed their horses as they reached the clearing, their heads bowed, their bodies curved in silent reverence. They didn’t halt fully, nor did they dismount, still moving in tight formation, yet even in motion, they inclined toward Roxanne and Vivianne as if the very rhythm of their steeds could bend around devotion.

Torchlight traced the arcs of their armour and the folds of their cloaks, turning the scene into something more than mere obedience: a procession bound by oath, not command. There’s no hesitation in them, no doubt, no resistance. Their loyalty is quiet and solid, as much a part of them as breath.

Liselotte watched them pass, and in the way they carried themselves, Liselotte suddenly understood that the effort spent to retrieve her from the palace wasn’t simply a matter of strategy or political decency. It had been chosen. It had been personal.

The realisation settled inside her chest like a stone, her pulse echoing against it. She had first thought, foolishly, that perhaps Duke Eisenwald had finally heard her. That her family had, at last, deemed her worth protecting. But as she stood beneath the night sky, surrounded by the rustle of foreign banners and the presence of armies that owed her nothing, the truth became clear.

The Duke could never command the Borgia knights. No one could—except the one who bore the name Borgia with true authority. Only Roxanne could move these warriors.

That, or her Grand Duchess, Vivianne de Borgia.

The same Vivianne who had been treated as nothing more than a bargaining chip in the house of Rothschild—used, traded, discarded. The same one whom Liselotte herself had dismissed, envied, and mocked in small, cruel ways she could no longer ignore.

Yet it was Vivianne who had moved the world for her, to save her out of that dreaded palace. Not her brother, not her mother; it was Vivianne.

She hadn’t been rescued because of her title or because she was the empress consort. Not out of family duty or imperial obligation. The truth settled inside her like rain soaking into earth.

She’d been saved by the sister she had never truly seen, the one she’d dismissed as small, helpless, trapped in their family’s cold grip. The realisation is heavier than thanks, softer than regret. More real than anything she’d ever known.

Around her, armies moved, horses shifted, and soldiers murmured—but Liselotte stood still, hearing only her own heartbeat and the wind in the trees.

Vivianne sat tall in front of Roxanne’s chest, on their massive black horse. With Liselotte’s fear of the palace gone, she chose to stare deeply at Vivianne; it wasn’t dramatic. No grand gesture. Just quiet resolve, deeper than pride or shame.

She lowered her head.

Everything paused—the night, the torchlight, even the air between them.

Vivianne’s breath hitched, barely audible. Liselotte looked up, their eyes meeting. Surprise flickered in Vivianne’s gaze, not at the bow, but at something real passing between them, free of old wounds. Her fingers trembled slightly against Roxanne’s arm, as if her heart had turned over in her chest.

Liselotte didn’t speak. Words wouldn’t have been enough. But her memories did: Vivianne, small and quiet, mistaken for weak. She was mocked when she should have been protected. Or how Vivianne was treated as disposable by a family and a sister, who should have known better.

She’d been wrong. Completely wrong.

Vivianne isn’t helpless. She’s a woman who moved armies. A partner to Roxanne, not a shadow. A leader who earned loyalty, who loved fiercely enough to rebuild lives.

And Liselotte had been cruel to her.

No dramatic apology came. No words could fix this. So she bowed deeper, a silent promise in her bones: she would spend her life making amends, trying to understand. Trying to heal what she’d broken.

If change could undo even a little of the past, she would do it.

And the two horses that bring Liselotte out from the palace, moving forward once again. Faster this time, into the ancient forest. They didn’t stop, because once they stop, the imperial knight might get them before they disappear completely.

"Can any of you send a letter for Vivianne? I need to apologise." She said, while the horse kept running.

"We can, she can." The one riding behind her mentions Marvessa, who sits quietly on the other horse.