CHAPTER 48: BACK TO YOU

The night air was sharp when Ahce returned home, the chill of the ballroom still clinging to her skin like a ghost that refused to let go. Though the music had long faded, its echo, the haunting rhythm of their waltz, played over and over in her mind.

Every step, every glance, every breath had carved itself into her memory, as if fate had decided she wasn’t ready to forget. No matter how much she tried to reason with herself, her heart would not obey logic. Richard Jing was dead. She had seen the reports, the graves, the mourning banners.

And yet, as the moonlight washed over the cobblestone drive and the heavy gates of the Pentecase estate closed behind her carriage, she could still feel the warmth of his hand, the steady rhythm of his heart when they had danced.

The grand halls of the Pentecase manor greeted her in silence. Only the faint flicker of candlelight guided her through the corridors, gilded portraits of her ancestors staring down like silent judges. The air smelled faintly of parchment and sandalwood, a scent that always meant her great-grandfather was waiting.

I should be thankful, Fienro and Xirudah are divided by one road.

Sure enough, the Duke of Pentecase sat in his study, surrounded by tomes and half-burned candles. He didn’t look surprised to see her. It was as if he had been expecting her return the moment the waltz began.

"Ahce," Duke Piel Pentecase said, his voice deep and deliberate, carrying both command and care. "You did well tonight."

She inclined her head respectfully. "It was merely a royal event, Your Grace."

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, the kind that weighed and measured the strength of her composure.

"A royal event, yes," he said, leaning back in his chair. "But one that ensured every noble eye in the empire would be fixed upon you. You did not simply attend, you announced the Pentecase Duchy’s return to prominence."

He reached for a scroll sealed in golden wax, the imperial crest gleaming under the firelight. His tone grew formal, almost ritualistic. "It is time you take what is yours by right."

Ahce’s heart stilled.

"You will officially assume management of the Duchy tomorrow," he continued. "All documents are in order. From this day forward, Pentecase will answer to you."

The words struck her with the weight of destiny itself. Every sleepless night, every test, every battle she had survived had led to this moment. The ink of her trials was finally drying into history. She bowed deeply, her voice steady despite the emotion trembling beneath it. "I will not fail you, Grandfather."

But the moment her triumph settled, his next words cut through it like a blade through silk.

"There is another matter."

He watched her in silence for a long moment before speaking again. "Your engagement to Duke Reichardt Razalo has been approved by both ducal houses and the imperial family."

Her pulse stopped. The word engagement felt foreign on her tongue.

"Engagement?" she repeated faintly.

To him?

"Yes," he said, standing with the gravity of a man sealing an era. "This alliance will stabilize the tension between Fienro and Xirudah. Two ducal houses, united, our knowledge and wealth with their army and iron will. It is the union the empire needs."

Ahce could barely speak.

Of all the noble houses in the world, why his?

The Duke’s expression softened only slightly as he explained, "You must understand, child. The Razalo line is not like ours. They are the sword of Xirudah, unbending, merciless, forged by war. For generations, their blood has produced generals, commanders, and kings’ protectors. Their loyalty is legendary... but so is their curse."

She lifted her gaze, her voice quiet. "A curse?"

He nodded. "It is said the Razalo ancestors made a pact during the First Great War, binding their souls to an ancient blade spirit to save the empire. Since then, every heir bears its mark. The gift of power... and the price of blood. They are born with the shadow of the sword, meant to fight, to kill, to serve the throne. It is their destiny."

The words stirred a chill deep in her bones. She thought of his eyes, storm-gray, steady, ancient. There had been something in them that night, a stillness that came from carrying too much. She understood now. He was one of them.

Duke Piel’s voice softened, though his authority never wavered. "You must tread carefully, Ahce. To marry into that bloodline is to walk beside a blade that cuts both ways. It can guard or destroy, depending on who holds it."

Ahce bowed her head, swallowing the ache in her chest. "Understood, Grandfather."

But inside, chaos reigned. Reichardt Razalo, the name the empire revered, was the man she once wept for, the one she buried in another life. Richard Jing. And now, fate had not only resurrected him, it had tied him to her future.

Three days later, dawn broke over the Pentecase estate with an air of strained anticipation.

Servants rushed through corridors polishing marble floors until they gleamed like mirrors. Banners of Fienro’s silver crest and Xirudah’s crimson insignia were hung side by side, their colors blending uneasily.

The butler rehearsed the greeting speech over and over, his voice shaking slightly despite decades of service. Even the knights stood taller, armor burnished, every sword polished to a faultless shine.

From the window of the grand hall, Ahce watched the arrival. Her breath fogged the glass as a convoy of sleek black cars rolled through the gates, the Razalo crest, a silver sword wreathed in fire, emblazoned on each door. The sound of boots on gravel echoed like thunder.

When the main door opened, he stepped out.

Reichardt Razalo.

The Duke of the Second Ducal House. The empire’s war hero. A replica of the man she once loved.

He wore a high-collared military coat trimmed with silver. His hair was slightly longer now, a few strands falling against his temple. His movements were measured, commanding, every gesture practiced to perfection. The air seemed to bend around him, a man who lived in discipline and silence.

Her grandfather greeted him warmly. "Duke Razalo. It is an honor to welcome the Sword of Xirudah to Pentecase lands."

Reichardt bowed deeply. "The honor is mine, Duke Pentecase."

Then, as if destiny were mocking her restraint, the old duke gestured toward her.

"And this," he said, "is my heir."

Their eyes met.

For one eternal heartbeat, the world forgot to breathe.

He was as composed as always, expression unreadable, gaze cool, but in that brief exchange, she caught it. The flicker of recognition, the faint tremor that no soldier could disguise.

"Lady Ahce Pentecase," he greeted, his tone smooth, formal. "It’s an honor."

Her reply came with a ghost of a smile. "The honor is mine, Duke Razalo."

They took their seats in the grand salon, porcelain tea steaming between them, their conversation layered with politeness. Every word felt like a blade’s edge, measured, deliberate, dangerous. Beneath the surface of diplomacy, unspoken questions stirred like shadows.

Who are you now, Richard Jing?

And what has fate turned you into?

Outside, the estate thrummed with life and ceremony. Inside, two souls sat across from one another, bound by names, divided by duty, and chained once more by the cruel mercy of destiny.