The Evil Ladies Form An Alliance

CHAPTER 27: Status, It's Complicated

Emma entered Valerie’s chambers with a gentle touch, a tray in her hands holding a steaming hot beef soup and a vial of hangover medicine. She nudged the heavy oak door open with practiced care, her movements as silent as a whisper. The golden glow of the morning sun streamed through the sheer curtains, softening the opulent hues of the room. The scent of lavender lingered in the air, a faint remnant of the previous night’s indulgence.

Valerie stirred her tousled hair, a stark contrast to the neat elegance Emma was accustomed to seeing. She lay on the plush bedding, clutching her temples, her face a mask of discomfort. The faintest groan escaped her lips as she squinted at her maid.

"My lady, are you feeling alright?" Emma asked softly, placing the tray on the bedside table with the precision of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

"Emma," Valerie rasped, her voice rough and dry. "My head… it’s splitting."

Emma pressed her lips together in concern. "It’s likely the wine, my lady. You had quite a bit last night."

"Last night?" Valerie echoed, her brow furrowing as fragments of memory began to surface. A name flickered in her mind, Ashton. But the details were shrouded in a haze, her headache thwarting any coherent recollection.

"My lady, I’ve brought medicine," Emma said, her tone steady but tinged with worry as she carefully uncorked the small vial.

Valerie’s breath hitched as shards of memory pierced through the fog. She saw flashes.

Ashton’s strong arms carried her, her own trembling hands clutching his coat and the warmth of their shared embrace. Her heart quickened, and she sat up abruptly, startling Emma.

"Emma!" Valerie’s voice, though weak, carried an urgency that made the maid freeze mid-motion.

"Yes, my lady?" Emma replied, wide-eyed.

"The Marquess… where is he?" Valerie demanded, her voice unsteady.

Emma’s hands faltered as she poured water into a glass. She looked down, hesitating. "He returned before dawn, just as Sir Enoch said he would," she began, her voice cautious.

Valerie leaned forward, her pulse racing. "And?"

Emma glanced nervously at her mistress. "But… he left earlier. For the Imperial Palace."

Valerie sank back into the pillows, her emotions a whirl of joy, frustration, and confusion. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to process Emma’s words. He was here. He came for me. Yet, his abrupt departure stung more than she anticipated.

"My lady, are you alright?" Emma’s voice broke through Valerie’s thoughts, her face etched with worry.

Valerie closed her eyes, letting the softness of the pillows cradle her head. "I don’t know, Emma. I truly don’t."

The imperial palace stood resplendent under the noonday sun, its towering spires glinting like beacons against a flawless sky. The air thrummed with expectation, mingling courtly whispers and the distant sound of fanfare. Courtiers in vibrant silks, noblemen adorned in gold and jewels, and soldiers in ceremonial armor gathered to pay homage to the Hero of the Empire. The weight of a recent triumph an unrelenting, bloody campaign to defeat the monstrous hordes hung like an invisible crown over the moment.

Amidst the grandeur and clamor, two figures approached the palace gates astride a single horse. The mount's dusty flanks and the riders’ plain, travel-stained cloaks stood in sharp contrast to the surrounding opulence. At the reins sat Ashton Henstone, Marquess, and Hero, his face a stoic mask. Behind him, Enoch, vice-captain of the Black Wolves Knights, slouched wearily, his dark-circled eyes speaking volumes of his current misery.

The gate loomed ahead, flanked by a line of knights whose polished armor caught the sunlight in dazzling bursts. At their signal, the knights raised their swords in a fluid, synchronized motion, their voices resounding like a collective heartbeat.

"Welcome, Marquess Henstone," they intoned, their bows deep and respectful.

Ashton inclined his head in acknowledgment, his movements measured, but his unease betrayed him. The weight of their reverence pressed on him like a physical force. Though hailed as a symbol of hope and valor, he still found the attention overwhelming. His gaze dropped instinctively to the ground as he passed through the center of the salute, his shoulders tense beneath the burden of so many eyes.

Enoch, in stark contrast, radiated disgruntlement. His disheveled hair and slouched posture painted the picture of a man dragged unwillingly from his sanctuary. He cast a sidelong glance at Ashton, his face flushing a ruddy crimson.

“This guy…” he muttered under his breath, lips curling in a tired smirk. “Still blushes like a shy maiden in front of an audience.”

He shook his head, but his irritation simmered. The memory of the previous night was still vivid in his mind. The welcome feast at Henstone Manor had been a rare indulgence lavish food, an abundance of wine, and a warm bed to collapse into after months of harsh wilderness. It had been bliss… until Ashton ruined it.

Enoch’s brow furrowed as he recalled the rude awakening.

The room had been dim, save for a shaft of morning light breaking through the heavy curtains. Enoch stirred as a looming shadow blocked the light. He cracked an eye open to find Ashton standing over him.

“Oh, it’s just you, Captain,” he muttered, pulling the blanket over his head. “Take a rest. You’ve earned it.”

“Vice-Captain,” Ashton said firmly. His tone brooked no argument.

“Yeah, yeah… Later,” Enoch replied, burrowing deeper into the mattress.

“Wake up!” Ashton’s voice rang louder this time.

Enoch groaned, his words muffled. “We just got back yesterday… Let me sleep…”

The next thing he knew, Ashton had ripped the blanket away, his patience clearly at its limit. Without hesitation, he grabbed Enoch by the ankle and began dragging him, much to the latter’s shock.

“What—HEY! Ow, let go! Are you serious right now?”

Now, trudging through the palace grounds, Enoch rubbed his temples, the pounding in his head from the hangover and Ashton’s antics making him grit his teeth.

“This guy doesn’t even get tired,” he muttered darkly, glancing sideways at Ashton, who seemed to exude an aura of divine energy. “Holy Sword blessing… immune to exhaustion. Meanwhile, I’m just a regular human paying the price for last night’s wine.”

Despite his grousing, he followed Ashton, though his steps were begrudging. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder as they passed, admiration and curiosity palpable in the air. Ashton moved gracefully, his presence luminous. Enoch, however, lagged, muttering under his breath.

“Hey, Mr. Hero,” Enoch finally said, his tone laced with sarcasm. “You owe me a huge bonus and a long vacation. If I keep playing your sidekick, I’ll never find time to meet a lady. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I kissed one…”

Ashton shot him a blank look, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. Enoch flinched under the silence, grinding his teeth in frustration.

“This guy…” Enoch growled softly, holding back the urge to yell.

Before the conversation could spiral further, the Holy Sword—gleaming and ever-watchful—chimed in from its place at Ashton’s side.

“Ah, young boy…” its voice teased, lyrical and mischievous. “Still fumbling over your first ki—”

Before the sword could finish, Ashton whipped it from its sheath and hurled it into the air with an uncharacteristic lack of composure. It spun wildly before striking the ceiling and falling to the floor with a loud clatter.

The entire procession froze. Servants halted mid-step, knights gawked, and Enoch stared in open-mouthed disbelief.

The silence stretched unbearably before Enoch found his voice. “D-Did you just… throw the Holy Sword?”

Ashton’s face reddened ever so slightly, though he quickly resumed his stoic expression. The murmurs resumed, now tinged with astonishment, and the procession hesitantly continued, leaving the sword on the floor.