The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 324: The Second Dress

In the dim, honeyed glow of the sitting room, the heavy oak door felt like a barricade against the world, but it could not shield Eris from the man who now stood as its center.

Soren did not merely move; he hovered. His large, calloused hands, hands that knew the balance of a broadsword and the weight of a scepter, were suspended in the air like ghosts, twitching toward the silver-laced nightmare of her back.

The poise he had maintained in the cathedral had evaporated, replaced by a raw, restless energy that made the small room feel smaller.

"Let me help you," he murmured. The words were not a request; they were a plea, thick with a need to be useful, to be close, to finally unwrap the woman he had spent the morning worshipping from a distance.

Eris didn’t turn. She could feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the chilled silk of her gown. "You don’t need to help me, Soren. This is why I have a small army of attendants."

"But I want to," he countered, his voice dropping into a stubborn, low register. He took a step closer, his shadow swallowing hers. "I am your husband now. Let me, "

"Soren, no."

He let out a short, frustrated huff, his fingers brushing against the edge of a crystal bead. "It is entirely appropriate for a husband to assist his wife, Eris. It’s practically in the marital bylaws."

Eris finally turned. The motion was difficult, the massive skirt of the ballgown resisting her, but she managed to fix him with an arched, golden-eyed stare. "Is it truly about the bylaws? Or do you just want an excuse to touch me?"

Soren did not flinch. He did not look away. Instead, an utterly unrepentant grin spread across his face, the kind of expression that belonged to a man who had won the sun and knew he was currently the luckiest fool in the empire. "Can’t it be both?"

"No," she said, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her with a twitch. "It cannot. Besides, the attendants will be here any moment to help with the change."

Soren blinked, the calculation of his lust suddenly hitting a wall of logistical reality. "The change?"

"For the reception," she reminded him, her voice softening as she watched the realization cross his features.

The tradition of the Vael-Anith, the Transition, was a ritual as old as the first glacier. The ceremonial gowns were sacred, heavy artifacts, blessed by the High Priestess to withstand the divine scrutiny of the ritual. They were masterpieces of architecture and ego, but they were also instruments of torture. Generations of Northern empresses had nearly fainted from the sheer constriction of the silver-ribbed corsets. The reception attire was the mercy after the trial; it was lighter, breathable, designed for the feast and the dance.

Soren knew this. He had been briefed for weeks. But in the frantic, glorious chaos of the day, his mind had discarded everything that wasn’t the curve of her throat or the light in her eyes. He had been so focused on winning the bride that he had forgotten the protocol of the evening.

"You’re changing too, remember?" she teased.

Soren let out a pained groan, his head dropping back. "I know. Those ceremonial furs and the weighted doublet took an hour to put on. I feel like I’m wearing a suit of lead."

"The reception clothes are easier," she said, her smile genuine now, a flicker of the girl beneath the crown. "That is the point of them, Soren. To allow us to actually survive our own wedding."

He stepped closer, his hands finally finding her waist, the touch grounding and electric. "I still think I should help you first. I’ve become quite an expert on laces in the last five minutes."

"Soren." Her tone was a warning, sharp as a winter gale.

"What? I’m being helpful. I’m a paragon of marital support."

"You’re being a menace," she whispered, though she didn’t pull away.

The moment of heat was shattered by a sharp, rhythmic pounding on the door.

"Your Majesty? Your Majesty?" Aldric’s voice filtered through the wood, sounding strained and overly formal. "Are you both... presentable?"

Eris let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, the relief washing over her. "Thank the gods."

Soren, however, looked like a child who had just been told his favorite toy was being confiscated. He actually pouted, his lower lip jutting out as he looked at the door with pure betrayal.

"Come in, Aldric!" Eris called out.

The door opened, and the commander stepped inside, his sharp gaze taking in the tableau: the Emperor looking like a kicked puppy and the Empress looking entirely too amused for a woman whose dress was half-undone. Aldric raised a single, cynical eyebrow. "Should I come back in an hour? Or perhaps a day?"

"Yes," Soren snapped.

"No," Eris corrected immediately. "Your timing is perfect, Aldric. Impeccable."

Aldric’s mouth quirked into a smirk. "I’m sure it is. The attendants are waiting outside with the reception gown. I told them to give you a moment of privacy, though I suspect I’ve just interrupted the most interesting conversation of the day."

"You have," Soren muttered.

Eris ignored him, turning back to the business of state and silk. "You can send them in, Aldric. And the Emperor needs to find his own chambers. He has his own change to attend to."

"I am aware," Soren said, though he still hadn’t moved. He stood there, hovering near her shoulder like a moon caught in her orbit, unwilling to yield the space.

Eris turned to face him fully, her expression shifting into a pointed, arch look, the kind of silent command that could halt a battalion. It was unmistakable. Get out.

"But, "

"Soren. Out."

"Can’t I just stay and, "

"Now."

Soren let out a long, dramatic sigh that would have made the court actors weep with envy. "Fine," he grumbled, turning toward the door with slow, deliberate reluctance. He muttered as he passed Aldric, "This is blatant discrimination against husbands. I shall be lodging a formal complaint with the council."

"You’ll survive," Eris called after him.

As the door closed behind the grumbling Emperor, a flock of female attendants slipped into the room like a silver mist. They bore the reception gown, a masterpiece of shimmering, midnight-blue silk that moved like water.

Finally, the silence returned. Eris closed her eyes, letting the professional, practiced hands of the women begin the work of unlacing her. As the ceremonial gown began to slide away, she felt the first real breath of her new life enter her lungs.

The corridor outside the private chamber was a drafty, silent purgatory of gray stone. Soren stood there, his back to the heavy oak door, looking for all the world like a man who had been barred from his own life. Inside, the soft, rhythmic rustle of silk and the sharp whispers of the attendants sounded like a mocking song, reminding him of the thin wood separating him from the woman who now owned his soul.

"Stop looking pathetic," Aldric grunted, emerging from the torchlight with a bundle of white and silver draped over his arm.

Soren didn’t snap back; he didn’t have the breath for it. He was too busy tracing the grain of the door with his eyes, imagining the heat of Eris behind the barrier. The change was a relief, though it offered a different, more primal kind of exposure.

Aldric helped him shed the weighted, suffocating layers of the ceremony, replacing them with a flowing white robe that was dangerously light. It fell open at his chest, revealing the hard, bronzed planes of his torso, a deliberate, traditional display of the Emperor’s vitality for the feast. An ornate collar of silver and sapphire sat heavy on his neck, and silver armbands bit into his biceps, cold and unforgiving against his skin.

"You look less like an ice sculpture," Aldric remarked, stepping back to survey the man who looked more like a restless predator than a sovereign.

"I’ll take that as a compliment," Soren said, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. He began to pace, the light trousers of his new attire whispering against his boots.

Every second away from her felt like a slow leak in his lungs. He was a man possessed, his skin humming with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with the reception and everything to do with the woman behind the oak.

"You know she’s still your wife when she comes out, right?" Aldric watched him with a mix of pity and amusement.

"I know," Soren muttered, stopping his pace to stare at the latch. "I just... I want to see her."