The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 341: FIRE IN THE WALLS

By noon, the "Imperial Seclusion" had transitioned from a point of curiosity to the singular obsession of the entire Nevarethian court.

It moved through the palace like a slow, humid fog, clinging to the velvet curtains of the noble quarters and the soot-stained stones of the stables alike.

The Emperor and Empress had not emerged. The silver-chased doors remained barred against the world, and with every hour that passed, the legends of what was occurring behind them grew more... inventive.

In the Noble Quarters, where the air usually smelled of lavender and repressed ambition, the gossip was served alongside the morning tea with a side of delicious malice.

"Have you heard?" Lady Elara whispered, her fan fluttering like a trapped bird. "The Emperor and Empress haven’t left their chambers. It has been two full days."

Lady Sierra, whose jaw remained set in a line of permanent irritation, adjusted her silken stays with a huff. "How... inappropriate. There is a decorum to these things. A sunrise appearance, a brief word to the council—"

"Inappropriate? It’s romantic!" Lady Elara giggled, leaning in. "The guards are saying the Empress was very... vocal last night. Not just once, Sierra. All. Night. Long."

"The Emperor is clearly besotted," another lady chimed in, her eyes shining with envy.

"Or obsessed," a third countered darkly. "There is a difference. One is a choice; the other is a haunting."

"Either way," Lady Elara sighed, "she has him wrapped around her finger. Or perhaps it’s the other way around, given that she hasn’t been seen on her own two feet since the wedding march."

While the nobles debated the romance of it all, the Kitchens were a hive of far more practical observation. The head cook slammed a cleaver into a side of venison as a third runner burst through the doors with a frantic look on his face.

"Another order from the Imperial chambers!" the runner shouted. "Again!"

The head cook paused, wiping his brow with a greasy apron. "What is it this time? More roasted pheasant? A whole boar?"

"Fruit, wine, bread, and cheese," the runner panted. "The same as the last five orders. They’re barely eating the heavy stuff."

"Too busy to eat," a sous-chef shouted from across the stove, followed by a chorus of raucous laughter from the scullery boys.

"The maids say the sheets are—" one of the girls started, her voice dropping to a scandalized whisper.

"I don’t want to know!" the pastry chef yelled, though he leaned in closer anyway.

"The Emperor is making sure no one doubts this marriage," the head cook grunted, returning to his butchery. "Not that anyone could. After hearing her last night? The East Wing didn’t get a wink of sleep. No one doubts anything anymore."

Even in the Stables, amidst the scent of hay and horsehide, the news had taken root. Grooms who usually spoke of nothing but hoof rot and racing times were now huddled in the stalls, their voices low.

"My quarters are near the East Wing," one groom muttered, his eyes dark with a lack of sleep. "Couldn’t rest for a minute last night."

"The Empress?" his companion asked, grinning.

"Could hear her through three walls," the first groom replied, a look of genuine awe on his face. "She was calling his name like the world was ending. Crying out for him."

"The Emperor doesn’t do anything halfway," the youngest groom added, sounding impressed.

"Lucky bastard," the second groom laughed.

"Lucky Empress," the first corrected firmly. "If he’s that dedicated to keeping her in that bed, she’ll never want for anything for the rest of her life."

While the palace hummed with a voyeuristic glee, Caelen moved through the corridors like a specter. He had been avoiding everyone, brooding in the shadowed corners of the guest wing, his heart a leaden weight in his chest. But one could not escape the gossip in Nevareth; it was in the very stones.

He was heading toward the guest chambers when he heard voices ahead... two maids, their whispers sharp and carrying in the vaulted hallway. Caelen didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but when he heard the words Imperial chambers, he froze, his body going rigid.

"I had to bring fresh sheets to them again this morning," the first maid said, her voice a mix of exhaustion and excitement.

"How many times is that?" the second asked.

"Six. Six times in two days. The state they must be in—"

"Oh, I saw her!" the first maid interrupted, her voice dropping. "Briefly. When the Emperor called us in to change the silks."

"And?"

"She could barely move, I swear it. He had to carry her to the bath. From the bed, mind you! She tried to stand and her knees just... gave out. She couldn’t walk."

Caelen felt the blood drain from his face. His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

"And the marks on her!" the maid continued. "Her neck, her shoulders, her back... everywhere. He marked her thoroughly. Like he was claiming every inch of her territory."

"What did she look like?"

"Exhausted. But... satisfied. Very satisfied. I’ve never seen a woman look so thoroughly... handled."

The second maid giggled, a sound that grated on Caelen’s nerves like a serrated blade. "Did you hear her last night?"

"The whole palace heard her! She was crying his name, over and over. She was begging him, ’Soren... please... more... don’t stop...’"

The maid’s breathy mimicry sent a jolt of pure, agonizing jealousy through Caelen. He stood frozen in the hallway, his face turning pale, then a furious red, then pale again.

She couldn’t walk.

He marked her.

She was crying his name.

The realization hit him like a sword-thrust to the gut, leaving him breathless and reeling. With him, she had never been like that. She had never been that loud. Never that desperate. Never satisfied in a way that left her boneless and broken in the best possible way.

Soren had something he never did. Soren had her—not just her hand in marriage, not just her presence on a throne, but her. Completely. Devoured. Claimed.

Caelen stumbled away, his lungs burning as if the very air of the palace had turned to poison.

While the Emperor was occupied with the "purification" of his marriage, his inner circle was busy with the grittier work of survival.

In Soren’s private study, Aldric sat alone, surrounded by a mountain of evidence that was beginning to look like a noose for Viktor. He was reviewing financial records, discrepancies in the treasury that pointed directly to the High Minister’s pockets. He had merchant testimonies and intercepted letters that suggested Viktor was communicating with enemy troops, looking for a way to destabilize Soren’s rule.

A servant entered, hesitating as he set down a tray of tea. "Sir Aldric... is the Emperor not attending the council today?"

Aldric didn’t even look up from a particularly damning ledger. "The Emperor is... occupied."

The servant tried, and failed, to hide a smirk. "Ah. With the Empress."

Aldric let out a long, weary sigh. "Yes. With the Empress."

"They haven’t emerged since the wedding," the servant noted helpfully.

"I am aware of the passage of time," Aldric snapped.

"The sounds, my lord," the servant lowered his voice. "They’ve been—"

"That will be all," Aldric said, his eyes finally lifting with a sharp, warning glare.

As the door closed, Aldric muttered to the empty room, "What an absolute idiot. Is he trying to kill her? Or just make sure the entire continent knows his business?"

Meanwhile, on the training grounds, Ryse was overseeing the morning drills. The cold air was filled with the rhythmic clatter of practice swords and the shouting of sergeants. A lieutenant approached him, a wide grin on his face.

"Commander. Have you heard—"

"The guards are talking," Ryse interrupted, his own smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I have ears, Lieutenant."

"The Emperor is—"

"Making up for lost time, clearly," Ryse finished for him.

A soldier nearby laughed as he wiped sweat from his brow. "More like making sure no one questions the marriage. The Empress was loud last night, Commander. Woke half the barracks."

Ryse let out a proud, booming laugh. "That’s my Emperor. Doing his duty thoroughly. A man of focus and stamina."

"Think she’ll survive?" the lieutenant asked, chuckling.

"If she doesn’t," Ryse joked, "Soren will probably just bring her back from the dead to do it all over again."

Internal to his laughter, Ryse felt a genuine sense of relief. He had known Soren for years, had seen the man miserable, lonely, and burdened by a crown that felt more like a lead weight.

Finally, Soren had something for himself. Something that made him human. And if the whole palace knew the Emperor was obsessed with his wife? Even better. A man who loved his wife was a man with something to lose, and in Nevareth, that made him formidable.

Late in the day, Ryse sauntered into Aldric’s study without so much as a polite tap on the door. Aldric didn’t even look up, his pen scratching furiously against parchment.

"You could knock, you know," Aldric grumbled.

"Where’s the fun in that?" Ryse asked, flopping into a chair and kicking his muddy boots up on the edge of the desk.

"What do you want, Ryse?"

"Checking on Viktor’s trap. How’s the noose coming?"

"Nearly complete," Aldric said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. "A few more testimonies from the southern merchants, then we move. We have enough to strip him of his title and his head."

"When?"

"When Soren finally decides to emerge from his chambers," Aldric sighed, glancing toward the window. "Assuming he remembers he actually has an empire to run."

Ryse laughed, a deep, barking sound. "Might be a while, then. From what I’ve heard, he’s found a new hobby."

"Don’t remind me," Aldric groaned. "It’s all anyone talks about. I can’t even get a report on the grain stores without someone mentioning the Empress’s vocal range."

"Come on, Aldric. The man’s happy. First time in years. Look at the life he’s had—raised by that viper Vetra, fighting a civil war, taking a throne from his father’s cold hands. Let him have this."

"He’s neglecting his duties," Aldric insisted, though the bite was gone from his voice.

"He’s consummating his marriage!" Ryse countered. "That is his duty. Succession, and all that nonsense you always preach about."

"For two days straight?" Aldric asked dryly.

"He’s making up for lost time," Ryse shrugged. "He’s been a monk for three decades. Let the man work it out."

"He’s going to kill her," Aldric muttered.

"From what I hear, she’s not complaining," Ryse grinned wickedly. "In fact, she seems to be encouraging the behavior."

Aldric glared at him. "You’re incorrigible."

"And you’re jealous," Ryse shot back.

"Excuse me?"

"You’ve been alone too long, old man. It’s making you bitter. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a fire in your bed."

"I am not old!" Aldric snapped. "I’m younger than you are!"

Ryse stood up, heading for the door with a jaunty wave. "Keep telling yourself that. Let Soren have this. Besides, it’s good for morale. Everyone loves a love story."

"This isn’t a love story," Aldric called after him. "It’s a strategic alliance."

Ryse paused at the door, smirking over his shoulder. "Keep telling yourself that, too. Maybe one day you’ll believe it."

As the door clicked shut, Aldric sat in the silence of the study. He thought about the sounds he’d heard through the walls earlier, the gossip he’d been forced to endure, and the way Soren’s eyes had looked at the wedding... bright, hungry, and alive.

He smiled despite himself, a small, weary thing. Maybe Ryse was right. Maybe the empire could wait just one more day.