Chapter 173: Chapter 173

The rain had finally stopped falling. The long storm that had darkened the skies seemed to have spent all its strength. Now the clouds broke apart slowly, and the golden sun climbed gently into the sky. Its warmth touched the wet earth, and the whole world seemed to glisten. Drops of water clung to the trees like diamonds. The fields smelled fresh. Birds began to sing again, as though they had been waiting all along for the storm to end.

But inside the carriage, there was no sunshine, no music. Lydia sat motionless, staring at nothing. Her cloak was still soaked through, and her hair clung damply to her face and neck. The water had chilled her, but it wasn’t only the cold of the rain. It was the coldness inside her heart. Her eyes looked empty, as though the storm had taken away all her strength and left nothing behind.

Beside her, Katherine sat quietly. She kept glancing at Lydia, her face full of worry. She wanted to say something—anything—to comfort her, but every time she looked at Lydia’s blank expression, the words died in her throat. Katherine could see that Lydia was somewhere far away in her mind, trapped in a place of pain where no words could reach her.

The wheels of the carriage splashed through the wet mud, the sound mixing with the soft calls of birds in the distance. Time passed in silence until the palace gates finally appeared.

As the carriage rolled into the courtyard, Katherine leaned forward slightly and spoke in a gentle voice. "When we get inside, I’ll have a hot bath prepared for you," she said softly. "And a hot tea too. You need warmth."

But Lydia gave no reply. She did not even turn her head. Her face remained still, her eyes heavy and lifeless, as though she hadn’t heard a single word.

Katherine sighed silently. She wanted to take Lydia’s hand, to shake her, to do something to bring her back. But she also knew that sometimes grief built walls so high that no one could climb them—not even a friend. She simply stayed close, hoping her presence would be enough for now.

The carriage stopped. The door opened. The servants bowed as the two women stepped out. Katherine’s hand rested lightly at Lydia’s elbow to steady her, for she seemed weak on her feet. Together, they walked slowly inside the palace. Newest update provided by novel·fire·net

Meanwhile, Ivan was still in the lounge. He stood by the tall window where he had been for hours, though the storm had already ended. His posture was stiff, but his face was weary. The clear sunlight now shining outside did not reach him. His heart was still caught in the dark storm that had passed through Lydia’s eyes earlier.

A knock came at the door.

"Your Highness," a servant said as he entered. "The documents for the repair of the bridge by the mill have just arrived. Your seal is needed so the repairs can begin."

Ivan did not move at first. His gaze stayed on the window, his lips pressed in silence. After a pause, he said flatly, "Leave them at my study. I’ll look at them later."

The servant hesitated, shifting uneasily. "It is urgently needed, Your Highness. The villagers are waiting. The bridge cannot wait much longer."

"I heard you," Ivan said sharply. His voice was calm but cold. "I’ll sign them later."

The servant’s eyes lowered. Under his breath, not meaning to be heard, he muttered, "He hasn’t signed even one of the documents stacked in his study. I wonder when he will sign this one."

Then he realized, too late, that the words had slipped out loud. His face drained of color. "My apologies, Your Highness. I did not mean—"

Ivan finally turned away from the window. His eyes were tired, his expression unreadable. "It’s alright," he said quietly. "I’ll go sign them now."

He moved toward the door, his steps slow but deliberate. As soon as he stepped into the corridor, fate struck.

He immediately crossed paths with Lydia and Katherine.

The sight hit him like a blow.

Lydia was walking slowly, her dress still damp, her hair clinging to her pale face. Her eyes were red, swollen from tears. She looked fragile, like someone who had been broken apart and was only held together by sheer will.

Ivan’s breath caught. His heart twisted painfully, like a thousand needles piercing his chest at once. He wanted to speak, to ask if she was alright, to tell her to rest. More than anything, he wanted to step forward and wrap her in his arms, to warm her, to shield her from every pain.

He knew he was the very reason she looked this way. The wound in her heart had been carved by his own hand. His guilt was too heavy. His throat tightened. So he said nothing.

He turned slightly, intending to walk past her, to escape the moment before it shattered him completely. But then her voice came, sharp and cold.

"Tell me," Lydia said suddenly. Her voice was not soft—it was steady, cutting through the silence of the corridor. "Your Highness. Whose son do you think he was?"

Ivan froze. Slowly, he turned to face her. "What?"

A bitter smirk touched Lydia’s lips, though her eyes were filled with fire. "You said you didn’t think you were the father. So tell me... who the hell do you think was his father?"

Ivan’s lips parted, but no words came. His silence stretched long, painful.

Lydia’s voice trembled, but it was strong with anger. "I know you hated me because of the deal I made with the queen," she said. "I know you wanted nothing to do with me because of it. But to say something like that? To accuse me of lying in another man’s bed? To treat me as if I were some shameless whore?"

Her voice broke at the last word, and her hands clenched tightly at her sides.

Still, Ivan said nothing. His eyes lowered, his guilt pressing down on him until he could hardly breathe.

Lydia’s voice rose louder, echoing in the corridor. "I asked you a question. Answer me! Say it to my face. Say what you believe of me, you heartless bastard!"

Her chest heaved with fury, with grief, with every pain she had held inside. But Ivan only stood there, silent, chained by his own shame.

Her lips trembled into a bitter scoff. "You really are a devil," she whispered.

Her words cut sharper than any blade.

With that, Lydia turned and walked away, climbing the stairs with trembling steps. Katherine followed quietly, her face pale with worry.

Ivan stood rooted in place, watching her go, his eyes filled with sorrow and guilt. He wanted to run after her, to beg forgiveness, to fall at her feet and explain. But his feet would not move. His silence chained him as tightly as iron.

From the corner of the staircase, Tatiana stood quietly, hidden in the shadows.

Her lips twitched slightly, though her face was unreadable. Her hands trembled as she clasped them together firmly in front of her. She had seen everything. She had heard every word. And though her heart pounded in her chest, she forced herself to stay still, her expression frozen as she watched Lydia disappear up the stairs, and Ivan remain below, drowning in silence.