Chapter 182: Chapter 182
Katherine’s hand was still pressed gently to Lydia’s forehead when Lydia’s eyes fluttered open.
Her lashes trembled as she stirred from her restless sleep. Slowly, she blinked, adjusting to the light that spilled into the room. Her cheeks looked flushed, her lips dry. She struggled to sit up, leaning back against her pillows.
Katherine, still kneeling beside the bed, spoke softly but with clear worry in her voice.
"Your Highness, I think you are sick."
Lydia gave a weak smile, though her eyes looked tired. "I’m fine," she said, her voice quiet and faint. "It’s just a fever. Probably because I was in the rain yesterday. I’ll be fine."
Katherine frowned, unwilling to believe her. "Are you sure? You don’t look well. I can call for a physician if you want me to."
At those words, Lydia’s expression changed. Her smile faded, her eyes dimmed. She looked straight at Katherine, her voice holding both pain and emptiness.
The silence that followed was sharp. Katherine felt her chest sink. She quickly lowered her head. "My apologies," she whispered.
Lydia looked away, her eyes wandering to the bright morning sky outside the window. It was beautiful—the kind of sky that would have once filled her heart with warmth. But now, she felt nothing. The light touched her face, but inside she was cold.
Katherine stood slowly, trying to hide her own sadness. "I’ll tell Xenia to get things ready for your bath and bring your breakfast. Get some rest in the meantime."
Lydia only nodded, her voice too weak to reply. Katherine gave her one last glance before leaving the room.
The door closed softly, leaving Lydia alone.
She remained seated in bed, her blanket wrapped loosely around her. Her eyes stayed fixed on the sky. It looked endless, full of color and hope, but none of it touched her. None of it could reach her heart.
Her lips trembled as she muttered to herself, "I don’t have a lot of time."
Her words hung in the empty air, soft and fragile, as though they would vanish if the walls did not hold them.
Far away, in another quiet house, Irina sat by her window. The morning sun lit her profile, but her expression was distant. She was lost in thought, staring outside without really seeing anything.
Behind her, Anastasia walked in. She carried a tray but paused when she noticed her lady’s stillness.
"My lady," Anastasia said gently, "are you okay?"
Irina turned her head slightly, her lips pulling into a faint smile. "Yes."
But Anastasia was not convinced. She stepped closer, watching her carefully. "You don’t look alright, my lady. Are you sure you’re okay?"
Irina hesitated for a moment before answering, her voice low. "I am."
Anastasia tilted her head. "Is it about Lady Lydia?"
Irina’s hands tightened on the folds of her dress. She nodded slowly. "Yes... and no."
Anastasia frowned, confused. "I don’t understand. What do you mean?"
Irina’s eyes softened with sadness as she kept them fixed on the sky. "I’m just thinking about that day."
"Which day exactly?" Anastasia asked carefully. "Do you mean... the day he came?"
Irina’s silence was her answer. She gave a small nod.
Anastasia’s voice lowered, more serious now. "Sometimes I think... maybe it’s best to tell her."
Irina’s lips parted, but she could not speak right away. After a long pause, she finally whispered, "I don’t know at this point." Her eyes glistened, but no tears fell. "I wonder if maybe she would be at peace if she knew that he came. Maybe... just maybe."
Her voice broke a little at the end. She sighed deeply, pressing her hand to the window frame as if it would hold her steady. Then she turned her eyes back to the sky, letting the silence swallow her words.
Back at the palace, Ivan was walking slowly through the long hallways. His steps were heavy, dragging, as though his legs carried chains. His head was slightly lowered, his face pale with exhaustion.
He finally reached his chambers. When he entered, everything was in order. The room was neat, perfectly arranged as always. Yet to him, it felt cold. Empty. Hollow. Just like his soul.
He closed the door behind him and walked toward the bed. Each step felt slow, as though the air around him was too heavy to move through.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ivan let out a long breath. His body was tired. He needed rest. His eyes begged for sleep. But his heart... his heart would not allow it. Latest content published on Novᴇl_Fire(.)net
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands covering his face. For a long moment, he stayed like that. Silent. Still. A man drowning inside himself.
When he finally lowered his hands, his eyes drifted down. On the floor, just beneath the bed, he noticed something. A small box, shifted slightly out from where it was usually hidden.
He reached down with the intention to push it back, but his hand froze. Something inside him stopped him.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, he pulled it out. The box was simple, but the weight of it felt enormous in his hands.
His fingers trembled as he opened the lid.
Inside was a folded piece of cloth. White. Soft.
He lifted it gently and spread it out on his lap. It was a shawl—a baby’s wrap. White, with delicate embroidery of lilies along the edges.
The moment his eyes fell on it, his breath caught. His chest clenched painfully.
His vision blurred as tears filled his eyes. His lips parted, but no sound came. Then, as though the dam inside him had broken, the tears began to fall.
He pressed the small shawl to his face, then clutched it tightly against his chest, his body trembling.
"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I’m so sorry."
The words fell from his lips again and again, soft but full of pain. "I’m sorry... I’m so sorry..."
He rocked slightly where he sat, holding the little cloth like it was his son himself. His heart ached so deeply it felt as though it might tear apart.
The silence of the cold room carried his cries. And for once, Ivan did not try to stop them.