Acidity of Regret Ch 32
- Dec 27, 2025
- 8 min read
Columns of numbers marched down the parchment, followed by a dense, clinical explanation.
It was a ledger of soldiers.
In the Ingzella Empire, no noble house—save for the Imperial Family—was permitted to maintain a private army exceeding a specific count. Steel was power, and power was the only thing that could tilt the world on its axis.
To preserve their reign and prune the seeds of rebellion before they could take root, the throne had enacted a draconian law: a strict limit of fifty knights per household, reserved solely for protection. To exceed fifty was an act of high treason.
The Rohawks had always played by the rules; Vanessa knew they had never kept more than forty-odd blades in their service. But the parchment in her trembling hands told a different story.
It was a formal deposition alleging that her father had secretly raised an army of hundreds, hiding their names and their steel in the shadows.
Her eyes drifted to the bottom of the document, searching for the name of the informant.
[Vanessa] “No...”
Her face went bone-white as she read the name over and over. Her vision blurred, her pupils darting frantically across the page, but the ink remained stubborn and unchanged.
Why is Declan’s name written here?
She traced the letters with a numb finger. The rough texture of the parchment felt like it was scraping against her very soul.
Her mind turned into a block of frozen wood—stiff and unresponsive. A paradoxical sensation took hold: her head felt like ice, yet her chest burned with a suffocating heat. It was a cocktail of dread and nausea that made her skin crawl.
Unable to look at the name any longer, her gaze darted to the wax seal pressed beside the signature.
Someone must have forged it. They’re using his name to frame him.
Even with the evidence laid bare, she couldn't reach the truth. She was physically repelling it, her heart acting as a shield against the reality that threatened to shatter her.
She stared at the seal until her eyes ached, but a sudden noise in the hallway jolted her upright. Just seconds before the door creaked open, she shoved the parchment beneath her pillow.
The man who had become the center of her internal storm stepped into the room.
[Declan] “Vanessa.”
She forced her lips into a curve. A smile was the only mask she had left to hide the shivering cold that had taken up residence in her marrow. Without that porcelain facade, she wouldn't have known how to look him in the eye.
Fortunately, the mask held. Declan closed the door and crossed the room toward her.
[Declan] “How is your stomach? Do you feel any better? Did you call for the physician?”
She looked up at her husband, but the lens through which she saw him had cracked. Elliot’s desperate, grief-stricken pleas echoed in her ears, louder than the man standing before her.
[Declan] “Vanessa?”
He spoke her name softly, his brow furrowing at her silence.
She took a ragged breath and managed a small, shallow nod.
[Vanessa] “No... I mean, yes. I’m feeling much better now.”
The discomfort from the meal had passed, but a much more dangerous rot was spreading through her chest. She couldn't let him see it. Not yet.
She moved with calculated grace, changing into a silk negligee to avoid any further scrutiny.
[Vanessa] “I think I’ll try to sleep. Is the summit finished?”
[Declan] “Not yet. I only stepped away because I was worried about you.”
She offered a vague, non-committal hum and slipped into bed.
Declan sat on the edge of the mattress, his fingers lingering as he smoothed her tangled hair. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Normally, his touch felt like a sanctuary; tonight, it felt like a brand.
She looked up at him, her eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light.
[Declan] “Go to sleep. I’ll be back soon.”
[Vanessa] “Yes...”
[Declan] “I might be gone by the time you wake. I have to escort the delegation to the mountain pass at dawn.”
He caressed her cheek one last time before extinguishing the lamp and slipping out.
Silence rushed back into the room the moment the door clicked shut.
Vanessa lunged for the parchment, pulling it from beneath the pillow and shoving it into her sleeve.
She couldn't trust a drawer or a box; the only place it felt safe was against her own skin.
As the rough paper scratched against her arm, she let out a long, shuddering sigh. Her thoughts were a tangled web, spinning faster and faster.
She thought of the seal beside Declan’s name.
He said he’s leaving at dawn.
The hope that someone had forged his identity was the only thing keeping her upright. She had to know if that seal was real.
If the seal was a fake, then Declan was innocent. He would remain her savior, the man who had pulled her from the wreckage of her life. He would still be the man she loved.
She rolled onto her side, staring into the dark.
The quiet of the castle did nothing to soothe the frantic thumping of her heart.
The next morning, the space beside her was cold.
A maid informed her that the banquet had run late and the Duke had stayed in his study before departing for the mountains at first light.
Vanessa dressed quickly and made her way toward the administrative wing.
When the guards questioned her, she told them she had Declan’s permission to use the study. They stepped aside without a second thought.
The office felt intimidating. Despite living in the castle for weeks, her world had been limited to the bedroom and the gardens. This was Declan’s true domain—cold, efficient, and imposing.
She scanned the bookshelves, pulling out a few random volumes with titles she didn't bother to read. If she were caught, they would be her excuse. She set them on the side table, her throat dry.
She crossed the room to his massive oak desk, her footsteps sounding like thunder in the silence.
She searched the surface first, sifting through a chaotic pile of reports. Nothing.
She began opening the drawers, her heart hammering against her ribs.
[Vanessa] “...!”
In the third drawer, she found it. It was so easy to find, it felt like a cruel joke.
She pulled the crumpled parchment from her sleeve. She unfolded it, the air in her lungs suddenly turning to lead. It felt like an invisible hand was tightening around her throat—just enough to let her live, but not enough to let her breathe.
She took the heavy brass seal from the drawer and pressed it onto the margin of the parchment, right next to the informant’s signature. The red wax from the seal left a vivid, tacky mark on the paper.
It looked like a fresh bloodstain.
She lifted the brass and stared.
[Vanessa] “Ha...”
Her strength evaporated. She collapsed into the chair, her knees hitting the floor as she slid down. Her hand caught the edge of the desk, rattling the wood and sending a few papers fluttering to the floor, but she didn't have the presence of mind to pick them up.
The two imprints were identical. A longsword wreathed in climbing roses. Every thorn, every notch in the blade—perfectly matched.
The world went dark at the edges. She sat on the floor, her hand clamped over her mouth to stifle a sob.
Why are they the same?
They shouldn't be the same. If they're the same, then...
She balled the parchment into a tight, jagged knot in her fist.
Her love fought a desperate, losing battle against the mounting evidence, screaming in denial.
But in the furthest corner of her mind, a cold truth was blooming. The signs all pointed to him. He was the one who had condemned her family.
The evidence was undeniable. She just wasn't sure she was brave enough to look at it.
[Declan] “Vanessa Rohawk.”
[Vanessa] “...”
[Declan] “Will you come with me?”
The memory of the slave auction flashed before her eyes.
In that dark, hopeless pit, he had reached out his hand. He had been her salvation, her light, her everything. That was the moment she had realized she loved him.
But if that entire moment had been engineered by the very man who put her there...
What do I do now?
Her vision blurred as she stared at the paper. She let out a soft, hysterical giggle.
It was absurd that a single scrap of parchment could upend her entire existence. It made her feel as though her life carried less weight than the paper itself.
Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion hit her.
Since coming to the Duchy, she had developed a habit of wanting to sleep whenever reality became too heavy to bear. It was a cowardly impulse, a way to hide from the sun. And now, it was pulling at her again.
She couldn't face a world where Declan was her enemy.
Back in her room, she shredded the parchment into a thousand tiny pieces until her fingers ached.
She locked the door and sat at her vanity for hours. She stared into the mirror and practiced smiling.
She couldn't let Declan suspect that she knew. If he was the monster Elliot claimed, she had to be a perfect actress to survive. But the face reflected in the glass was sallow and haunted, the face of someone standing at the edge of a grave.
Despite her practice, when Declan returned that evening, she couldn't summon a single spark of joy. Usually, her smiles for him were instinctive, blooming the moment he entered the room.
But the suspicion that he was the man who had dragged her through hell had paralyzed her. Her heart had turned to stone. When he asked what was wrong, she could only whisper that she felt ill.
She refused the physician and climbed into bed, turning her back to him. She felt the mattress dip as he lay down behind her.
Only hours ago, she had been desperate for sleep, but now, with him so close, her eyes wouldn't close.
The bedroom was silent, but it was the silence of a battlefield before the first horn. The air was charged, dangerous, and fragile.
She spent the night wide awake. It wasn't until noon the following day that she finally dragged herself from the bed.
The moment she threw back the covers, his final message rushed back to her.
[Elliot] “Two nights from now... I will come for you. Be ready.”
That was today.
Today, he was coming to take her away.
The day was a blur of disasters. She went through the motions of living, but her soul was elsewhere.
She scalded her tongue on tea she didn't taste; she pricked her finger with an embroidery needle until blood spotted the silk; she tripped over a stone in the garden because she was staring at nothing.
She should have stayed in bed, but the silence was too loud. Sitting still only allowed Elliot’s words to fester, turning her thoughts into a dark, oily sludge of doubt.
Time, however, did not stop for her suffering.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, a sudden, practical question pierced through her fog.
How is Elliot going to get in here?
He was officially a knight of the Imperial Guard. He couldn't just walk through the front gates and into the Duchess's private chambers. Yet, his voice had been so certain, as if the path was already cleared.
Darkness fell. Vanessa paced her room, her anxiety reaching a fever pitch.
Knock. Knock.
The sound didn't come from the hallway. It came from the glass door leading to the terrace.
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