The Swordswoman’s Revenge Story after Rebirth

Chapter 17: Going Down the Mountain

Oliver suddenly asked, “Do you know why the bandits took you?”

Isolde replied, “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s for the same reason they captured the prince.”

Revealing Milton and Lord Harmon of the High Magistracy would be pointless. Without evidence, it would only tip off the enemy. Milton was a formidable opponent, and Oliver still didn’t fully trust her. It was better to steer him toward her own suspicions.

Oliver seemed to accept the explanation. He had already suspected that the prince’s abduction was tied to the case involving corrupt officials in Shadowmere and Argentum. Lord Garraway, head of the High Court, and Duke Blackmoor, the Royal Inspector, might have been targeted through their children as leverage. If this theory was correct, it meant someone was colluding with the bandits.

“Who knew you were going out with the maid?” Oliver asked.

Isolde, knowing his sharp intellect, had assumed he would set this issue aside and reflect on it once home. But his mind was already racing ahead. She sighed softly. This man is frighteningly clever.

“Someone from my household,” she answered after a pause.

“Anyone else besides them?” Oliver pressed.

Isolde thought carefully. “No one else.” She realized he was beginning to suspect someone in the Duke’s estate.

“I saw you sparring with Marshal Blackwell the other day. Is there any personal grudge between you?” Oliver asked again.

In the pitch-black darkness, Isolde’s voice carried an icy undertone. “Not exactly a personal grudge. But you probably know about Eleanor Blackwell and William Valen.”

Oliver’s tone was indifferent. “I’ve heard little about it.”

“Eleanor Blackwell is carrying my fiancé’s child. She hopes to marry into Marquis Eldermere’s estate, that’s all,” Isolde said, her voice calm and steady.

Silence crept in, filling the void. After a long pause, Oliver finally spoke. “My father once said that the future lady of the Marquis’s estate can only be you.” His words seemed to offer comfort, but his voice carried no warmth.

Isolde neither confirmed nor denied, but she replied politely, “Thank you.”

The conversation ended. Theodric had fallen asleep but kept clutching Isolde’s sleeve.

“We must leave immediately,” Isolde said, standing and stretching her stiff, curled-up limbs. “The enemy has been alerted. The bandits will likely move tonight. Marshal, you must return at once and bring reinforcements to root them out.”

Oliver’s handsome face darkened with resolve. He lifted Theodric in his arms, and the three of them, accompanied by a wolf, began their descent.

Isolde’s injuries were not serious, but it was still relatively difficult to walk on the mountain path. Oliver’s wounds were painful and bleeding. He had only walked a mile, but his arms and calves were already dripping with blood.

“I’ll carry you,” Oliver said calmly as he held her hand.

Isolde shook his head. “It’s just a small injury.”

Oliver put Theodric down and pulled her to sit down. “I’ll help you bandage your wound again. It’ll be easier to walk this way.”

The most serious injury was the sword wound on his calf. Isolde did not avoid it. She sat down, lifted the hem of her skirt, and pulled up her pants. Her left calf was completely swollen. The wound was very deep, about the length of a finger. The skin was turned outwards, and blood was seeping out.

“Why didn’t you say anything when your injuries are so serious?” Oliver’s voice was laced with anger.

“What’s the big deal about this injury?” Isolde smiled.

Oliver rarely interacted with women, but he knew how much tolerance a woman had for pain. He had seen a young lady who screamed as if she was about to die just because her finger was slightly scratched. She was so badly injured that she did not even make a sound.

He tore a strip from his robe and gently wrapped her wound. Around her pale calf were faint scratches from the sword’s edge—mere grazes, nothing serious.

Isolde leaned against the tree, watching him intently as he carefully tended to her. Her heart stirred with complex emotions. To her, they were but two wandering souls adrift in a world that neither truly belonged to. Two lives that had once ended, only to be inexplicably pulled back into existence by some unseen force. It defied all reason.

Her thoughts drifted back to her past life. Worry shadowed her heart. In that life, Oliver Valois had fallen on the battlefield. Would history repeat itself in this time? Surely not, she tried to convince herself. So much had already changed. This time, she would not march to war alongside William. And without her presence, Oliver would not meet his end saving her. She clung to this hope, yet a dark foreboding lingered. Memories of Oliver’s final moments haunted her still, vivid and unrelenting.

The battlefield had been drenched in blood—a gruesome tapestry of severed limbs and lifeless bodies. Amid the chaos, there had been no retreat, no respite. Survival hinged solely on fighting their way through. William had been surrounded, his escape impossible. She had leaped from her horse, hoisted him onto the saddle, and urged the beast to flee. But the horse, startled and wild, bolted. Valen, shaken by the sudden jolt, pushed her from the saddle.

At the time, she had thought it a mere accident. Certain death loomed before her, until a great blade intercepted the enemy’s spear, and a strong hand seized her arm, hurling her to safety. She turned in time to see a man’s chest impaled by a lance, blood spilling like crimson rain.

In that instant, a fleeting thought took root—one she had brushed aside in her past life. William’s push had not been an accident. It was deliberate. He had sacrificed her to distract the enemy, saving himself.

She closed her eyes and drew a sharp breath, fury igniting within her. How could I have been so blind? For five years, she had foolishly loved a man so cowardly, so selfish, and so vile. She had even been willing to die for him.

“Does it hurt?” Oliver’s voice broke through her thoughts, his gaze lifting to meet hers as he noticed her sharp intake of breath.

She quickly masked her emotions. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Just remembered something that made me angry.”

Oliver said nothing, though his sharp eyes betrayed a glimmer of thoughtfulness.

“Your wound—does it trouble you?” Isolde asked, noticing the dark stain of blood on his shoulder.

“It’s nothing,” Oliver replied, rising to his feet. He glanced at the crimson seeping through his tunic. “A mere flesh wound.”

Isolde knew better. She had seen him endure far worse. Once, in her past life, an arrow had pierced through his abdomen. With painkillers scarce and the battle raging, the military doctor had been forced to extract the barbed arrow without numbing the wound. Oliver had endured it all without so much as a grimace.

As they descended the mountain, Lord Theodric followed quietly, uncharacteristically obedient. Oliver’s horse was tethered at the edge of the woods. “Take my horse,” he said to Isolde. “Ride back with Lord Theodric.” The steed could certainly carry the weight of two riders, but the main road would be bustling with travelers. He would not risk tarnishing Isolde’s reputation by letting prying eyes spread rumors. Oliver understood the sting of gossip all too well. Though he had grown indifferent to such things, he could not ignore its power to wound.