The Swordswoman’s Revenge Story after Rebirth:

Chapter 22 Rainy Night

Isolde sighed deeply and swung her legs off the bed. The physician’s ointment remained. She carefully applied it to her wounds, tending to herself in silence. The whip marks on her back were out of reach, so she tore a strip from an old garment, soaked it in the salve, and clumsily wrapped it around her injuries.

She had faced death countless times on the battlefield and returned a shadow from the Marquis’s burning estate. As long as she could breathe, she would never surrender. So much for the bonds of blood—such ties were worth little more than ash.

Once her wounds were dressed, she went to check on Helena, who had just awakened and was sobbing like a child.

“My lady, they tried to force me to say you’d eloped,” Helena cried, her voice trembling. “When I refused, the steward struck me and took my brother away.”

Isolde’s gaze lingered on the red mark across Helena’s cheek. She reached out, gently brushing her fingers over it. “Does it hurt?”

Helena blinked back tears. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Don’t worry,” Isolde said softly, a faint smile curving her lips. “Everyone who’s wronged us will pay—one by one.”

Geoffrey had sent a doctor, but Isolde refused to see him. When the steward delivered the news, Geoffrey, in a fit of rage, roared, “Let her die! Don’t waste food on her—let starvation finish the job!”

Once again, the Pearl Tower was left without food. Isolde called Noelle and Britney into the room. Sitting straight-backed in her chair, she fixed them both with a sharp, icy look. “Do you still wish to serve me here?”

The two glanced at each other before nodding quickly. “We do, my lady.”

“As you’ve likely noticed,” Isolde said evenly, her tone almost mocking, “I’m the sort of lady everyone seems to despise.”

Britney’s voice quavered as she replied, “My lady, my parents sold me to this house to pay for my brother’s wedding. I’m just as despised.”

“And I as well,” Noelle added stiffly.

“Good. Very good.” Isolde retrieved some money. “Take this. Fetch a doctor—have him enter through the back gate to tend to Helena. Buy a charcoal stove and a clay pot, and use the rest for rice.”

“Yes, my lady!” The two servants took the money and hurried out into the night.

By evening, the sky had grown ominous, heavy with storm clouds. Though it was early May, the air was thick and restless, and the promise of a downpour hung over the estate.

As the ninth hour approached, the heavens opened in a torrential rain, shrouding the land in a misty gray haze. Isolde donned a cloak and straw hat before stepping out. Turning to Britney, she said, “Take care of Helena. Make her some millet porridge.”

“But, my lady, it’s pouring, and you’re injured. Where are you going?” Britney asked, worry etched into her voice.

Isolde walked into the storm without turning back, the rain swallowing her figure almost instantly. Her voice carried faintly through the downpour. “To have a word with someone.”

The butler of the Duke’s estate had served for over a decade. As a cousin to Matilda, he received not only a monthly wage but also a generous bonus from the Blackwell family every year. His position had been lucrative, especially during the height of Geoffrey’s influence. Despite the exorbitant price of land in the capital, he had amassed enough wealth to own a sprawling courtyard with three gates, a wife, and three concubines.

Tonight, he was in particularly high spirits. Though he had been lashed earlier, the sight of that “little wench” beaten nearly to death filled him with grim satisfaction. More importantly, with her barred from marrying into the Marquis’ house, his daughter Eleanor now stood a chance to wed as the legitimate wife. A reward from the general would surely follow.

Returning home, he brought a flask of wine, called for his concubines to prepare some light dishes, and reclined with one in each arm as he drank. Outside, thunder rolled and rain lashed the earth in torrents.

“Today was truly satisfying. That little wench, fresh back from the manor, dared to treat me like air—me! She whipped me in front of the servants, as though I were beneath her. Who does she think she is? The Duke gave her a good thrashing today. Let’s see how long her defiance lasts!”

Lady Cantrell, the concubine, hid her smile behind a delicate hand. “Oh, she’ll behave, no doubt about that. So…her chances of marrying into the Marquis’s house are completely dashed, then?”

The butler sneered. “Marry into the Marquis’s house? That broken shoe? She can dream on. Still, credit where it’s due—the brat clawed her way back from Wol Mountain alive. Lucky for us, the Marshal covered his tracks well. Even if Lord Harmon comes poking around, who’ll believe the ravings of a disgraced, immoral girl?”

Lady Cantrell’s eyes gleamed with greedy curiosity. “The Marshal must reward you for this, don’t you think?”

The butler puffed out his chest, pride dripping from his words. “Of course. If I hadn’t grabbed her brother, she’d never have dared accuse Isolde Langley of eloping with a lover. The Duke believes the tale now. Even if she drags herself back here to complain, it’ll fall on deaf ears.”

Lady Cantrell leaned closer, her voice sweet as honey. “Then surely the Marshal will reward you. Last time you promised to buy me a gold bracelet—don’t tell me you were only teasing me.”

The butler chuckled, pinching her chin with rough affection. “A gold bracelet? Hah! I’ll buy you a whole set of jewels if you like.”

Lady Cantrell’s face lit up. She sprang to her feet to pour him wine, her voice lilting. “You’ve said it now. No going back on your word.”

The butler drank greedily, throwing back cup after cup. Half-drunk, he reached for Lady Cantrell’s hand, pulling her toward the bed.

A bolt of lightning suddenly split the sky outside, followed by a roar of thunder that rattled the windows. With a loud creak, the door swung open.

Lady Cantrell turned, startled. “The wind is fierce tonight…”

Before she could finish, a flash of silver darted through the doorway, slicing the air and embedding itself into the bedframe. Lady Cantrell froze, her face pale as she stared at the dagger trembling in the wood.

A figure stood in the doorway, draped in a rain-slicked cloak and wide-brimmed hat. “Out.” The voice was low and rasping, impossible to place as man or woman, but it carried an unmistakable menace—a presence that sucked the air from the room. The figure’s aura was like death itself, an executioner sent from the grave.

Lady Cantrell shrieked and fled, abandoning the butler without a second glance.

The butler sobered halfway, straightening with drunken bravado. “Who do you think you are, bursting into my chambers? Do you even know who I am?”

The figure stepped forward and slowly removed the dripping hat, revealing a pale, sharp-featured face—cold, unyielding, and utterly merciless. The room’s eight candles had dwindled to two, their light flickering weakly in the draft.

The butler squinted, eyes widening in shock. “Lady Isolde?”

Isolde’s lips curved into a frigid smile. She moved to the table, her gaze sweeping over the lavish spread. A feast fit for nobility, wasted on a mere servant.

Her voice broke the silence, calm and cutting. “You live better than I do, it seems.”

The butler forced a scowl, his voice stiff. “What business brings you here, my lady? It’s late, and you’re not welcome.”

Isolde turned her icy gaze to him, unhurried. “I’m here because I need something from you.”

The butler’s confidence flickered back. “If it’s about the Marquis’s marriage, you’re wasting your breath. I’ve no say in that matter.”

Isolde gave a low, humorless laugh. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself. I know your limits. This is about something else—Helena’s brother. You know where he is, don’t you?”

The butler barked a laugh of his own, though it came out brittle. “Helena’s brother? Why would I know the whereabouts of some servant’s kin? Go home, my lady. I’ve no time to humor you tonight.”