The Swordswoman’s Revenge: Chapter 390 – Call Him Father

Isolde drifted between fire and ice—one moment burning, her skin scorching with fever, the next freezing as though submerged in a lake of ice. But through the haze of pain, she heard Sadie’s voice. Every word etched itself into her mind like a blade carving into stone.

Something inside her twisted, a deep, gnawing pain clawing at her chest. She floated in darkness, feeling suffocated by an unseen weight, unable to open her eyes, unable to break free.

She didn’t know how long it lasted, but then Oliver’s voice cut through the fog—urgent, desperate. Hands lifted her, cradled her, and something cool slipped between her lips. A pill melted on her tongue, soothing the raging inferno inside her, dousing the flames. Relief seeped into her veins.

Her eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead, but finally, she managed to open them. Oliver’s face came into focus—his eyes glassy, filled with unspoken terror and relief. The sight of her waking made him exhale a shaky breath, the tension in his features breaking into a painful mix of joy and sorrow.

“You’re finally awake.”

Rosemary’s voice reached her next. Slowly, Isolde turned her gaze toward her and Sadie, standing at Oliver’s side.

A weak smile tugged at Isolde’s lips. “I made you worry.”

“It’s enough that you’re awake,” Rosemary gave a reassuring nod. “Rest here tonight. You can return home in the morning.”

But Isolde shook her head. “I have to go back.”

She pushed herself up, but Oliver pressed her down gently, his grip firm. “You shouldn’t move yet. Do you have any idea how much you scared me?”

Seeing the fear lingering in his eyes, she softened but remained resolute. “I need to go back.”

Sadie sighed. “If she’s determined, let her. Her ailment stems from the heart—if her mind remains unsettled, keeping her here will do no good.”

Oliver hesitated, then finally relented. “Fine. I’ll carry you.”

She didn’t argue. She had no strength left to pretend otherwise. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she murmured, “Thank you.”

Rosemary smiled faintly. “You’re family. No thanks needed.”

“Yes,” Sadie agreed. “Soon, we will all be family.”

Isolde’s breath hitched. “Yes… soon.”

Oliver felt her body tense. Without wasting another second, he carried her out, bidding their farewell before heading to the carriage.

Isolde clutched the fabric in her fists. “Oliver. I once swore I’d never do anything I would regret…”

“Don’t,” Oliver sighed, his voice thick with emotion. “Your father left letters for both of us. In mine, he asked me—begged me—to take care of you. Every word, Isolde, spoke of how much he cared. He didn’t want anyone to taint your name. That’s why he did this. He wanted to leave you with nothing but honor. If you let this consume you, he will never rest in peace.”

“In peace…” Isolde echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I spent my whole life resenting him for what he did to my mother. Even when my heart had long forgiven him. I refused to admit it. I thought—if I hated him, it would make up for my mother’s pain. I carried that anger for her. But in the end… I was the one who denied him a chance. And then… he was the one who denied me a chance.”

Oliver squeezed her hand. “He’s with your mother now, Isolde. That’s all he ever wanted. Don’t think about what’s lost. Think about what remains.”

She rested her forehead against his chest, her silent agony tearing through her. Even breathing felt like it might break her apart.

She said nothing else for the rest of the journey.

By the time they arrived at the Langley estate, the air was biting cold. Yet the gatekeeper remained at his post, waiting anxiously.

Seeing her, the man’s voice trembled, “Lady Isolde… you’ve returned.”

She nodded faintly, stepping forward. But the moment her foot touched the threshold, the weight of everything came crashing down. The estate was draped in mourning white.

She averted her gaze, but no matter where she looked, the white banners followed.

Oliver noticed and whispered, “This was likely put up when Prudence passed.”

“The dead. The damned. They all leave.” Isolde’s voice was hollow.

A figure approached—Ryker, cloaked against the cold. His expression unreadable as he studied her face. He had expected indifference, a mere formality in duty. But what he saw was grief, raw and consuming. He hesitated before saying, “Geoffrey is still in his chamber. Harlan refused to let him be moved until you saw him.”

“Harlan?” Isolde asked hoarsely.

“He’s been there since it happened. He hasn’t eaten, hasn’t slept. He tried to follow Geoffrey in death. We stopped him, but he won’t leave.”

“Is someone watching him?” Isolde’s heart clenched.

“Yes, but…” Ryker sighed. “If he truly decides to go, no one here can stop him.”

Oliver wasted no time. He lifted Isolde again and strode inside.

Harlan knelt beside the bed, whispering in broken murmurs.

At the sound of footsteps, Harlan turned his hollow gaze toward them. He barely reacted, but when his eyes landed on Isolde, something flickered in the emptiness.

“You’re back,” he rasped. “Your father is gone?”

Isolde’s knees buckled. Oliver tightened his grip, keeping her upright.

Harlan’s voice was void of its usual strength. “He died alone. No child at his side. Call him. Call him father once, so he can go in peace.”

Isolde didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Harlan’s voice rose, thick with emotion. “You still hate him? After everything? He gave his life for you, Isolde! What more do you want? Stop acting like a child—call him father!”

“Harlan,” Oliver stepped forward. “Enough.”

But Harlan wasn’t done. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, locked onto Isolde. “He died for you, and you won’t even give him that?”

Oliver pulled him back. “She’s suffering enough.” He turned to Ryker. “Take Harlan outside. Let him rest.”

Ryker moved forward, but Harlan didn’t resist. He let himself be pulled away, but his gaze never left Isolde.

And she stood there, motionless, staring at the veiled figure on the bed, her lips parted as if to speak—but no sound came out.