The Swordswoman’s Revenge Story after Rebirth

Chapter 391: A Lifetime Missed

Harlan’s eyes burned with rage as he shoved Oliver and Ryker aside. “Leave me alone! I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay here with him.” His gaze, sharp with grief, fixed on Isolde. Tears welled up; his voice was raw and cracking. “Just one word, Isolde. Just call him Father. Is it really so hard?”

She remained still, her expression unreadable. Oliver opened his mouth to intervene, but she grasped his hand, stopping him.

Harlan’s fury spiraled; his voice shook with heartbreak. “If not for you, would he have done this? He owed you, and in Zloimond, he repaid his debt with blood. I know you hated him, but do you think this was what he wanted! Was one mistake enough to condemn him forever? You were all he had. And for you—he gave up everything. His name. His honor. His life. And you…”

His breath hitched, rage dissolving into bitter sorrow. “He was a fool. He thought he could atone, but he never understood his own daughter. He should have known you’d find your own way out. But he didn’t. He never knew you at all. And now…” Harlan let out a shuddering breath, his voice breaking. “Now it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Harlan, enough,” Oliver’s voice hardened. “Do you think she doesn’t grieve?”

Harlan’s anger collapsed, the weight of despair crushing him. His legs gave out beneath him, and he sank to the floor, silent sobs wracking his body.

Isolde finally moved. She knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around him as she buried her face against his chest. A tremor ran through her frame. “I have no father anymore, Harlan.”

A guttural cry tore from Harlan’s throat as he clung to her, his grief consuming him. And at last, the dam broke. Isolde sobbed into his chest, her anguish spilling out in waves.

Oliver and Ryker looked away, giving them their moment. Ryker murmured, “She needed this. And so did he. If he didn’t let it out, he would’ve tried to follow Geoffrey again.”

Then, suddenly, Isolde coughed violently, crimson spilling from her lips as her body went slack.

“Isolde!” Harlan’s sorrow turned to terror.

Oliver lunged forward, catching her as she collapsed. He pressed a pill against her lips, forcing it into her mouth. “Swallow.”

Harlan stood frozen, his face stricken. “What’s happening?”

“Cold poison,” Oliver murmured, his jaw clenched. “It’s been eating away at her for years.”

Harlan’s hands trembled. “I… I shouldn’t have yelled at her.”

…

Another tear slipped from her eye. “There aren’t many people left who love me, Harlan. Don’t leave me?”

“I won’t.” His voice was hoarse, his chest aching as he helped Oliver steady her.

Isolde exhaled shakily, her gaze turning toward the bed. Gripping Oliver’s hand, she whispered, “Take me to him.”

Oliver supported her as she sat beside the bed. He hesitated. “Do you want to see him?”

“I need to be alone with him,” she murmured. “We never had a real conversation. Just the two of us.”

Oliver studied her for a long moment before nodding. “I’ll be right outside. There’s a letter for you—he left it with me.” He retrieved the letter from a nearby drawer and placed it gently in her hands.

Her fingers trembled as she clutched it to her chest. “Thank you.”

Oliver stepped back. “We’ll be outside.”

She turned to Ryker. “Bring me a basin of warm water. A towel. A razor.”

Ryker hesitated but obeyed. “Right away.”

Harlan frowned. “There are people who handle this. You don’t have to.”

Isolde shook her head. “I want to.”

Harlan started to argue, but Oliver placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let her.”

Ryker soon returned with everything she had requested. As Oliver and the others left, she finally spoke. “It’s just us now, Father.”

Reaching out, she pulled back the silk covering his face. He looked smaller than she remembered. His cheeks were hollow, his eyelids sunken. His lips, slightly parted, were colorless and dry.

She had seen countless corpses on the battlefield—many of them mangled beyond recognition. Death had never shaken her before. But this time, her fingers trembled.

She brushed a hand over his brow, feeling the familiar shape of it. Dipping the cloth into warm water, she wrung it out and carefully wiped the traces of death from his face.

Slowly, carefully, she shaved away his stubble. Then, she combed his hair, fastening it into a neat topknot.

She studied him for a long time. “No wonder Mother loved you so much,” she murmured. “Once cleaned up, you really were quite handsome.”

She took his hand, gently rubbing her fingers over the callouses on his palm. She placed her own hand over his, pressing their palms together.

“When I was little, I used to dream,” she whispered. “Daydreams, mostly. I’d imagine us walking through the marketplace, Mother holding one of my hands, you holding the other. She’d buy me sweets. You’d buy me toys. I’d never even seen Argentum, and you never visited Belleview Manor, but in my dreams, we were together.”

A wry smile curved her lips. “My friend once got beaten by his father. He came to me, whining about it. I hit him myself and told him he should be grateful. At least he had a father to hit him.” She swallowed thickly. “I used to think… even if you hit me, at least it would mean you were there.”

She turned his hand over, tracing the roughness of his fingers. The hands of a warrior. She let out a shaky laugh. “You did hit me once. And I remember thinking—so this is what it feels like.”

She curled his fingers around her own, as though he were still holding her hand. Her lashes glistened with unshed tears.

“Like this,” she murmured. “This is how it should have been.”

Her vision blurred, the weight of everything crashing down on her all at once.

“We lost sixteen years,” she whispered. “And now… we’ve lost a lifetime.”