The Swordswoman’s Revenge Story after Rebirth
Chapter 9: Borrowing Strength
When Geoffrey arrived at the High Court of Parliament that morning, he found Oliver Valois, the deputy commander of the Southern Watch, waiting. However, Geoffrey had left the document at his estate; he had taken it home the previous evening to review for any oversights but had forgotten to bring it to the office. Pressed for time, Oliver accompanied Geoffrey back to the manor to retrieve it.
As they stepped through the gates, the sound of a skirmish echoed from the rear courtyard. The grand hall, however, was eerily empty. Geoffrey’s expression darkened. He exchanged a sharp look with Oliver, and together they hurried toward the commotion.
In the Pearl Tower, they arrived just in time to see Milten deliver a vicious blow to Isolde. Her body flew through the air and landed hard, crumpled like a discarded rag. Without a second thought, Oliver sprang forward, catching her just before she hit the ground. Isolde spat blood but steadied herself, locking eyes with him.
Before her time travel, there had been only one person she could never best—Oliver, the Marshal of Brackenfell. Oliver was the adopted son of the Marquis of Eldermere and the elder brother of William. His father by blood, Douglas Valois, the famed Marshal, had fallen in battle. Afterward, the Marquis of Eldermere took Oliver in but let him retain his family name.
At thirteen, Oliver went to war alongside his adoptive father. Even then, he showed no fear, cutting down over thirty enemies in his first campaign. The Regent himself had praised him as a worthy heir to his father’s legacy. By sixteen, Oliver had earned the title of Marshal of Brackenfell. The Royal Court, always keen to honor its war heroes, saw Oliver’s promise. The Marquis of Eldermere ensured his talents were nurtured, and by twenty-one, Oliver had been named Grand Marshal. Leading the imperial forces against the Thalvinar, he returned victorious, earning the title of Marquis of Brackenfell. But the glory was fleeting. In the second year of his marquisate, Oliver fell in the Battle of Ashenford. He was struck down while saving Isolde—the cruelest irony being that she had put herself in danger to save William.
William had never masked his disdain for Oliver. Even years later, when she visited Oliver’s grave to pay her respects, William sneered and, with a show of contempt, kicked over the incense burner. To everyone else, Oliver was a man of unyielding courage, a paragon of strength. Only William refused to acknowledge it. Before her time travel, she had carried the weight of Oliver’s death, the guilt gnawing at her for years. And now, seeing him alive—standing tall in black brocade, his commanding presence a blend of elegance and authority—she was overcome with emotions she could not name.
Isolde’s gaze hardened. She hadn’t truly lost to Milten earlier. When she heard those familiar footsteps, she’d let her guard down on purpose, allowing Milten to strike. Matilda ran to Geoffrey, her sobs loud and desperate. “My Lord, save me! Isolde has killed someone!”
Milten’s expression flickered, and he sheathed his sword, bowing. “Your Grace?” Geoffrey gave a faint nod, his eyes lingering on Milten with a complicated air. He helped steady Matilda, glanced at the guards struggling to rise, then shifted his gaze to the lifeless form of Mary sprawled on the corridor floor. Finally, his eyes settled on Isolde. His expression was unreadable. “You killed her?”
Isolde stepped forward, her disheveled hair and pale face lending her an air of quiet defiance. “Yes,” she said, her voice steady. Dragging the whip behind her, Thark etched in the dirt, she approached the Duke. Milten’s earlier strike had ravaged her insides, the pain like a knife twisting in her chest, yet she stood tall through sheer will. A faint, despairing smile broke across her pale lips—bitter, mocking, and filled with sorrow. “If you loathe me so much, send me back to Windermount. Why poison my food? My mother gave her life to bring me into this world, not for me to endure your torment.”
Geoffrey’s face froze in shock. A flicker of anguish passed through his eyes, and he stood motionless, as if struck by lightning. Her vision darkened, dizziness swept over her, and her body went limp as she crumpled to the ground. Before unconsciousness claimed her, a firm arm caught her waist, and the faint scent of agarwood reached her. Only Oliver was known to favor such a fragrance. She fainted.
Oliver held her securely, his sharp gaze locking on Milten Blackwell. “Marshal Blackwell, your skill is legendary, yet you stoop to using it against a noblewoman. Does that not tarnish your honor?” Milten smirked. “That depends on what she’s done. And let me remind you, this is a family matter, entirely outside the Marshal of Brackenfell’s jurisdiction or the Southern Watch’s.”
Turning to Geoffrey, Milten’s tone was unapologetically direct. “Your Grace, I disciplined Isolde today for the family’s sake. I trust you have no objections?” Geoffrey’s eyes didn’t waver from Isolde’s pale face. Eleanor stepped forward, her indignation plain. “Uncle, Isolde has killed someone—she even tried to murder Aunt! Father only acted to save her. If you doubt it, ask the servants.”
Geoffrey’s gaze, cold as steel, flicked to Matilda before he addressed Milten with formal restraint. “Marshal Blackwell, I appreciate your concern, but matters within the Duke’s household are mine to resolve. I must insist you leave.” Milten’s expression darkened. For years, Geoffrey had courted his favor, no matter how outrageous his demands. To be dismissed so bluntly was an affront. “Very well,” he said, his voice tight with fury. “But remember this: your daughter has committed murder. If word spreads, your reputation will lie in ruins. For the sake of our family ties, I advise you to deliver her to the High Court yourself.”
With that, he turned and swept out, his cloak swirling behind him. Eleanor hurried after him, her face a mix of confusion and anger. Matilda hesitated, then gathered herself and addressed Geoffrey carefully. “My lord, my brother and niece only came to visit me. They simply—”
“Remove Mary’s body,” Geoffrey interrupted, his voice cold and clipped. “Then you may report what happened.” Swallowing her protests, Matilda curtsied. “Yes, my lord.”
Isolde was carried to her chambers. In her fevered dreams, the horrors of her past life returned. She relived her death at William’s hands, watching helplessly as her child was cast into a blazing fire. The flames devoured the tiny body in an instant. Her cries were raw and agonizing, echoing through the chamber.
“Miss… Miss Langley…” A voice broke through the suffocating darkness, clear and urgent. Her eyes fluttered open, the world around her blurry. She reached up, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Are you feeling better?” Helena’s voice was soft and tentative as she leaned closer.
“I’m fine,” Isolde whispered hoarsely, though pain still burned in her chest. She tried to sit up but fell back, weakened. Milten’s strike had done deep damage, shaking her heart and lungs. “Was it a nightmare? You were crying so terribly,” Helena asked, her tone full of sympathy.
“A nightmare,” Isolde echoed, her voice heavy. “Yes, a nightmare.” “The Duke is just outside. I’ll let him know you’re awake,” Helena said, tucking the blanket around her before stepping out. Isolde closed her eyes again, though her mind was far from calm. Thoughts and memories swirled like a storm, pulling her into their chaotic tide. Footsteps approached, firm and deliberate. Her eyes snapped open.
“Are you feeling better?” Geoffrey asked, his voice unusually gentle. She stared at him, his face illuminated by the flickering lamplight. There was a shadow of frustration in his expression, but no warmth. In neither her past nor her present life had Isolde known what parental love felt like.
As a child, her nurse had told her stories of her parents’ early days—a young couple deeply in love. Her father had been overjoyed when her mother became pregnant with her. But a decade of childless marriage had forced him to take a noble concubine under pressure from Prudence. By the time Isolde was born, Matilda had already given him a son and a daughter. She would have had another sister, but her twin had died at birth.
Chapter 10: Just the Beginning