The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 427: Distance
The morning air in the capital was a crisp, biting reminder of the North’s dominance, but the thousands gathered in the main city square provided a collective warmth that hummed like a living engine.
From the high platform erected at the square’s center, the view was a sea of fur-lined hoods, wool caps, and expectant faces. Banners of Nevareth, the silver dragon on a field of ice blue, snapped violently in the wind, intermingled for the first time with the sun-gold streamers of the Southern alliance.
The stage was a masterclass in Northern craftsmanship. Massive ice sculptures of prowling wolves and soaring hawks flanked the stairs, their translucent surfaces refracting the pale winter sun into jagged rainbows. At the center stood the principals of the empire.
Soren stood like a pillar of salt and silver, his ceremonial robes flowing around his boots. Beside him, Eris was a vision of midnight velvet, her presence a sharp, warm contrast to the crystalline environment. High Priestess Serah, whose face was a map of Nevarethian history, stood with her back to the grand altar, her white robes billowing. Behind them, the temple acolytes held silver basins, their eyes downcast in reverence.
In the exclusive section below the stage, the tension was more refined but no less potent. Caelen stood with his jaw tight, looking every bit the displaced king in his formal Solmire blacks. Beside him, Ophelia held her mask of saintly composure with practiced ease, her hands folded over her stomach, though her eyes remained fixed on the platform with a predatory stillness. Rael, blissfully unaware of the adult theatrics, was practically vibrating with excitement, his hand buried in Bjorn’s thick white fur as the wolf sat stoically beside him.
The square was packed to its limits. Families had traveled from the outlying tundra villages, huddled together for warmth and a glimpse of the crown. There was a palpable shift in the energy today; usually, the citizens knew what to expect from Soren, but the presence of the "Fire Queen" had drawn thousands more. They were curious, some even suspicious, their murmurs creating a low-frequency buzz that filled the air. They wanted to see if the woman who had conquered their Emperor’s bed could also command their respect.
The Herald stepped to the edge of the platform, raising a long, silver horn before his voice boomed, amplified by the stone architecture of the surrounding buildings.
"Citizens of Nevareth!"
The roar of the crowd died down to a heavy, expectant hum.
"Today we celebrate Winterkeep! We honor the Frostmother Aenithra! We give thanks for the harvest that sustains us and prepare our spirits for the Long Dark!" He turned, gesturing broadly. "His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Soren Nivarre!"
The crowd erupted in a familiar, thunderous cheer, a sound of deep-rooted loyalty.
"Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Eris Nivarre!"
The second roar was different, sharper, laced with a high-pitched excitement and a wave of frantic whispering. It was the sound of a people seeing a legend come to life. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞
High Priestess Serah stepped forward, her staff, carved from ancient weirwood with dragon motifs, striking the wooden floor with a hollow thud. Despite her age, her presence was commanding, her voice resonant enough to reach the back of the square.
The altar before her was piled with offerings: frost lilies that only bloomed in sub-zero temperatures, silver coins for prosperity, and harvest grains.
"Aenithra, Frostmother, Keeper of Winter," Serah intoned, her voice a deep vibrato. "We honor your gifts. Your protection through the cold and your wisdom through the darkness. Bless this festival. Bless your people." She turned slightly, her blind-folded eyes seeming to pierce through the Emperor and Empress. "Bless those who lead us. Guide us through the Long Dark ahead."
She poured sacred water over the ice altar, the liquid freezing instantly into jagged, holy shapes. As she spread the grain, a respectful silence fell over the square, thousands of hands pressed together in silent prayer.
Soren stood perfectly still, but his internal world was a chaotic storm. He was close enough to Eris that he could feel the unnatural heat radiating from her skin, a constant, rhythmic pulse that seemed to sync with his own heartbeat.
It was driving him mad.
He tried to focus on Serah’s ancient tongue, but his eyes were treasonous. Every few seconds, they drifted to his right. He watched the way the pale light caught the stray silver-white strands of her hair. He traced the elegant line of her profile, the curve of her throat, and the rise and fall of her chest beneath the velvet.
A sharp sense of déjà vu struck him, dragging him back to their wedding ceremony. The same weight of the crown, the same public scrutiny, and the same agonizing distance between their bodies.
Gods, she’s beautiful, he thought, his jaw aching from the effort of maintaining his mask. Right there. Close enough to reach out and pull into my arms. I could bury my face in her neck right now and forget the thousands of people watching.
The craving was a physical ache. He wanted to catch that scent, the one that had haunted his study until three in the morning, that mix of woodsmoke and something uniquely Eris. It was torture to stand so close and act as if she were merely a political fixture. His hands clenched into fists hidden by his long sleeves to keep from reaching out.
As the High Priestess moved into the final, lengthy incantation, the crowd’s focus shifted toward the altar. Seizing the moment of relative privacy in the midst of the masses, Soren leaned a fraction of an inch toward Eris.
"You look breathtaking," he whispered.
His voice was a low, intimate rumble, intended for her ears alone. It wasn’t the Emperor speaking; it was the man who had spent the night drowning in thoughts of her.
Eris didn’t move a muscle, but Soren saw the way her breath hitched. Her heart skipped a beat, a flash of warmth flooding her cheeks that had nothing to do with her internal fire. Don’t react, she commanded herself. Stay composed.
But she was failing.
