The Archduke's Songbird-Chapter 272: A Sword Through Her Soul

Bernard’s mother stood by the door of the small, rustic cottage, her hand clutching her chest as if trying to hold together the shattered pieces of her heart. Her face was streaked with tears, the droplets falling unheeded as she murmured to herself, "I needed to do this... I am doing this for everyone’s sake..." Her words were a desperate mantra, a feeble attempt to justify the unbearable reality that was unraveling before her.

Just a few paces away, Bernard—normally a towering figure of strength with a body built like a fortress—looked heartbreakingly small and fragile as he crouched on the ground. His knees, once so strong, trembled uncontrollably.

He was slumped against the ancient oak tree in front of the house, its rough bark pressing against his back as he coughed violently, the sound ragged and wet. Each cough sent more blood spilling from his nose and mouth, the crimson liquid staining his skin, pooling on the ground. It was as though the life was being violently expelled from his body, bit by agonizing bit.

Isadora, her heart pounding with terror, rushed to his side, dropping to her knees beside him. Bernard’s blood-soaked hand reached out for hers, his touch light, trembling. He looked at her with eyes full of sorrow and apology, his once vibrant gaze now dulled by the shadow of death that loomed ever closer.

"What happe—happened?" Isadora’s voice broke as she cradled his face, her hands trembling. The pain in her chest was so intense, it felt as though she was being torn apart from the inside. She wanted to do something, anything, to help him, but she felt paralyzed by the overwhelming agony that gripped her.

Bernard tried to speak, but all that came out was more blood. It gushed from his mouth with each cough, as if his body was betraying him, expelling his very essence in a final, desperate bid to cling to life. The sight was so horrifying, so utterly wrong, that it felt like a nightmare from which Isadora could not wake.

"Milady!" Isadora’s voice was shrill with panic as she called out for Jessamyn. "Help me! Please, help me!"

Jessamyn, who had been standing a few feet away, frozen by the horror of what she was witnessing, snapped out of her daze at Isadora’s cry for help. Her heart pounded in her chest as she rushed to Bernard’s side. The sight of this strong man, reduced to a shadow of himself, coughing up blood like it was his very soul escaping his body, sent a chill through her that she could hardly bear.

Together, she and Isadora managed to help Bernard sit up, his body slumping heavily between them. His skin was cold, clammy, and rapidly losing color. Jessamyn gently cupped his face, her fingers trembling as she searched his eyes, desperate to understand what had happened.

"What did you give him?" Jessamyn’s voice was sharp as she looked up at Bernard’s mother, who was still standing by the door, her eyes vacant with shock. Jessamyn could smell something faint on Bernard’s breath, a bitter, acrid scent that spoke of poison, though she couldn’t quite place it.

But before she could get a response, Bernard’s mother turned abruptly and rushed back into the cottage, the sound of a pot clattering to the floor echoing through the still air.

"He’s poisoned, Isadora," Jessamyn whispered urgently, trying to stay calm for Isadora’s sake. "It’s a cocktail of many potent poisons. We have to find the antidote..." Her mind raced as she stood, determination setting her features into a mask of resolve. Bernard didn’t have much time, and the antidote could be their only hope.

She quickly followed Bernard’s mother into the cottage, her heart pounding in her ears. The dim light inside revealed a scene of even greater despair. Bernard’s mother was kneeling on the floor, her face twisted in agony as she cradled her daughter, Beatrice, in her lap. Beatrice was curled up, her body convulsing as blood poured from her mouth and nose, much like her brother’s.

"Beatrice! Why did you do that? Why?" Bernard’s mother wailed, her voice thick with grief. She rocked back and forth, clutching Beatrice’s limp body, her tears falling like rain onto her daughter’s pale face.

Jessamyn’s breath caught in her throat, her hands shaking as she realized the gravity of the situation. Whatever poison had been fed to Bernard had now also been ingested by Beatrice.

Jessamyn’s stomach turned with dread. She had hoped, prayed even, that Bernard’s mother might have the antidote hidden away, but the woman’s despair told a different story.

"Where’s the antidote?" Jessamyn’s voice trembled as she tried to make sense of the chaos, her eyes desperately searching the room for any sign of hope. Poison-makers often kept antidotes close at hand, but the more she looked at Bernard’s mother, the more hopeless the situation seemed.

But her words fell on deaf ears. Bernard’s mother was too consumed by grief, too lost in her sorrow to hear Jessamyn’s pleas. "Why, my child? I raised you with everything I had. Why did you have to do this?" she sobbed, clutching Beatrice tighter as though she could somehow bring her back from the brink.

Jessamyn felt her heart plummet into her stomach as the realization set in. There might not be an antidote after all. The thought made her feel dizzy, the room spinning as the weight of the situation bore down on her.

"I’ll go with my brother..." Beatrice’s voice was faint, barely more than a breath as she whispered her last words, her eyes fluttering shut as the finality of death claimed her.

Jessamyn’s hands shook uncontrollably as she turned and fled from the cottage. Bernard was still outside, fighting for his last breath, his life slipping away with each passing moment.

She heard the distant sound of hooves pounding against the earth and prayed with all her might that it was Jerrick coming to save them. Her husband was skilled in medicine—if anyone could save Bernard, it would be him.

Isadora was still holding Bernard close to her chest, her voice a broken whisper as she clung to him. "You’re not leaving me, Bernard... You are not... You can’t..."

Her words were desperate, frantic, as though sheer willpower could keep Bernard tethered to this world. But her eyes... Jessamyn saw it, the emptiness creeping into Isadora’s gaze, the way her hands trembled violently even as she tried to keep Bernard close.

It was as though Isadora was slowly losing her grip on reality, the horror of what was happening too much for her to bear.

Looking at Isadora, Jessamyn understood the phrase--Sword through the soul.