The Bride Of The Devil-Chapter 27: Is He Really The Devil

Ivan stood still amidst the ruin he had created. The stench of blood hung thick in the air, warm and metallic, clinging to his skin. Bodies lay in heaps—some twisted in pain, some still clutching weapons. Men who had screamed, begged, fought, and failed. He barely heard anything now. Just the silence after a storm.

But then—he did hear something.

A scream.

A child’s scream. A woman’s sob. A dying man’s final gasp.

His breath hitched.

The vision came over him like a wave, merciless and sudden.

He was sixteen again.

The grand halls of the palace were drenched in red. The very place that had raised him, trained him, caged him—was burning. Fire crackled in the distance. Servants ran. His sword dripped as he walked, barefoot, over the corpses of his kin. Eyes wide open. Lifeless. Unblinking. The blood soaked through his clothes, warm and sticky.

There had been no mercy that night.

The throne room had echoed with the cries of betrayal. He remembered how he hadn’t even flinched.

He looked down at his hands.

They were drenched in blood—again.

Just like that night.

"Your Highness."

The voice cut through the memory like a blade. Ivan blinked hard, the vision fading like mist.

"Your Highness, are you alright?" General Nikolai Petrov stood beside him, concern etched into his lined face.

Ivan turned his head slowly. The battlefield was quiet now. The dead remained dead.

"I’m fine," he said hoarsely, barely recognizing his own voice.

Without another word, he turned and walked away from the field, each step heavy with the weight of ghosts.

He reached a quiet river at the edge of the woods and knelt by the bank. The cold water sent shivers through him as he scrubbed at his skin, the blood refusing to let go as if it had soaked into his very bones.

As he dragged his hand down his face, he heard a rustle.

He froze.

Another sound—faint. A movement from the trees.

He grabbed his sword, rising to his feet.

Step by step, he stalked toward the sound. The leaves parted.

And there he was.

A boy.

Thin, no older than thirteen. Dirty, trembling, eyes wide with terror. His lip quivered, but he couldn’t even speak. He had no strength to beg. From the ragged clothes and terrified expression, Ivan could tell—he was a rebel’s child.

The boy stared at the sword, expecting death.

Footsteps approached from behind. Nikolai’s voice echoed faintly, calling for Ivan.

The boy flinched.

Ivan stared a moment longer, his jaw clenched tight.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sheathed his blade.

"Go," he said. "Leave. Never return to this forest again."

The boy’s legs refused to move.

Ivan took a step back, his voice colder. "Run."

And finally, the boy fled.

Just as he vanished between the trees, Nikolai emerged from the thicket. He looked around, his brows furrowing. "There you are. What were you doing?"

Ivan shrugged, his tone flat. "Washing up."

Nikolai chuckled. "No scratches on you, huh? Boris said your wife treated you up last time. Too bad you’ve got no wounds now. I guess she won’t pamper you like last time."

Ivan said nothing. He was already walking away.

They returned to the capital’s outpost, then parted ways. Ivan rode back alone in his carriage, silent.

---

A few days later — Svetlana

Lydia stared at her writing.

Her words danced mockingly on the page. Desperate. Passionate. Naïve.

How could she make them see Ivan for who he really was? Maybe if she talked to them. Maybe if they saw what she saw—the pain in his silence, the kindness in moments he thought no one was watching.

But every time she stepped out of the carriage, the villagers looked at her like she was a demon in human form. Whispers. Fear. Avoidance.

Was it the carriage? The silk gown? The title?

No one listened to the Grand Duchess. But maybe... maybe if they didn’t know she was the Grand Duchess, they might.

But how could she go alone? Ivan would never allow it. The guards would follow her. She’d be recognized instantly.

Unless... she snuck out.

She waited until the dead of night, when shadows blanketed the palace and even the guards dozed lightly. She crept through the quiet corridors, her heartbeat in her throat.

She had almost reached the back gates when—

"Lydia?"

She froze.

Katherine stood behind her, arms folded.

"You don’t have to act like a thief," she said with a sigh. "If you wanted fresh air, you could’ve just told me."

Lydia looked away, cheeks flushing.

"It’s dangerous at night," Katherine added. "How about tomorrow at dawn? I’m heading to the market—and visiting family. We could go together. Split up. Meet back in the evening?"

Lydia’s eyes lit up. She rushed forward and embraced her. "Thank you."

---

The next morning — Dawn

Katherine dressed her in a simple linen gown and dark cloak. No jewels. No hairstyle. Just a quiet village girl.

They slipped past the guards easily, stepping into the cobblestone path toward town.

The sun peeked over the hills. The market buzzed with life—vendors shouting, children laughing, chickens darting through legs. The scent of bread and spice and leather filled the air.

No one gave Lydia a second glance.

She smiled, heart light for the first time in weeks.

Katherine nudged her. "Two hours. Market square. Don’t get lost, Your Highness."

Lydia chuckled. "I won’t."

But the moment they parted, her eyes wandered to the path leading beyond the market—toward the village.

She hesitated only briefly before following it.

---

Elsewhere — Outskirts of Svetlana

Ivan and Nikolai arrived at the border.

"I’ll take my leave here," Nikolai said, hopping off his horse. He turned to Ivan and smirked. "Try not to scare your wife too much. Heard she likes you better with bruises."

Ivan didn’t smile.

"Farewell," he said simply.

Nikolai bowed slightly and turned back toward the capital.

---

Back at the village

Lydia walked quietly through the small path. Children played by wells. Smoke drifted from rooftops. She kept her cloak pulled tight.

No one noticed her.

She asked a kind woman for directions to the village head’s house and was led to a small wooden home with a slanted roof and worn steps.

She knocked.

A middle-aged woman opened the door, blinking.

"Yes?"

"I’d like to speak to the village head, please."

The woman hesitated, then opened the door wider. "He’s not home yet. Come in. Sit."

Lydia thanked her and waited.

Soon, the man returned—rough-faced, with calloused hands. A younger man walked beside him, and they spoke of the coming winter.

"It’ll be worse than last year," one said. "We might not make it through without food."

Lydia stood up. "Forgive me for interrupting. But... the royal family—my husband—has sent aid before. Why not ask again?"

The room went cold.

The village head turned. "And who might you be?"

She hesitated. Then spoke quietly. "I am Lydia. The Grand Duchess."

The silence was deafening.

The man’s eyes darkened. "Leave."

She blinked. "What? Why?"

"We want nothing from him."

"But—"

"We know you’re not like him. You’re kind. But your husband? He’s a monster. He kills without blinking. We’d rather starve than bow to a man like that."

Lydia’s voice trembled. "He’s not what you think—"

"He murdered my brother!" the younger man spat. "He was a rebel, yes, but he didn’t deserve to be butchered like an animal!"

Lydia tried again, but they turned away.

She stood in the quiet house, heart cracking slowly, as the door was held open for her.