Chapter 30: Ch 30: The Duchess’s Duty

Ch 30: The Duchess’s Duty

A week had passed. Orion’s recovery was progressing. He could walk short distances on his own now, though he tired easily. The bandage was gone from his head, leaving only a thin, healing line of stitches beneath his hair. The bruise on his temple had faded to a faint yellow smudge.

He and Abel had settled into a new routine. Mornings in the chair by the window. Afternoons taking slow, careful walks in the private walled garden just outside their suite, Abel hovering at his elbow like an anxious guardian. Evenings by the fire, talking or sitting in quiet companionship.

The outside world—the world of the Duke, of Ashford, of consequences—had felt very far away. It was a peaceful bubble.

The bubble popped on a cool, grey afternoon.

Orion was sitting in his armchair, a light blanket over his knees. Abel was on the floor beside him, meticulously arranging a set of painted wooden blocks. He was building a tower, his tongue caught in concentration.

There was a knock at the door. Not the quick, familiar tap of a maid. This was a firm, deliberate sound.

"Come in," Orion called.

The door opened. Duchess Eleanor stood there, poised and immaculate as always in a gown of dove-grey wool. Her hands were clasped neatly in front of her. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of polite concern.

Abel looked up, his face brightening for a second before confusion set in. "Mother?"

"Abel, my dear," she said, her voice soft but carrying an undeniable edge of command. "Would you be so kind as to go to the kitchen? Cook has made those honey cakes you like. You can fetch a plate for yourself and Orion."

It was a clear dismissal. A gentle one, but a dismissal all the same.

Abel’s smile faltered. He looked from his mother to Orion, uncertainty in his eyes. He didn’t want to leave. He’d gotten used to being Orion’s constant shadow, his protector.

"It’s alright, Abel," Orion said, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring nod. "Go ahead. I’ll be right here."

Reluctantly, Abel got to his feet. He brushed the wood dust from his trousers. He gave his mother a wary glance, then leaned down and pressed a quick, clumsy kiss to the top of Orion’s head. "I’ll be fast," he whispered.

Then he shuffled out, closing the door softly behind him.

The room felt colder without him. Larger. Emptier.

The Duchess glided further into the room. She did not sit. She stood near the fireplace, looking down at Orion with those calm, sea-grey eyes. She surveyed him, his chair, the blanket, the simple domesticity of the scene.

"You are looking better, Consort," she said finally. "Master Arlen gives a favorable report."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Orion replied, keeping his voice neutral. He waited. He knew this wasn’t a social call.

She was silent for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the window. "I have come to inform you of the Duke’s decision regarding Ashford."

Orion’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been waiting for this. Dreading it, maybe.

"He has been punished," Eleanor said, her tone flat, recitative. "His quarterly allowance has been suspended. He is confined to the east wing for the remainder of the season. His access to the stables and the guard’s training yard has been revoked."

She listed the punishments like items on a ledger. Each one sounded significant. Suspended allowance. Confinement. Loss of privileges.

Orion listened. A cold, heavy feeling began to settle in his chest.

The Duchess paused, her eyes meeting his again. "It is a substantial reproach. A clear mark of his father’s displeasure."

Orion just looked at her. The words hung in the air between them. Substantial. Clear.

But they weren’t, were they?

No public censure. No formal disinheritance, even temporary. No banishment from the estate. No real, tangible consequence that matched the crime—the attempted murder of the heir’s spouse.

An allowance cut. For a man who would one day control the entire Valerian fortune. Confinement to a wing of his own palace. It was a slap on the wrist. A scolding. For pushing someone down a flight of stone stairs.

The cold feeling in Orion’s chest spread, icing over his veins. He understood. He understood perfectly.

"Because he’s the only one left," Orion said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

Eleanor’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. A flicker of something—pain, acknowledgment, irritation—passed behind her eyes before the placid mask slid back into place. She did not confirm it. She did not deny it.

"Abel’s condition is... what it is," she said, her voice dropping to a hushed, delicate tone, as if speaking of a fatal illness. "He is compromised. The succession must be secured. The family’s future cannot rest on... uncertainty."

Each word was a carefully placed stone, building a wall of cold, hard logic. Abel was broken. Therefore, Ashford, however flawed, however cruel, was indispensable. He was the only viable heir. You do not cripple your only remaining horse, no matter how ill-tempered it is.

The injustice of it was so vast it felt like a physical pressure in the room. Ashford would face no real justice because Abel’s mind had been stolen from him. Abel’s tragedy became Ashford’s shield.

Orion felt sick.

The Duchess took a small, precise step closer. Her scent of lavender and linen felt stifling. "Which brings me to your duty, Consort."

Orion looked up at her, dread coiling in his gut.

"Your primary function, now more than ever, is clear," she continued, her gaze direct and unflinching. "You must secure the lineage. You must carry Abel’s child."

The words landed like blows. Function. Duty. Carry Abel’s child.

They were stripping Abel down to a single biological purpose. A stud. A source of seed. And reducing Orion himself to a vessel. A political incubator.

"How?" The word burst from Orion before he could stop it, raw and disbelieving. "In case you haven’t noticed, Abel doesn’t... he doesn’t understand that. He plays with blocks. He’s afraid of loud noises. How exactly am I supposed to..." He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The vulgar mechanics of it were horrifying when applied to Abel’s innocent, trusting nature.

A faint flush of discomfort colored the Duchess’s pale cheeks, but her composure didn’t break. "That is a... practical difficulty," she conceded, as if discussing a faulty irrigation system. "One you will be expected to manage. Gently. With persuasion. It is for the good of the family. For Abel’s own legacy."

Gently. With persuasion. She made it sound so simple. So clinical. Just guide the confused, childlike giant to perform the act, collect the necessary result, and all will be well.

Orion saw it with brutal clarity. They would have him coax Abel, manipulate him, perhaps even trick him, into an intimacy he couldn’t possibly comprehend, all to extract an heir from his body. They would use Abel’s trust, his love, against him. They would turn the purest thing in Orion’s life into a transaction. A breeding.

The nausea rose, bitter in his throat. He wasn’t just a pawn anymore. He was to become a procurer. And Abel was to be livestock.

"And if I refuse?" Orion heard himself ask, his voice strangely hollow.

The Duchess’s eyes turned to frost. "There is no refusal. This is the purpose of your marriage. This is why you are here. Your family agreed to it. We agreed to it." She paused, letting the weight of the alliance, the contracts, the sheer inevitability sink in. "An heir from Abel’s line stabilizes everything. It provides a focus. A future. It might even... temper Ashford’s ambitions, in time."

So that was the final, ugly piece. A baby wasn’t just an heir. It was a tool. A potential counterweight to Ashford. A new piece on the board to be manipulated.

She looked at him, seeing the revulsion and despair he couldn’t fully hide. For a second, something almost like pity touched her features, but it was quickly buried under layers of duty. "It is not a pleasant reality, Orion. But it is our reality. You would do well to accept it. For your own peace, and for his."

With that, she gave a slight, formal nod. "Continue your recovery. We will speak of this again when you are at full strength."

She turned and walked to the door, her movements silent and graceful. She opened it, paused, and glanced back. "Do try to enjoy the honey cakes. Abel will be so pleased to bring them to you."

Then she was gone, closing the door with a soft, definitive click.

Orion sat frozen in his chair. The gentle crackle of the fire was the only sound. The cozy room felt like a beautifully furnished prison cell.

He looked at the blanket on his lap. At the blocks Abel had left in a half-finished tower. He thought of Abel’s warm, trusting eyes. His joyful laugh. The way he kissed with sweet, clumsy sincerity.

Gently. With persuasion.

A violent shudder ran through him. He clenched his fists in the blanket, his knuckles turning white.

This was worse than any insult, any snub from Ashford. This was a violation planned in calm, polite tones. It was treating the man he was coming to love as a thing. A useful object. And treating himself as just another part of the machine.

The cold fury that settled in his bones was different from the hot anger he’d felt on the stairs. This was deep, quiet, and absolute.

They thought Abel was useless except for one function. They thought Orion was compliant, a vessel to be filled with duty.

As he sat there in the silent room, waiting for the sound of Abel’s returning footsteps, a new resolve hardened within him, sharp and clear as ice.

He would protect Abel. Not just from stairs and bullies. He would protect him from this. From his own family’s cold, calculating plans.

They would not turn his husband into a breeding stock.

They would not turn their marriage into a farmyard chore.

Let them have their fragile heir in Ashford. Let them scheme.

Orion would find another way. Or he would burn their careful, cruel plans to the ground trying.

The door opened. Abel bustled in, his face alight, carefully balancing a plate piled with golden honey cakes. "Look! I got the best ones! And I didn’t drop any!"

He knelt by Orion’s chair, holding up the plate like an offering, his eyes full of simple, proud love.

Orion looked down at him. His heart ached with a terrible, fierce tenderness. He reached out and took a cake, forcing a smile onto his face.

"They look perfect," he said, his voice only trembling a little.

Abel beamed, utterly unaware of the cage that had just been described around their future, of the duty that loomed over them like a shadow.

Orion ate the sweet cake. It tasted like ash. And he made a silent promise to the man kneeling at his feet.

Never. I will never let them use you like that. No matter what.