Claimed by the vampire prince

Chapter 435: Chapter 435

Their grips were tight, fingers digging into her arms like iron shackles. No matter how Mirelle twisted or struggled, there was no breaking free. Still, she fought them, even as they dragged her back toward the gates. A small crowd had already gathered there, more guards and at the very center of it all stood Nieah, her face set in a rigid mask of barely contained fury.

Ragnar rode ahead of them. He had not spoken a single word since condemning Mirelle to the dungeons. His silence now was like a dark omen of the fate that awaited her.

When they reached the gates, Nieah was the first to step forward. She stopped less than an arm’s length away from Mirelle, her anger palpable in the tight set of her jaw and the fire burning in her eyes.

"Are you aware of what you have done, the trouble you have caused?" Nieah demanded, her voice sharp.

Mirelle said nothing. What was the point? She could protest until she became blue in the face, could swear her innocence until she collapsed, but it would change nothing. She had already been caught, already condemned in their eyes. And Nieah, standing before her now, did not look like a woman who entertained mercy.

But it was that very silence, her refusal to answer that seemed to snap the last thread of Nieah’s restraint.

Before Mirelle could even brace herself, Nieah’s hand struck her across the face with a sharp crack. The force of it sent her head snapping to the side, her vision momentarily blurring. Then came another blow just as fierce, landing on her opposite cheek, leaving a burning sting in its wake.

Yet it still was not enough to quell Nieah’s fury.

"You evil wench, you had no right!" Nieah snarled.

The first slap gave way to many. Nieah rained blows upon her, each strike fueled by something deeper than anger alone. The fear and helplessness she had felt as she watched Circe in agony, all of it poured into the violence she unleashed. To her, Mirelle was no longer just a woman, she was the embodiment of Circe’s suffering, the cause of it.

Mirelle’s world blurred beneath the assault. Her lip split under the force of a strike, the taste of blood flooding her mouth. Pain blossomed across her face as bruises began to form on her skin. At one point, Nieah seized her by the hair, yanking her head back with brutal force as her nails scraped across her cheek, leaving angry, stinging trails behind.

Yet Mirelle could do nothing. The guards held her firmly in place. She could not raise a hand in defense, could not even recoil properly from the blows. All she could do was endure it, stand there and take every ounce of hatred Nieah hurled at her.

It was almost bitterly ironic. She and Circe had so much in common, both Westerian, both affected by the same war, both unable to return to their Homeland. By all reason, those shared similarities should have drawn them together, should have fostered understanding, perhaps even loyalty.

Instead, it had led them here.

Nieah’s fury burned too brightly for her to notice the man approaching from behind until it was too late.

"That’s enough. You will hurt yourself," a voice said firmly.

She glanced behind her and saw it was Casilo. free𝑤ebnovel.com

He wrapped one arm around her, attempting to pull her back, while his other hand reached to restrain her flailing strikes. But the more he tried to drag her away, the more she resisted, her stubbornness only intensifying as she lashed out harder at Mirelle.

Realizing that force alone would not suffice, Casilo changed his tactics. In one swift motion, he hoisted Nieah over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The sudden shift startled her into a brief speechlessness before she erupted again, thrashing against his hold as he turned and began striding back toward the manor.

"The princess is kind and good!" Nieah shrieked. "She has never done anything to you! I hope you suffer for what you did—I hope His Highness strips the flesh from your bones!"

Her words lingered long after she was carried out of sight, but they did nothing to lessen the heavy tension that remained.

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Ragnar paced restlessly in front of his chamber doors. The waiting was unbearable. Every passing second stretched into an eternity, tightening the invisible grip around his chest.

Inside, the physician tended to Circe.

Outside, Ragnar felt as though his heart was being crushed in a merciless fist.

His hands trembled at his sides, betraying the storm of fear and anxiety coursing through him. His thoughts were a chaotic tangle, circling endlessly around the same terrifying possibility.

Circe... and the child.

He had not even known she was carrying his child until now. The knowledge had come too late, delivered alongside the horrifying realization that he might lose them both in the same breath.

The chamber doors suddenly opened.

Ragnar stopped mid-step, his entire body going rigid before he surged forward, closing the distance between himself and the physician in hurried strides. His breath caught in his throat as he searched the man’s face.

Ragnar felt the air rush back into his lungs as his biggest fear was finally laid to rest.

Circe had not miscarried.

Relief washed over him like a wave so powerful it nearly brought him to his knees. For a brief moment, the crushing weight inside his chest lifted.

"She is weak," the physician continued, his tone measured, "but the danger has passed, for both her and the child. She must rest. The toxins have taken their toll, but with proper care and the tonics I have prescribed, she will recover."

Ragnar nodded eagerly, gratefully. His gaze drifted past the physician into the dimly lit room beyond.

Circe lay motionless upon the bed, her form weak and fragile against the sheets. Even in rest, she looked exhausted, her usual strength diminished, her face pale beneath the soft light.

Once the physician took his leave, Ragnar stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him, sealing the room in silence.

Circe barely stirred. She remained lost to sleep, oblivious to his presence.