Reborn I Refuse To Save The Traitors (Margaery) novel Chapter 177

**TITLE: Whispers Shape Distant Tomorrows by Aren Cole Vale**

**Chapter 177**

His voice resonated with clarity and warmth, reminiscent of moonlight cascading over a pristine blanket of snow.

Yet, beneath the surface of that melodic tone, an undercurrent of lethal intent lingered, a stark contrast to his youthful visage and gentle demeanor. It was a subtle presence that cast a somber shadow over those waiting outside the door. “Yes, Your Highness. I will ensure it is taken care of,” came the reply, tinged with a hint of trepidation.

In that moment, Margaery should have felt a flicker of fear, ensnared in such an embrace.

But instead, a profound sense of security enveloped her, wrapping around her like a warm cloak.

It coursed through her veins like molten lava, igniting her spirit and soothing her soul.

With a newfound conviction, she mused, from this day forward, the world would never feel so frigid and unwelcoming.

“Furthermore,” a shadowy figure reported from beyond the door, “Prince Callium has also procured individuals to eliminate Lady Margaery.”

“However, this time there is an additional target—Russell from next door.”

Margaery’s gaze instinctively shifted toward the wall that separated her from the adjacent room.

Though the barrier obscured her view, she could vividly recall the haunting memory of her previous life when Russell had deceived her into returning home. “Margaery, we all know we were wrong. Will you come home with me? I promise, no one will dare to bully you again,” he had said, his voice dripping with false sincerity.

Yet, just three days after her return, she had met her demise atop the cliff overlooking the icy pool.

‘For Tessa’s sake, they had taken it upon themselves to end my life.’

‘But this time… if Russell were aware of the events from our past life, what would transpire now that danger was pursuing them?’

A cold laugh escaped Margaery’s lips at the thought.

This was no longer her concern.

Dashnell, noticing her sudden shift in demeanor, regarded her with a mix of curiosity and concern. He pondered her peculiarities, her fragmented past, and the way her essence felt so scattered, before he tightened his embrace, whispering three simple yet powerful words, “Keep them alive.”

“Yes,” she affirmed, a determined glint in her eye.

Silence enveloped the space outside the door, a heavy stillness that suggested the gravity of their situation.

Before long, Adam entered, carrying a late-night meal that filled the air with an appetizing aroma.

Hot oatmeal, an array of side dishes, and freshly baked rolls were laid out before them. As the lid was lifted, the rich scent of buttery beans wafted through the room, igniting their appetites.

“Come on, let’s eat,” Dashnell urged, maneuvering his wheelchair toward the table.

Margaery gracefully rose from his lap, taking her place beside him. “To share a meal with Your Highness at such a late hour feels like a rare blessing,” she said, her voice laced with genuine warmth.

She didn’t crave much in the way of happiness.

This moment, simple yet profound, was more than enough for her.

“Soon,” Dashnell replied, his eyes lingering on her radiant smile, a flicker of impatience stirring within him for the first time.

He had made a promise to the King, a vow to whisk her away once their current troubles were resolved.

Yet, even someone as astute as his father could not predict the twists and turns of fate. The weight of his responsibilities often clouded his vision, leaving him ensnared in a web of obligations.

He yearned for the day when he could be with Margaery, free from the shackles of duty, perhaps even without the need to abandon everything he held dear.

For him, the choice between residing in the opulent halls of power or wandering the vast, untamed lands of the world was never truly a dilemma.

It was about seeking freedom.

The flickering candlelight danced across the table, casting a warm glow that contrasted with the turmoil bubbling beneath Dashnell’s composed exterior.

Margaery observed him, her heart swelling with affection.

In light of the imperial marriage decree, this shared moment felt extraordinarily precious. She feared that even a fleeting second apart could mean losing this fragile joy forever.

Across all her lives, both past and present, this was the first time she had experienced such profound love for another.

It wasn’t orchestrated by anyone else.

It was simply her heart, unguarded and moved.

After their meal, Dashnell excused himself to freshen up, glancing at the narrow bed that awaited them. “You take the bed, I’ll manage on the floor,” he offered, his tone unwavering.

“Or perhaps…” Margaery’s voice trailed off, her heart racing like a drum. “The bed isn’t as narrow as it seems… We could just open another room for Amber.”

In the soft glow of the candlelight, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

It wasn’t that she harbored any inappropriate thoughts about Dashnell.

She simply yearned for a few more moments in his presence.

After all, opportunities like this were fleeting.

Dashnell chuckled softly, instructing Adam to prepare another room, before he climbed onto the bed himself.

Yet, having wed the crown princess, he found himself shackled, unable to claim her as his own.

The meaning of this predicament eluded him.

His position felt precarious, lacking the foundation he needed, and now he found himself negotiating with Dashnell. “Dashnell claims he will stand by me, but only if he can take Margaery away one day.”

“So, when that moment arrives, who truly possesses the Star of Fortune? Who is the one ordained by Heaven?”

A swell of anger brewed beneath his sense of helplessness.

Even if he were to successfully ascend to the throne, the path ahead would be fraught with trials, requiring immense compromise and sacrifice.

He was a man.

He refused to accept this fate.

“Your Highness, those who achieve greatness do not concern themselves with trivial matters. It is merely a woman,” his attendant consoled, handing him a steaming cup of tea. “As the saying goes, the victor becomes king, and the loser a bandit. If you succeed and ascend, will it not all be determined by you?”

A glimmer of cunning flickered in the attendant’s eyes, a silent encouragement.

Nathaniel’s gaze met his, and understanding dawned upon him. “You’re right. The victor becomes king, and the loser a bandit.”

“As long as I claim that position, nothing else matters.”

Everything would fall under his command.

It mattered not whether it was Dashnell or Margaery.

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes, determination hardening within him.

As the night deepened, a fierce wind howled outside.

The King, meanwhile, was ensnared in a nightmare: the grand hall drenched in blood, his sons transformed into grotesque demons, their monstrous forms twisting and contorting as they clawed at one another, their malevolent gazes finally settling on him.

He jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat, heart racing.

Serena stirred beside him, concern etching her features. “Your Majesty, what troubles you? You haven’t slept soundly tonight…”

In truth, one did not need to delve deep to grasp the King’s burdens.

Yet, as a consort, she found herself unable to engage in the political intricacies. All she could do was feign ignorance. “Allow me to fetch you a calming drink…”

Suddenly, the King grasped her wrist, his grip firm yet desperate. “Serena, do you believe my sons… will one day turn against me for the throne?”