The Jilted Elf Heiress And Her Revenge

Julisa POV:

My husband of one year, Darryl Parrish, finally returned triumphant from the Abyssal war. I had joyfully prepared a grand banquet to welcome him home, only to watch him walk in with Birgitta Rush, a female Warlord, her arm wrapped intimately around his. Right there in the center of the hall, he demanded that I step aside and make room for his 'true love.'

"Look at her bare hands," one of the maids whispered loudly to the others by the fungal walls, snickering behind her sleeve. "Thought she was some high-born noble lady. Now she's just a Spiritless cast-off without even an Oath Ring. Pathetic."

My fingers curled so tightly around the stem of my crystal wine goblet that my knuckles turned bone-white.

I stared dead at the man I had waited an entire year for.

"Darryl, what kind of joke are you playing?" I spoke, my voice trembling uncontrollably, carrying a pathetic sense of disbelief even to my own ears. "Exactly one year ago, at the Naming pool, you swore an oath on your Tree Spirit. You said I was your only..."

"Shut up, Julisa." Darryl's triumphant smile vanished. He furrowed his brows, a flash of impatience crossing his gray-brown eyes. "Don't kill the buzz in front of my soldiers."

He exhaled a breath heavy with the foul stench of demon blood, looking down at me with pure condescension.

"I just secured Stag Valley for this clan. It was Birgitta who fought side by side with me in the mud. We have a soul resonance that a fragile woman like you, who only belongs in the inner keep, couldn't possibly understand."

He lifted his chin. "I am allowing you to keep your title as first matron, and you should be tilting your neck to thank me."

"Thanking you?" A sour, burning ache swelled in my eyes, and my heart felt like it was being brutally crushed by an invisible hand.

I fought hard against the choke in my voice, staring him down. "For spending my dead father's Silverdew to boost your ego? Or for making me work like a mule day and night to feed your sick mother, while you were out 'fighting side by side' with another woman?!"

Those words accurately pierced Darryl's fragile and insecure nerves. His face flushed instantly, twisted by pure, vicious fury.

He took a heavy step forward, his Warlord-rank pressure vibrating through the floorboards. He dropped his voice into a cruel, venomous hiss meant to tear my soul apart.

"You think you're still some high-and-mighty noble daughter of Clan Richardson?" he sneered, his words dripping with poison.

"Wake up, Julisa! Your father and six brothers died holding the Rift three years ago. And your mother, your sister-in-law, even your two-year-old nephew-they perished in the Abyssal hellfire! Their souls were torn apart by demon claws right inside your ancestral manor! You're the only one left! You're a cursed orphan with a dead bloodline! A Spiritless weakling! Letting you stay in Parrish Keep is the greatest mercy you'll ever get!"

The words hit me like a heavy warhammer point-blank to the chest.

The memories of that blood-soaked manor, of the demon fire consuming my family, ripped through my mind in a frantic, agonizing tear. This was the deepest, most devastating wound in my soul.

And now, the husband I once trusted unconditionally was ruthlessly ripping it open in front of a hall full of servants, pouring coarse salt on it just to protect his pathetic ego.

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard that I tasted the heavy metallic tang of blood.

But in that very second, the heart-shredding agony suddenly stopped. Looking at Darryl's face, which had become hideous from sheer malice, all the illusions I had of him shattered to dust in my mind.

I finally realized that the man standing before me wasn't worth a single drop of my tears. My entire year of sacrifice had been fed to a cold-blooded beast.

"Darryl's right," Birgitta said, stepping forward, still holding onto his arm. She wore her gleaming Warlord armor, radiating a sharp, martial elegance. She looked straight at me, speaking with a blunt, unapologetic tone. "He needs a real Warlord by his side, but I'm not a jealous woman. I'm totally fine with you staying in the rear courtyard to manage the house and raise our future children. As long as you recognize your place, we can coexist."

"Julisa, watch your attitude!"

Dowager Lady Beulah, Darryl's mother, suddenly marched into the hall supported by two maids, her face twisted in a severe scowl.

"Birgitta is a heroine! Just by speaking with her, my withered Tree Spirit feels so much better! You should be grateful we didn't throw you out to the demons in the Low Marches!"

I stared at the three of them. A wave of pure, absurd mockery washed over me, burning away the last ounce of weakness in my heart.

Heroine? Felt better?

Just last night, when Beulah was convulsing in agony, it was me who stayed awake for twenty hours, feeding her the diluted Silverdew I bought with my own dowry just to keep her breathing.

I looked down at the crystal wine goblet in my hand. Then, I raised my arm and, with violent, resolute force, slammed the crystal hard onto the stone floor.

Smash!

The sharp, heavy crash cut through the hall like a thunderclap, sending glass shards and red wine flying everywhere, instantly plunging the room into a dead silence. Darryl stood frozen, his eyes wide in shock.

"Coexist?" I looked up, sweeping my gaze past Birgitta's shocked face before landing coldly on Darryl.

My voice no longer trembled; instead, it was laced with a deadly, freezing calm. "I'd rather smash this keep to pieces."

Darryl's hands balled into fists, his chest heaving as the reality of the public humiliation hit him.

"Let's get this straight. I am done being your free maid, and I am done letting you bleed my father's legacy dry," I said, staring straight into his eyes, enunciating every word and looking at him like a piece of trash.

"Our Naming pool vows are dead. We are done, Darryl. Don't ever expect me to look back."

I didn't wait for their reaction. I turned on my heel, pushed the heavy timber doors open, and stormed out into the biting, mist-shrouded night of the High Court.

The freezing wind dried the very last tear I had shed out of pure stupidity.

Suddenly, I slammed hard into a solid wall of muscle and cold metal.

A pair of massive, steady hands gripped my shoulders, keeping me from falling backward. A sharp, overwhelming scent of frost, dark pine, and an ancient, suffocating Sovereign pressure washed over me.

In that exact split second, the bare skin of my ringless left finger suddenly burned with an inexplicable, searing heat-a phantom pulse echoing deep within my dormant blood.

"Watch your step," a deep, gravelly voice rumbled above my head, the vibration traveling right through my chest, making the strange heat on my finger throb even harder.

I was so drained by that absolute severing of ties that I couldn't care less. I didn't look up to see his face, nor did I look at his armor.

I just gently pulled away from his grip, muttered a low "Thank you," and walked straight into the dark.