Here is the translation of the second night at the inn, maintaining the high emotional stakes and the dark, atmospheric tone of your narrative.
The Second Night: Ghosts of the Past
The second night at the inn arrived, and it was heavier than the first. The storm outside was no longer just wind and snow; it sounded like the howling of hungry wolves gnawing at the wooden walls. Inside Room Number Four, the air was thick, saturated with the scent of burning pine and an eerie silence that separated the bed from the fireplace.
Lilian lay on the far edge of the bed, buried under fur blankets up to her chin, but her body wouldn't stop shivering. It wasn't just the cold; the psychological exhaustion of weeks of planning, the violent confrontation with her family, and the brutal journey had all conspired to defeat her fragile frame. Fever began to seep into her mind, turning her dreams into a battlefield.
On the other side, Alistair lay with his arm behind his head, his eyes open, staring at the darkened wooden ceiling. He could hear her ragged breathing and feel the restless movements of her body.
"Are you alright?" he asked in a low voice that pierced the stillness.
Lilian didn't answer. He thought she was asleep, but her breathing was growing faster and heavier, as if she were running... or fleeing.
In truth, Lilian had fallen into the abyss. The fever had dragged Anna's consciousness away and cast it into the dark corners of the "Original Lilian's" memory—the place the author hadn't written in detail, the place where she died alone.
[The Nightmare: The Cold Cell]
There was no longer a warm bed. The floor was stone, damp, and the smell of mold filled her lungs. She could hear a sound outside... rhythmic wooden hammering. They were building the platform. They were preparing the guillotine.
Lilian felt a blood-chilling terror. She imagined the cold blade, the stares of the rabble, and the sound of their mockery.
"No... I don't want to go out..." she murmured in her sleep, shrinking into herself.
Then she saw a shadow approaching. The original heroine. The only face that had shown pity. Lilian gripped the prison bars with a strength that bloodied her hands in the dream:
"Give it to me... please! Don't let them drag me to the square! I don't want my father to hear the sound of the blade severing my neck... He didn't come to save me, but I don't want him to see my blood... Give me the poison!"
She took the vial. Her hands were shaking. She looked at the stone wall as if addressing her absent family: "Why? Father... Cayden... why the silence? Is my death so convenient for you? I will drink it... I will rid you of the shame... just don't send me to the guillotine."
She drank the poison.
It wasn't as peaceful as she had hoped. It was liquid fire. She felt her insides tearing apart. She fell to the floor, writhing, suffocating, trying to scream without a voice. She was dying, and in her final moments, she imagined her father and brothers standing in the palace, silent, waiting for the news of her death with cold indifference.
[The Reality: The Inn]
"Father! Don't leave me to them!"
Lilian bolted upright in bed with a piercing scream that shattered the night's silence.
Alistair sat up instantly, his eyes widening in shock. Lilian was writhing violently, thrashing the air with her hands as if pushing away something invisible. Her face was deathly pale and covered in a thick layer of cold sweat.
"Lilian!" he called out, reaching for her shoulder. Her skin was burning. "You're on fire... wake up!"
But she wasn't with him. She was still there, in the cell. She grabbed Alistair's wrist with desperate strength, her nails digging into his skin. Her glazed eyes looked at him with terror, yet they didn't recognize him.
"The blade..." she whispered in a raspy, tear-filled voice. "Don't take me to the square... the poison is better... it burns... but it's better than their eyes..."
Alistair froze. The words coming from her were fragmented but horrifying. A blade? A square? Poison?
Then she began to cry—a bitter, heartbreaking sob as she curled into a ball: "Father... why didn't you come? Why did you let them judge me? I'm scared... I'm so alone..."
Alistair felt something fracture in his chest. He didn't know the specifics of her delirium, but he understood the core: this girl had been threatened with death. She was terrified of a sentence, of a "blade," and had resorted to something... poison? Had she tried to commit suicide to escape them? Or had they forced her?
Her spasms intensified, and she began to gasp as if the air were running out. Alistair moved on pure instinct. He didn't act as a Duke, but as a man seeing his wife crumble. He pulled her forcefully from the covers and pulled her trembling body against his broad chest. He locked her in his powerful arms, pinning her head against his shoulder to prevent her from hurting herself.
"Shhh... there is no blade, and there is no poison," he said in a deep, firm voice, stroking his large hand over her sweat-soaked hair. "You aren't in a cell. Open your eyes... you are with me."
She fought him at first, hitting his chest with her weak fists, crying out: "It hurts! My stomach hurts! Help me!"
"I'm here... I'm here," Alistair repeated, tightening his arms around her to absorb her tremors into his own body. "Endure it, Lilian. Breathe."
He stayed like that for long minutes, rocking her gently as a mother rocks a feverish child, whispering soothing words he had never used in his entire military life.
"No one will touch you... I swear to you... I will cut off the hand of anyone who tries to take you to any square. Sleep now... sleep."
Slowly, the nightmare's hold began to fade, replaced by the exhaustion of the fever. Her tensed body relaxed in his arms, and her screams turned into faint, intermittent whimpers. She leaned her heavy head against his chest, where the strong, steady beat of his heart was the only sound in the room.
Alistair stayed awake, his back against the headboard, with her slumbering in his arms like a bird with a broken wing. He wiped the sweat from her brow and looked at her sleeping face, which still bore the traces of terror.
His mind was boiling with questions and rage. What did they do to you, Everberg?
He had heard her begging her father; he had heard her accusing him of silence. He understood now that her coldness in the Capital wasn't arrogance—it was a shield to protect herself from a family that had abandoned her so thoroughly that she preferred "poison" over their judgment.
Alistair mistakenly believed her family had tried to kill her with poison or forced it upon her. He didn't know the poison had been her own secret choice in a different life, but his conclusion was enough to fill him with a crushing desire to destroy anyone who had caused her this fear.
He tucked the blanket around her and instinctively kissed the top of her head, whispering into the dark:
"The reign of fear is over, Lilian. You are a Lioness of the North now... and the beasts here do not get eaten."
[The Next Morning]
When Lilian woke up, the light was painfully bright. She tried to move but found herself pinned.
She blinked several times to clear her vision. She was sleeping not on a pillow, but pressed against Alistair's body. Her head rested in the crook of his neck, his heavy leg trapped hers under the covers, and his arm encircled her waist in a total show of possession.
The blood froze in her veins. What happened?
Flashes of memory returned. Excruciating pain... darkness... and the voice of a man saying, "No one will touch you."
Was that him?
She lifted her head very slowly to find his gray eyes already open, watching her with a strange calm. There was no mockery today, no coldness. It was a look that felt... heavy.
"G... Good morning," she whispered in a hoarse voice, trying to pull away, but his arm didn't budge.
"Don't move too fast," he said huskily. "You were delirious all night. The fever nearly killed you."
Lilian felt shame wash over her. "I apologize... did I say anything... foolish?"
Alistair sat up halfway, allowing her to pull back slightly, but his eyes never left her.
"You spoke of a guillotine... of a father who didn't come... and of poison that burns your insides."
Lilian turned pale. She pressed her hand to her mouth. My God, did I reveal the secret of the novel?
Alistair noticed her fear and interpreted it in his own way. He leaned toward her, his features hardening with lethal seriousness:
"Lilian... did your father try to kill you? Did they force you to drink something before you came to me?"
Lilian blinked in bewilderment. He thinks they tried to kill her?
She thought quickly. She couldn't tell him the truth (that she was from a novel), and this false interpretation might actually protect her. However, Lilian's pride prevented her from playing the total victim.
She lowered her gaze to her hands. "They didn't force me into anything... but they left me. Sometimes silence is as deadly as poison, Alistair. In my dream, I saw what I always feared... that I would die and no one would care."
A long silence followed. Alistair reached out and, in a rare gesture, gently lifted her chin.
"You have no need to fear that anymore."
He said it with the tone of an absolute vow.
"In my castle, no one dies in silence. And if anyone from your family dares to approach you with ill intent... I will remind them why they call me the Executioner of the North."
He rose from the bed, returning to his usual coldness as he donned his shirt, but the air between them had changed forever.
"Prepare yourself. We leave immediately. I want you in the castle before sunset... where I can protect you properly."
Lilian watched him move and felt something strange in her chest. It wasn't love yet, but it was a sense of gratitude... and safety. He had seen her at her worst—defeated and terrified—and instead of mocking her, he had protected her.
Perhaps, just perhaps, the beast wasn't as frightening as the stories said.