Translator: Nox

Chapter 8

The brief window of tranquility slammed shut as a tidal wave of obligations surged back.

Elfreda found herself drowning in the minutiae of palace protocol and the grueling mathematics of the crown’s finances. The mental strain was so taxing she felt physically ill; her vision blurred with fatigue until the King’s features became a hazy memory.

There was a strange comfort in that fading image. As he slipped from her mind, she finally found a modicum of peace.

“Our focus today,” her instructor announced, “is the lineage of the crown, tracing the path from the monarchs of old to the current sovereign.”

Inevitably, history brought her face-to-face with him once more.

She turned the pages with leaden fingers, stopping abruptly when a familiar countenance stared back at her. Beside a portrait of a breathtakingly beautiful woman sat a likeness that mirrored someone she recognized, with a third image tucked just beneath them.

Elfreda tried to avert her eyes from the final portrait, but the tutor began the lecture, leaving her no choice but to listen.

She fought back a rising sense of dread and forced herself to pay attention.

“King Olaf III,” the teacher began, his tone heavy with mourning, “was a visionary strategist and a titan on the battlefield. His reign ended in tragedy at the age of thirty-one. While visiting the Kingdom of Giver for a coronation, a sudden, violent gale claimed his life.”

The instructor’s voice dipped into a somber register.

“The Queen perished alongside him. Their only legacy was a toddler, a prince of a mere three years. Consequently, the crown passed to Lord Philip, who was anointed King Philip II.”

As the narrative shifted to Philip’s rule, Elfreda felt the blood drain from her face. She knew exactly which name waited at the end of this chronicle.

“King Philip II was a man of iron will. He successfully shielded our borders from the brutal advances of the Makaeri Empire—a realm forged through raw violence and the forced subjugation of disparate tribes. However, disaster struck five years ago during a military campaign to assist the Giver Kingdom…”

The room fell silent for a beat.

“He was slain in the heat of conflict. His heir, Prince Anders, fell by his side.”

The tutor’s speech slowed, becoming rigid and deliberate.

Elfreda’s eyes burned with unshed tears. She felt the weight of the teacher’s scrutiny, a gaze so sharp it seemed to steal the air from her lungs.

“Thus, the crown returned to the sole surviving offspring of Olaf III. He sits upon the throne today.”

There was no longer any shield against the truth.

With a slight tremor in her gaze, Elfreda finally looked at the illustration she had desperately tried to ignore. It was a face of quiet power and refined grace. Even as a static work of art, the image seemed to exert a physical pull on her soul.

Her pulse throbbed against her ribs.

— Ejnar Machi.

Having finally discovered his full name, she shaped the syllables with her lips, though no sound escaped. The name felt like ash on her tongue. The historian, whose expression remained cold and judgmental, broke the silence.

“Shall we proceed to the achievements of our reigning monarch?”

---

The days dissolved into a blur, eventually giving way to the morning of the ceremony.

Perhaps she was simply hollowed out by the relentless pace of her training, or perhaps she had already abandoned any hope for a happy ending. Regardless, Elfreda faced her wedding day with a chilling, detached composure.

She did not look like a woman about to be wed; she looked like a novice entering a silent order.

“There. You are ready.”

Draped in a delicate veil of lace and a gown of modest, pristine white, Elfreda was a vision of tragic elegance.

The servants attending her couldn’t deny her beauty, though they kept their praise locked behind teeth of ice. To compliment a woman they deemed a savage would be a blow to their own dignity. They chose a different weapon instead.

“It must be quite a lonely affair,” one remarked, her voice dripping with false sympathy, “considering not a single soul from your home country bothered to attend.”

Elfreda met the mockery with a wall of silence. She was aware that a diplomatic party from Makaeri had been dispatched for the occasion, but their presence would have brought her no warmth.

The rites were held at St. Diane’s Cathedral, located just beyond the palace gates. The reality of the situation didn’t truly sink in until she was sitting in the solitude of the bridal chamber, listening to the muffled sounds of the gathering.

The moment arrived. With a mask of perfect indifference, she began her walk down the aisle.

“I present the Princess of Makaeri, Elfreda Makaeri.”

The doors swung wide, and a wall of pure animosity hit her. The glares from the congregation were so sharp she felt as though she were being physically stifled. Every step was a battle against the urge to flee or collapse.

When she finally reached the altar, she was struggling for breath.

Only then, amidst the sea of judging eyes, did she notice him. He was watching her, his striking features fixed upon her face.

Her heart hammered against her chest.

The calm she had maintained during the procession shattered instantly. Her pulse raced with a frantic energy she couldn’t suppress. Elfreda swallowed hard and looked away, feeling the irrational guilt of a criminal caught in the act.

“On this radiant day, before the noble house of Machi…”

The priest began the liturgy, but he faltered almost immediately. He seemed to stumble over the task of finding a polite way to introduce Elfreda to the record.

He cleared his throat and tried again.

“…A maiden from a faraway land joins us to forge a new union.”

It was a small mercy that he avoided the word ‘barbarian.’ To insult the bride too deeply would be to insult the King who had chosen her. On such a formal stage, even hatred had to be dressed in civility.

As the hollow ceremony droned on, Elfreda’s mouth went dry. She stole a glance at the man standing beside her. He looked bored, his attention drifting far from the priest’s monotonous voice.

She wondered what was hidden behind that mask. Did he resent being bound to a woman from the culture that had claimed his uncle’s life?

The history lesson had made the depth of his likely loathing painfully clear.

And yet, despite the logic of the situation, her heart refused to remain steady. It was a traitorous, shameful thing, thumping so loudly she feared he might hear it. She gripped the fabric of her skirt, cursing the frantic rhythm of her own body.

“Do you, the groom, vow to love and protect this woman as your wife for all your days?”

“I do.”

The answer was clipped and devoid of any warmth. To Elfreda, the coldness was a relief; a sincere vow would have been a far more painful deception.

“And do you, the bride, vow to love and honor this man as your husband for all your days?”

She felt a flicker of panic.

Her eyes drifted toward Ejnar of their own accord. Their gazes locked for a heartbeat—his eyes questioning her hesitation—and she looked away in a rush of shame.

“I do,” she whispered quickly.

“Then by the authority granted to me, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

A wave of applause rippled through the cathedral.

It was a listless, uninspired sound. The atmosphere felt more suited to a burial than a wedding. Elfreda closed her eyes, thankful that no one from her homeland was there to witness this hollow celebration.

The end of the ceremony offered no respite, as the wedding feast began immediately.

The adrenaline had left her, replaced by a crushing exhaustion. She longed for a dark room and silence, but her new title as Queen of Machi forbade it.

As the new matriarch, she was expected to navigate a sea of nobility. However, as she stepped into the hall, she realized her duties might be shorter than she feared. While Ejnar was immediately swamped by a throng of courtiers, Elfreda stood in a vacuum.

The King was the center of a storm; she was an island of isolation.

“It appears your dance card is empty, Your Majesty,” Marchioness Magnum said, a thin, mocking smile on her lips.

The older woman leaned in closer. “This must be quite embarrassing for you. Perhaps you would prefer to retire early?”

“I would,” Elfreda replied simply.

While tradition demanded the couple remain at the feast, there was no point in staying where she was unwanted. For the first time, she was grateful for the Marchioness’s cruelty.

The noblewoman looked stunned by the immediate surrender.

“I will take my leave. Please, continue to enjoy the festivities without me.”

“Very well. I shall send a maid to assist you.”

“That isn’t necessary. I prefer the walk alone.”

Elfreda turned and made her way out of the noisy hall, heading toward the sanctuary of her own quarters…

“Elfreda.”

The sound of that voice—so familiar and unexpected—stopped her dead in her tracks.