Chapter 16
He could pry her loose if he forced it, but the small hand stained with dust and grime looked so wretched it made him question whether he really had to be that cold. Recalling how she had broken down in tears at the sight of him and rushed into his arms like a frightened child, Lars swallowed a faint sigh.
Kirhin had to choke down an amused smirk at the sight of him sweeping the girl up into his arms without another word of complaint.
The room Nina led them to was not grand, but everything in it was kept neat and spotless. Lars laid Lucien down on the antique bed, only to hesitate as he tried to pull away. Her hand still held fast to his clothing.
In that small fist lay something beyond stubbornness—an unmistakable air of raw desperation. Gazing down at her pallid face and the dark, scraped skin on the back of her neck, Lars carefully slipped out of his heavy cloak so as not to wake her, then spread it over her like a quilt.
Kirhin, who had been grinning by the open doorway, could not help but speak up again.
Kirhin froze mid-smile at the frost that settled over the voice. Lars was glaring straight through him.
A chill akin to a honed blade pressed against his throat made Kirhin catch his breath. Only after seeing Lars avert his gaze did he let out his held breath and rub at his neck. Feeling wronged all of a sudden, Kirhin lowered his voice with utmost care.
Lars had put up with a great deal, knowing full well Kirhin’s nerves rarely lasted more than a few seconds. Even so, indulge the fellow, and he would climb straight over your head and dance on it. Catching sight of Lars’s faint smirk and his hand drifting toward the dagger at his waist, Kirhin quickly clapped his hands together.
Kirhin could occasionally manage a decent idea when his life was on the line. Letting the ferocious edge bleed from his eyes, Lars gave a sharp nod.
Kirhin began recounting the events, watching Lars’s face all the while. He was dying of curiosity to know how on earth Lucien knew such a terrifying man. Vowing to demand an answer from her the moment she woke in the morning, he wrapped up a fairly coherent account.
Shaking his head with deliberate smugness, Kirhin trailed off. He could feel Lars, arms crossed, staring down at him in sheer disbelief.
Only then did Kirhin realize Lucien had seen the man standing right in front of him before.
‘…Damn it. When she hesitated before saying “angel,” I thought she was just struggling to find the word!’
Seeing the scowl form across Kirhin’s face as he felt thoroughly swindled, Lars curled the corner of his lip.
Seeing Lars’s haughty brow rise in prompt acknowledgement, Kirhin cleared his throat with a cough and asked.
Another glare of pure contempt cut his way, making Kirhin wrinkle his nose. Suddenly pressing a finger beneath his straight nose, Lars frowned and gestured dismissively.
Kirhin had known he would not receive a proper answer, but he had hardly expected such an insult. Glancing over at Lucien sleeping soundly wrapped in the cloak that served as her quilt, he broke into a grin.
This time, Kirhin caught the faint hiss of steel as the dagger slid halfway from its sheath, shouted hastily, and bolted.
Left behind in the stillness, Lars silently shook his head. Of all the peculiar talents Kirhin possessed, wearing down his patience was undoubtedly the greatest.
After checking the window and the brazier, he drew a pocket watch from beneath his clothes, only to sense a presence. When he turned his head, Yanken was already standing there, clad in black, having slipped in like the wind.
The moment he arrived, Yanken frowned at Lucien swaddled in Lars’s cloak. While never a man of varied expressions, neither was he one to mask his hostility. Arching an eyebrow, Lars took a seat on the chair beside the bed.
Without taking his menacing gaze off the sleeping Lucien, Yanken spoke.
Snorting dryly, Lars knitted his brows in a sharp slant.
In short, she had intended to sell Lucien off. Letting his displeasure show plain on his face, Lars pressed a hand to his brow.
Lars let out a hollow chuckle at Yanken’s words. Given that the Count had cronies inside the guards, Mrs. Allmon was unlikely to ever walk out of there alive.
The Count, impatient to close this poisoning case as quickly as possible, had just lost his handpicked scapegoat to none other than the Beekmans. With little time to hunt for another pawn, he would move swiftly to sever the head of the next most convenient sacrifice.
Along with that woodseller who served as Mrs. Allmon’s alibi, of course.
Watching Lars speak in such an indifferent tone, Yanken asked.
Lars replied scathingly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Long ago, the Principality of Fremont had been a fief ruled by the Duke of Fremont, until the Duke amassed enough power to defy the crown and declare independence.
The King had lost much in that war, but the greatest loss by far was the annual tribute paid by the principality. Endowed with abundant resources and serving as a crucial trading hub with prime ports for ships bound for Edmus from foreign shores, the land overflowed with rare and precious treasures.
Even now, every man who mounted the throne of Edmus harbored the dream of reannexing Fremont. And that dream might just prove possible this time around. For of late, Fremont’s political climate was anything but stable.
As a rule, royal stability rested upon two pillars: securing a legitimate heir, and balancing power among the vassal nobles. Currently, the Principality of Fremont was plagued by trouble on both fronts.
It had all begun with a plague. Given its position where foreigners constantly came and went, pestilence broke out in Fremont with some frequency. As the kingdom was still laying down its foundations, the king had personally tended to his subjects alongside the princes, only for all of them to succumb to the illness.
The only survivors were the queen and the frailest, youngest prince.
Because the youngest prince was merely six years old, Fremont I had laid plans before his death to marry the younger brother of his loyal retainer, Marquis Duncan, to the queen to protect them.
The marquis raised no objections, but his younger brother was a different matter. He was already betrothed to another lady—the only daughter of Count Alta, another distinguished noble house.
Though lower in rank than House Duncan, House Alta was renowned long before the days of Edmus, unlike the Duncans whose title had been won solely through war. As such, the engagement had enjoyed the hearty support of both families.
Even so, a chance to become king was not something one could easily pass up. In the end, the younger Duncan wed the queen, and she bore him two sons.
Now, Fremont I’s youngest prince, Leon, was eighteen years of age. Having reached the age of legitimate succession to the throne, he took the eldest daughter of the Heskel family as his princess consort, which formed one of the primary fissures destabilizing Fremont today.
House Duncan still commanded the largest military force in Fremont, but House Heskel stood second only to them. What was more, the Heskels were kin to the Altas, who still harbored deep resentment toward the Duncans for breaking faith to seize the crown.
Leon’s choice was therefore more than enough to look like an open challenge against the family of the reigning monarch, Fremont II.
Yet Leon remained so frail he required a month or two of recuperation every year, while the eldest of Fremont II’s sons was merely ten years old. The nobility was anxiously reading the signs to see which side to favor. And the royal court of Edmus was doing the exact same thing.
