Chapter 39
“Hah.”
Letting out a breath of utter disbelief, Lars shoved back and sprang to his feet. Knowing full well that by ‘anyone else’ I meant him, I jerked my head up in shock. And there he was, gripping the back of the sofa, leaning down until his eyes met mine mere inches away.
They were no longer the clear, refreshing green of a winter forest, but a flame that was green in color alone.
A flame that blazed fiercely, yet burned with a chilling, terrifying cold.
While the sheer intensity of his stare stole the breath from my chest, Lars spat out his words in a low, gravelly rasp.
The sneer etched across his sharp features was so vivid that I couldn’t utter a word. It felt as though a jagged stone had lodged itself in my throat. My face flushed a violent red, burning with heat. The claws of shame raked ruthlessly through my chest.
Lars’s expression froze to ice, and his hand shot forward to seize my chin. His grip tightened with a force so unyielding—unlike anything he had shown me before—that a sharp throb of pain flared instantly through my jaw.
Forcing my fluttering eyelids open, I barely managed to hold his gaze. He snarled at me,
“Discard the delusion that you can achieve anything, Lucien Gwinter. Just clench your fists around whatever piece of luck rolled into your lap and stay put.”
I gritted my teeth, refusing to let a single tear spill. My chin trembled faintly in his grasp. Watching me intently like a cornered beast, he drove the spike in deep.
I held my ground, adamantly refusing to nod. Glaring back into his frosty eyes, I wanted nothing more than to look like the most wronged, miserable creature in the world, but it didn't last long. In the end, a flood of tears spilled over, blurring my vision entirely.
After lingering with that heavy stare for a moment longer, Lars released my chin and turned away. Fighting to steady my breath, I scrubbed the tears from my stinging cheeks with my sleeve and lifted my head, but he was already gone.
Left alone in the quiet room, a fresh wave of misery crashed over me, and the sobs tore freely from my chest.
What on earth did I do that was so wrong? Wasn’t it worth at least a pat on the head, a compliment for doing well?
Every night I had wept, torn with worry over whether he was alive or dead, and every morning I threw myself into my grueling schedule harder than anyone else. More than once, I had woken up sobbing after dreaming of Kirhin bringing me news of his death, only to gaze helplessly out the window with a hollow heart because there was no way to know for sure.
Yet what did I say that was so horribly arrogant?!
“Ugh!”
Rage surged inside me. I snatched up a medicine bottle to fling it across the room, but pulled back, afraid of making a racket. Instead, I grabbed a couple of blameless sandwiches and cookies from the tray and hurled them, though it did nothing to cool my temper. Flumping the epic of Kayonbe might have done the trick, but that was something I could never bring myself to do.
Stifled by having no outlet, I finally buried my face in the blanket and bawled my eyes out. Muttering a few choice curses under my breath eased my chest just a sliver.
Sniffling and clenching my fists tight, my eyes suddenly landed on my feet—one neatly wrapped in gauze, the other with the blood only half-wiped away.
The memory of his warm touch on my taut calves came rushing back, along with the profile of his face as he frowned with deep concern over my cuts. The tears I had just managed to choke down started pouring all over again.
Jerk.
…When am I even going to see you again?
Letting out a sighing mumble, I sniffled loudly and turned a resentful gaze toward the dark window.
The chill night air cooled my flushed face. Given enough time, the tangled mess of my thoughts began to settle down.
Snorting in scoffing resolve, I glared into empty space.
Lars knew Penu. Quite well, at that. The way he called him that stubborn old codger carried the easy familiarity of someone who had spoken with him many times in person.
Whatever made him treat me like an arrogant, insolent child had to be linked to Penu. His face had stiffened the very second that name left my lips.
My eyes were already swelling, making my vision slightly cloudy. I was probably quite a sight to behold, but I didn’t care; the corner of my lips curled up into a smirk.
Giving another defiant scoff like a declaration of war, I snatched up the medicine bottle. If I wanted to do anything, my feet had to heal fast.
Burning with fierce resolve to make him crawl back to me on his own two feet, I tilted the disinfectant bottle and began pouring it over the raw wounds. The stinging agony drew a sharp hiss from my throat, but even that could not extinguish my blazing will.
Quido gave a slight nod to the jeweler and hastened his steps. Under the heavy overcast sky, the wind cut even colder. If it started raining on top of this, it would only delay his work. Remembering his master’s short temper, he shook his head in quiet exasperation.
The raid that day had been a failure. But Quido did not view it as one. He had gleaned far too much from it.
Though he couldn’t confirm whether the man attempting to strike a deal with the Fremont Merchant Coalition was indeed Beekman, the one guarding him had unquestionably seen battle. From the tactical choice of terrain to stationing mercenaries as sentries, using a decoy, and ensuring the merchants’ safe retreat—none of it could have been orchestrated by someone without command experience.
Their opponent was a veteran of the Askun War. And not an ordinary footsoldier, but a commander. On top of that, every single swordsman under him possessed exceptional skill, leaving a significant number of the men Quido brought dead or grievously wounded.
‘And I found this lying on the ground.’
What he had offered to his master, wrapped in a handkerchief, was a perfume bottle. It was hardly something a mercenary or common soldier could ever afford.
Beitram had flicked his wrist to shed the blood from his blade, casting a sidelong glance at the bottle. Around him lay the corpses of the men who had failed to capture the merchants.
Strictly speaking, if faults were being weighed, Quido should have been the one put to the sword for leading the operation. But since that was impossible, other lives were snuffed out instead. Normally, such an act served to intimidate Quido so he wouldn’t blunder next time, but Quido felt no fear, and Beitram was well aware of that. Thus, the slaughter was nothing more than Beitram venting his frustration.
‘Track down the owner.’
‘Understood. And…’
Quido had added calmly,
‘The coalition has delayed the arrival date for the furs and horses. It appears to be a direct reaction to the raid.’
Just as he had anticipated, the people of the Fremont Merchant Coalition were no pushovers. While the current coalition master undeniably had a timid streak, his son, Barrett, possessed spine. Quido had to remain vigilant, as Barrett might use this incident as leverage to pick an unnecessary quarrel.
‘It is a matter that can be settled through persuasion, so I shall see it handled without complications.’
Though he grasped the meaning, Beitram grimaced in displeasure and waved his hand dismissively. Given his foul mood, a few more men might end up dead, but there was nothing to be done about it.
A man carved out his own usefulness. That was the very reason Quido was still alive.
Stepping into the shop, which boasted lavish displays of glittering gems right from the entrance, a man with a well-groomed beard came forward to greet him. Quido produced the item.
“Oh, this is…”
The jeweler’s eyes went round as if he recognized it immediately. Pulling out a pair of spectacles tucked in his vest pocket, he examined the piece closely, then looked up with a dubious squint in his creased eyes.
The shopkeeper gave an amused chuckle as he looked Quido up and down, taking in his modest attire. Quido merely shrugged.
At that, the jeweler clicked his tongue, wagging a finger as if looking at an incorrigible petty hustler.
