Lucas wheeled around at once and fled.
Daren, who had watched the exchange from nearby, clicked his tongue with a worried frown.
“Wasn’t that a bit harsh? What if he holds a grudge against you, Your Grace?”
“Right now, Lucas is the sole heir to the Grand Duchy. If anything happens to me, he must lead this house,” Varkas said flatly.
“If anything, I’d like to ask what you were thinking, leaving him in such a state until now.”
“When Your Grace is so young and hale, why should we already be grooming the young master as the heir?”
Daren shrugged nonchalantly.
“Besides, now that you’re wed, won’t you have a direct heir of your own before long?”
Varkas offered no answer. Uncorking the canteen at his hip, he wet his parched throat.
Beyond the bustling soldiers stood fourteen wagons and a large four-wheeled travel carriage.
The Quarter Dwarf bustled toward the carriage bearing a heavy basin, clearly setting off to attend to his wife’s grooming.
Without warning, an acrid taste, like chewing on old iron, flooded Varkas’s mouth.
Ever since injuring her leg, Talia had grown pathologically sensitive about exposing her body. She refused to let anyone touch the limb except her own maid and the healer his mother had sent.
The memory of her shuddering and recoiling whenever he tried to inspect the wound only deepened the metallic bitterness on his tongue.
Forcing another swallow of strong liquor down a throat as scratchy as if lined with sand, he deliberately changed the subject.
“Was there anything unusual inside Dorcaen Castle?”
“Nothing particularly suspicious. It seems they invited us purely to forge ties with the Grand Ducal house.”
Stroking his beard, Daren went on evenly.
“While Your Grace was granted a private audience with the lord, I looked over the training grounds. The claim that they are short on men appears true as well.”
“Is there any clear reason for the decline in their strength?”
“Financial strain, I suspect.”
Daren let out a heavy sigh.
“The Lord of Dorcaen simply lacks the skill to govern a domain. His failure to pay proper stipends drove many warriors away, and with raiders running rampant, their losses have been severe. I do not believe he possesses the stomach to turn against the Grand Duchy.”
Varkas gazed across the grassland flushed crimson in the sunset, lost in thought.
His own assessment differed little from Daren’s. While his father lay bedridden, the local lords had steadily expanded their power, amassing their own forces.
To a lord incapable of maintaining a modest garrison, neighboring lords growing mightier by the day would have seemed a terrifying threat.
Seeking safety, he would naturally have deemed it wiser to throw his support behind the new Grand Duke.
The question was whether such a man was of any real use.
“Do you intend to back Dorcaen to keep the other vassals in line?”
As Varkas weighed the balance in his mind, Daren spoke up.
Varkas gave a slow shake of his head.
“I will decide after meeting the rest of them.”
“A prudent choice.”
Bringing the conversation to a close, Varkas made his way toward the center of the encampment.
The men were already huddled around the campfires, taking their evening meal. After taking in the camp with a sweeping glance, he directed his steps to his own tent.
The moment he stepped inside the dim interior, the heavy scent of rose oil and an intoxicating sweetness struck his nose.
Halting at the entrance, Varkas turned his eyes toward the bed bathed in candlelight. A woman clad loosely in blue linen nightwear lay slumped across the covers.
In an instant, an icy chill pierced between his ribs.
St铿iding over to the bed, he pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. A light sheen of cold sweat clung to skin as smooth as porcelain.
Was the pain tormenting her again?
Brows furrowing, Varkas rose and searched through the chest. If she was suffering even in her sleep, it seemed best to burn some medicinal herbs for her.
He set a bundle of dried herbs into the small censer the healer had prepared.
Just as he was about to strike a light, a faint voice reached him from nearby.
“…Varkas.”
Turning his head, he met a pair of hazy eyes still drowned in sleep.
His eyes narrowed at her dazed gaze.
Had she already burned sleeping herbs?
Leaning over, he drew close to her collar, but caught no scent of smoke. Instead, a scent of warm skin, so sweet it caught thick in his throat, filled his lungs.
The heady sweetness momentarily clouded his mind. It felt as though long-dead senses were jarring awake all at once.
Shaking off that strange sensation, he drew back. He noticed her shoulders hunch, uneasy beneath his sudden nearness. Deliberately ignoring it, he kept his voice level.
“Do you have a fever?”
Tugging the blanket up over her chest, she answered testily.
“I’m fine. I only dozed off a moment.”
“Did you take your meal?”
“A little while ago.”
She pointed her chin toward the tray set beside the bed.
His gaze narrowed on the laden bowls.
There was hardly any sign that food had been touched. Once again, she had likely taken nothing more than honeyed wine and a few bites of fruit.
The strange sensation that had been scraping at his nerves curdled into irritation, and he dragged a rough hand through his hair.
Talia watched his reaction. Seeing her flinch only put him further on edge. It seemed wiser to step outside until she drifted off once more.
He turned back toward the tent flap.
“Go back to sleep.”
“Var… Varkas!”
At that instant, a frantic hand caught him from behind.
He looked back, surprised. Clutching his sleeve tightly, her eyes darting in distress, Talia spoke in a cracked voice.
“My… my leg hurts.”
When he did not answer, she swallowed hard and forced out the words.
“Give me the medicine.”
Varkas blinked, his gaze dropping to her lips. The swollen red flesh looked just like crushed pomegranate seeds.
The memory of taking them between his lips returned—the vivid recollection of that tender, moist flesh yielding against his tongue.
A sudden, searing thirst flared deep in his throat. Walking slowly over to the shelf, he picked up a small glass phial. When he sat on the edge of the bed with it in his grasp, a naked dread surfaced in her face.
He held up the phial, testing her.
“This?”
A rush of pink flooded across skin so pale it seemed translucent.
With her ears and the nape of her neck burning red, her eyes darting away, she gave a tiny nod.
He pulled the stopper free without a word and took the thick draught into his mouth.
As he cradled the nape of her neck—so slender it felt as though it might snap—a rapid, fierce pulse drummed against his palm.
It reminded him of a small bird cupped within his hand. Just as when he had felt that frantic heart fluttering under thin, fragile feathers, a sharp restlessness seized him.
Holding her sculpted jaw, he brought his mouth down against the plump red lips that looked as if shaped from droplets of blood.
As he parted the narrow seam and slipped his tongue inside, a sound like a kitten’s whimper tickled against his throat.
END