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There was no time to react.
Through the parted gasp of her lips, a slick tongue and a thick, honeyed draught slid inside.
Expecting a bitterness so sharp it would turn her stomach, Talia opened her eyes wide at the unexpected sweetness.
A sweet liquid, steeped in the scent of blossoms, wrapped softly across her tongue. As she swallowed the mouthful down, the warm flesh pressed against her own slowly withdrew.
“I heard you even skipped dinner.”
His low, reproving voice brushed against her swollen lips.
Talia looked up at him blankly. Ever since she had begun demanding kisses under the pretext of taking her medicine, they had shared their lips almost every night, but this was the first time he had ever initiated it.
No—to be precise, the second.
Her face burned crimson as she remembered their baffling first night together.
Watching her in silence, Varkas drew his calloused thumb across the corner of her mouth.
“Do you want more?”
Her heart seized at the murmur.
Talia recoiled from him at once, as though burned.
“Wh-what was that you just gave me?”
At her stammered demand, his eyes flicked toward the small shelf beside the bed, where a slender silver pitcher and a bowl heaped with fruit were resting.
“Fermented goat’s milk. In the East, people often drink it instead of breakfast.”
His flat explanation only further tangled her confused thoughts. Yet he looked entirely unruffled, as if mouth-feeding her held no particular weight at all.
Perhaps to him, it truly didn’t.
Just as he had forced the medicine down her throat when she refused it, he might have simply been ensuring she ate.
Yes. That was all it was.
Was he not a man profoundly broken inside? Just as he had indulged Ayla’s whims without question, he was merely answering her own demands now.
Struggling to steady her pounding heart, Talia composed her face into a chill mask.
“Who asked you to feed me my meals as well?”
His sharp eyes narrowed at the edge in her voice.
Yet he took no offense. Stroking his chin in thought, Varkas set the tray before her.
“Then eat it yourself.”
With that, he rose and walked toward the window. Talia watched him pour water into a basin to wash his face and neck, then turned her gaze back to the tray.
A sudden urge to bite her own tongue flared in her chest. Had she kept resisting, he would have fed her with his own lips. Cursing her own pathetic weakness, she picked up a piece of bread.
It was warm, freshly baked. As she tore the steaming loaf into shreds and pushed them into her mouth, Varkas returned to the bedside, having changed into clean clothes.
“Is the food not to your liking?”
Varkas asked, frowning down at the mangled bread.
Talia hesitated a moment, then shook her head.
“It’s… fine.”
“Then eat properly. Stop picking at it as though the bread owes you a debt.”
Talia glared at him, irritated by a tone that sounded like he was humoring a stubborn child.
She wanted to snap back and ask how she was supposed to eat when she had no idea what was in it. But when she met those eyes fixed steadily upon her, the sharp words sank back down her throat. She had no desire to start a pointless quarrel with a man who had ridden back from a night of brutal fighting only to look after her meal.
At last, Talia picked up a small pastry that seemed to have been fried in oil.
Closing her eyes tight, she took a large bite, her teeth sinking into spiced, steaming meat.
A sudden surge of nausea rose up her throat.
It was not the greasy taste of the meat itself. Rather, it was an overwhelming disgust at letting something unidentified past her lips.
Surely it was not a lizard, a bat, or a frog. Yet as she chewed through the soft meat, she bit into something crunchy. Nuts, perhaps. Or insects. The finely minced meat was blended with all manner of unfamiliar ingredients sautéed in oil.
Her stomach lurched at the thought that some foul, unnatural thing had found its way inside.
Chewing mechanically, as though grinding mud between her teeth, Talia could not bear the revulsion any longer and forced herself to swallow.
Seeing her strain, Varkas quickly poured water into a cup and held it out.
“Drink.”
Talia snatched the cup desperately.
As she gulped down the ice-cold water, the food that had clogged her throat was finally washed down.
She shuddered, the sensation like swallowing gravel, when a low sigh drifted down from above.
“That wretched habit of yours will never be mended.”
Talia looked up at him, startled.
She had never imagined he paid any mind to how she ate, and the unexpected scolding threw her off balance.
“I simply… have little appetite today.”
His brow furrowed at her frail excuse. He seemed well aware that she ate less than an ascetic priest.
Letting out another brief sigh, Varkas poured the fermented goat’s milk and offered it to her again.
“You ought to widen the fare you can stomach, if only by degrees. You cannot subsist on fruit and honey forever.”
Talia stared blankly at him as he delivered this uncharacteristic nag, then took the cup with visible reluctance.
When she had drained the contents, he set the tray aside.
“I will send the maid in. Prepare for our departure.”
While he was outside, Talia washed briefly and changed into fresh clothes with the Nanny’s help.
Since her bandages had been tended to the previous evening, there was no need to summon the healer again.
Draping a fur-lined coat over her shoulders, Talia waved off the Nanny’s outstretched hand and stepped out alone.
The morning was exceptionally clear.
Looking up at the cloudless sky, Talia swept her eyes over the quiet village.
Unbridled horses were grazing quietly across the open meadow. The cavalrymen, having returned from their hunt, had gathered in a clearing to take their meal.
As she turned toward the carriage, an odd shadow fell across her boots, bringing her to a halt. A tall pole stood erected only a short distance away.
Talia reflexively looked up—and froze. Impaled at the very top was a severed head.
At the sight of the face, drained of color as though every drop of blood had been bled dry, her stomach, already strained from morning, knotted violently.
Talia pressed her sleeve to her mouth. The food she had forced down threatened to surge back up at any second. Yet she could not tear her eyes away from the face, twisted in its final agony.
Public executions were common enough in the capital, but she had never seen a freshly severed head hung so close before.
Gripped by an eerie fascination, she stared into the clouded pupils. It felt as though, through those dead eyes, she might catch a glimpse of hell itself.
Scripture said the unclean were cast into the pit of fire. And as an impure creature herself, that was almost certainly where she was bound.
If she could, she wanted to see the realm that awaited her ahead of time. Absorbed in that dark reverie, she took a step toward the pole, only for a broad forearm to cut across her view.
Talia turned her head sharply.
Varkas stood looking down at her with an unreadable expression.
Nor was it just Varkas. The soldiers nearby were watching her with unsettled eyes, chilled by the way she had gazed upon the severed head as if possessed.
END