“Since the whole mess was caused by our own healer, it’s the very least we can do.”
Lucas’s expression darkened. His chest tightened when he thought of Tiuran, currently shut away in a solitary cell to reflect.
“What do you think will happen to her?”
“Who knows? Since Her Highness woke without further trouble, she’ll probably get off with confinement,” Daren replied, thoroughly unbothered.
“The woman’s fortunate. Had the Grand Duchess worsened, she would have marched straight to the gallows.”
Lucas scowled, a cold discomfort prickling through him.
Tiuran had served House Shearkan faithfully for over a decade. He felt a sharp surge of resentment toward Daren for tossing about her life so lightly.
“It only happened because that woman is absurdly frail. Does she really deserve such harsh punishment?”
“Master Lucas.”
A blade of warning slipped into Daren’s voice.
Tossing a leather purse of silver coins to a merchant as if ridding himself of rubbish, Daren steered Lucas toward the edge of the hall.
“I am well aware you hold no love for the Grand Duchess. Even so, stop flaunting that hostility where anyone can see.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“You fret over the fate of a common healer more than the health of the Grand Duchess,” he rebuked.
“She is the daughter of the Emperor and the mistress of the East. By all rights, laying a finger on her person is grounds for execution. Sparing her with mere reflection is boundless mercy.”
Lucas stared hard into Daren’s face.
“Are you actually accepting the Second Princess as the mistress of this house?”
“What does my acceptance matter? The deed is done.”
Daren hitched his broad shoulders.
“We cannot very well undo a match ordered by the Emperor. Like it or not, we swallow it. For now, solidifying the East takes precedence over all else.”
Lucas looked into Daren’s sober gaze, his chest heavy.
Riding through the Eastern provinces at Varkas’s side, he had witnessed the same truth.
Local lords thought only of swelling their own authority while letting order rot, leaving marauders to overrun the roads.
Capable administrators existed, yet rather than offering unreserved fealty to their new Grand Duke, they kept a wary, calculated distance.
Just as Tyrone had warned, the fabric of the East was quietly unraveling. Perhaps they ought to be grateful a formidable successor like Varkas had stepped forth.
Arriving at that sour admission, Lucas struggled to lower his rebellious eyes.
“I know that much.”
Still refusing to be treated like an obedient lapdog, he spat back, “I just have to keep my head down while Brother whips the Eastern lords into line, right?”
“Please, do precisely that,” Daren growled like a bear.
Undeterred, Lucas curled his lip into a mocking smirk.
“I already am. Haven’t you seen me skittering about like a sewer rat just to keep out of that woman’s sight? I mind my manners around Brother, too.”
Daren lifted a heavy brow, unimpressed.
Folding thick arms across his chest, he loomed over the boy with a threatening gaze.
“That alone will not do. You must render due honor to the Grand Ducal couple in every public setting. If you persist in using such vulgar speech, the discipline of the East will—”
“Fine, fine! I hear you. Stop harping on it.”
Fed up, Lucas wheeled away and took the stairs two at a time.
Gazing over the banister, he saw Daren glaring up after him.
He blew an exaggerated snort down at the man and dashed down the corridor, only to halt when he caught sight of the maids.
The Grand Duchess’s servants were stepping gingerly down the hall, carrying trays piled with countless dishes.
‘Putting on airs like an empress.’
Lucas twisted his mouth into a sneer, but the bitterness quickly crumpled into a frown.
He could not fathom why this raw loathing rose in him. To be fair, had he not been the one to cross the line first?
He scratched his head in sour irritation.
He knew perfectly well he had acted like a wretched coward.
Yet whenever he remembered their confrontation, hot fury choked out any remorse. Perhaps it was the way she had looked at him.
‘…She looked at me like I was vermin.’
The moment he met those eyes—looking upon him as if he were the most revolting creature under heaven—a vile urge he had never known had taken hold of him.
He had wanted to break that unbearable pride. He had wanted to make her weep until she was utterly undone.
The ugly impulse had surged through his veins, slipping beyond his control.
Tracing the memory of that sickening heat, Lucas felt bile rise in his throat and turned away. A chilling truth struck him: the urge to stay clear of her was not born solely from Varkas’s warning.
He feared that if he went anywhere near her, he would be forced to look upon something foul inside himself that he never wished to see.
As if tearing himself free from an omen, he fled the dim passage.
“One more bite.”
Talia stared at the man proffering the spoon as if he had grown two heads.
Had some malicious fiend stolen Varkas’s skin and worn it for a mask?
Whether he caught the rank suspicion in her eyes or not, he urged her on in his usual flat cadence.
“What are you waiting for? Eat.”
“…I am fine. I want no more.”
“Just one more spoonful.”
“I said I will not have it.”
When she jerked her face away from the spoon hovering near her lips like a relentless fly, his free hand came up and cupped her chin.
Her head forced back toward him, Talia glared, her cheeks burning.
Yet Varkas did not so much as flinch.
“If you finish this, I will have them bring the fruit Your Highness likes for dessert.”
“Cease this nonsense! I want neither this nor—”
The spoon shoved past her lips the instant they parted to protest.
Talia’s eyes flew wide.
He pressed the flat of the silver down on her tongue, wordlessly demanding that she swallow.
Defeated, she was forced to gulp down the bland mush. Her brow furrowed at the loathsome sensation of cold porridge slipping down her throat.
She glared daggers into him.
Wholly indifferent, Varkas rose with an untroubled face and took up the empty bowl.
His movements were so practiced that another suspicion immediately bristled within her.
Here was a man who had been waited on hand and foot every day of his life. How could someone who bowed his neck to none save the Imperial family be so adept at feeding an invalid?
“Have you… spoon-fed someone like this before?”
Talia narrowed her eyes, demanding an answer out of nowhere.
Varkas, who had been setting the dishes back upon the tray, merely threw a flat glance over his shoulder.
The reply was blunt.
“Until I grew sick of it.”
Talia froze, her gaze sharpening to a blade. The food she had just forced down threatened to heave right back out.
She stretched her twitching lips into an icy smile.
“What a pity. Reduced to playing nursemaid to the likes of me, when you left behind a fiancée you cherished so dearly…”
“The First Princess was never this troublesome,” Varkas said, thoroughly unaffected.
“The one I fed until I was sick of it was no human, but a horse. When Toruk was a foal, he proved far more unmanageable than Your Highness.”
Talia stared at him, rendered utterly speechless.
She could not decide whether she ought to feel relieved by the answer or profoundly insulted.
END