Talia stared at the garment in the woman’s hands with icy eyes.
“When did you take up running a brothel?”
At the caustic jeer, Nanny’s face twisted with distaste.
Ignoring her, Talia pushed off from the windowsill and made for the bed, but the woman refused to give way.
“The truth of the matter is that you and the Grand Duke have not even shared your first night. Do you know what that means? It means His Grace could petition for an annulment whenever he pleases!”
Looking down at the servant barring her path with a rigid, frigid glare, Talia caught the hem of her loose shift and hauled it upward.
She pulled the sweat-damp linen over her head and flung it aside, laying bare her twisted legs and her gaunt, wretchedly naked body.
Nanny’s eyes instantly dropped to the floor. Talia let out a dry, rattling laugh.
“You cannot even bear to look at me, yet you want me to offer this ruin to a man?”
“…Still, you must try.”
Nanny’s mutter remained fixed on the flagstones.
“It is not as if His Grace is entirely indifferent to you. Look at how attentive he was when you collapsed. Even when he is buried alive under the funeral and the succession, he oversees your meals and draughts himself. If you ask, he will not turn you away.”
Talia let out a brief, hollow rasp of laughter before the humor died entirely from her face.
“So you would have me beg.”
“Do not be so bitter. This is for your own sake as well. Once a child is born, your station as Grand Duchess will—”
The sheer transparency of the woman’s motives broke the last thread of Talia’s restraint.
Her arm slashed violently across the tabletop. Bowls, plates, and porcelain shattered against the floor in a sharp, clattering storm.
A stray shard of glazed earthenware bit into the bridge of her foot. Paying it no mind, she seized the candlestick beside the hearth and hurled it into the wall.
“Get out!”
Nanny let out a belated shriek and scrambled for the door.
Talia caught the gossamer slip the woman had dropped and wrenched her fists apart. The fabric tore cleanly in two with a harsh rip. She threw the ruined remnants aside, dragged herself into bed, and pulled the quilts over her head.
How long she lay there, she could not tell. A cautious knock preceded a gentle voice filtering into the quiet.
“Your Highness, I was told your foot is bleeding. Allow me to tend the wound.”
Talia offered no reply. Taking her silence for consent, the door opened softly, accompanied by the quiet rustle of approaching footsteps.
“I will see to the injury now.”
As the woman folded back the coverlet, Talia’s blood-smeared foot and ankle came into view. Weaving a restorative spell over the cut, the sorceress fetched clean linen bandages and bound the limb with practiced care.
“How does it feel?”
· · ·
“If you require a draught for the pain…”
“Did my mother give you orders as well?”
The sorceress fell quiet at the blunt question.
Talia stared blankly at the woman’s stiffened features. After a strained hesitation, the answer came.
“…Her Majesty bade me tend the Grand Duchess’s health with all due devotion.”
“So that I am fit to bear a child?”
As Talia sneered the words, the sorceress’s expression tightened further. Watching her with cold detachment, Talia turned her head away and murmured listlessly,
“Leave.”
“Your Highness.”
Just then, the woman knelt beside the mattress.
Talia flinched, glancing toward the unaccustomed warmth covering the back of her hand. The sorceress met her gaze with quiet, brown eyes.
“Your Highness, you need not do anything you do not wish to do.”
Talia blinked.
She ought to have laughed at such unearned familiarity. What could a palace sorceress possibly know? She should have snapped at her to hold her tongue and mind her place, yet strangely, the reprimand caught in her throat.
“I…”
Her lips parted, her tongue moving without her consent.
I do not want this.
I do not want to bare this wretched body before Varkas. I am sick of being Mother’s pawn. I do not want to be ground down by people who will never care for me.
She swallowed the words clawing up her throat.
To show weakness was to be trampled beneath their boots. She would not let anyone cut into her again.
Talia withdrew her hand from the sorceress’s grasp with cold deliberation.
“Cease your babbling and summon the maids.”
The woman looked at her with a measured, pensive regard before slowly rising to her feet.
Watching her step away, an impulsive question broke from Talia’s lips.
“Now that I think of it, what did you say your name was?”
The sorceress’s eyes widened slightly, then settled back into calm.
“I am Marisen.”
Mouth shaping the name silently, Talia waved her off with a flick of her hand.
Before long, the maids filed in to clear away the shattered porcelain and set about dressing her according to her demands.
From the chests sent from the Imperial Palace, Talia selected the most lavish gown, had her hair plaited in intricate weaves, and threaded pearls through the coils.
After painting a thick layer of carmine over the chapped scabs of her lips, she drew her casket of trinkets toward her.
Cradled in the velvet lay a small silver button struck with the crest of the Roem Knights, a pale blue moonstone, a folded handkerchief, and a ruby brooch.
For a long time, she stared down at the relics of an attachment she had sworn a thousand times to sever. Then she lifted the brooch and pinned it above her left breast.
In the glass stood a pale creature who had strained every effort to mask her haggard frame.
She looked the reflection in the eye.
What do you think you are doing?
‘I have not decided.’
Fixing her gaze upon her own faintly quivering pupils, she dismissed the women and stepped out into the corridor. The windows along the wall showed the sky bleeding into evening.
Varkas had likely not yet returned.
Since the old Duke had perished, he spent nearly all his hours beyond the fortress walls. He was perpetually occupied, attending every religious observance held by the Eastern Order, appeasing the restless populace, and overhauling the military coffers.
‘And with the task of cleaning up after Gareth heaped upon his shoulders, ten men would not suffice.’
Letting out a low, bitter scoff, Talia made her way down the broad staircase, traversing the quiet, draftswept passages.
When she reached the Grand Duke’s bedchamber—now Varkas’s quarters—the guards posted outside widened their eyes in mute astonishment.
Without waiting for them to open the way, Talia caught the heavy bronze latch herself.
The hinges groaned slightly as the vast, hearth-lit chamber was revealed.
Talia’s back went rigid as she took in the long shadow stretching across the center of the room. Varkas stood in his formal tunic, unfastening the collar as though he had only just set foot inside.
“…What brings you here?”
His brow furrowed slightly as he cast a slow, measuring glance over his shoulder. The look made the hours she had spent preparing feel utterly futile.
Swallowing the hollow prick of dismay, Talia stepped into the chamber and shut the door behind her.
“I came because there is something I must say.”
Varkas watched her impassively before gesturing toward the seat before the hearth.
“Sit, then.”
Talia forced her stiffened limbs forward and took the chair. Meanwhile, Varkas took off his outer coat, hung it upon the wall peg, and poured a cup of warm spiced cider.
“I am told you have been picking at your meals again. Even if I cannot see to you in person, you must not neglect your food.”
Talia gave no answer, keeping her eyes fixed on the cup.
Varkas, who had crossed his arms to study her, broke the stretching quiet.
“What was it you wished to say?”
“You…”
She looked up at him, her eyes clouded with hesitation.
What had she meant to say? She did not even know why she had come to him.
Submission, or defiance? She stood plainly at a crossroads, yet she found herself leaving the turn of the path to whatever fell from his mouth.
Talia gathered her unsteady breath, forcing her voice level.
“Is it true that you oppose Ayla’s marriage?”
At her confrontational, upward glare, the corner of Varkas’s mouth gave a faint twitch.
“Is that why you refused to meet my eyes these past few days?”
He gave a dry huff of laughter, running a hand through the stray hair on his brow.
“I opposed it purely because of the political perils.”
“The Imperial Palace is alive with talk that you still hold feelings for her.”
The longer the words left her mouth, the more she sounded like a petty child throwing a fit of jealousy. Talia shook the thought off and pressed him harder.
“Did you not swear you would silence the gossip surrounding our match? Is this how you quiet rumors, by letting such vile talk run rampant?”
“Their lives were hanging in the balance,” he replied, an edge of exhaustion creeping into his voice.
“Restraining the Crown Prince from a ruinous act took precedence. I am bound by duty to shield them.”
His tone hardened toward the end.
Talia’s face set into stone.
Varkas let out a slow breath and leaned toward her, his voice softening considerably as he added, “I intend to propose a more suitable match for the First Princess shortly. Once that is arranged, the rumors will wither on their own.”
Talia looked at him and let out a hollow laugh.
Did he even hear what he was saying?
Watching him speak so dispassionately of driving a blade into Ayla’s heart under the mantle of protecting her, a strange despair surged through Talia’s chest.
Mother had been right. The man was completely blind to sentiment.
To him, the matters of the heart were not worth calculating. All that governed Varkas was the execution of his duty.
And at the very crown of that ledger of obligations sat the preservation of the imperial twins.
As the woman bearing the mantle of his Grand Duchess, she might have laid claim to an important corner of his life. But she would never be his priority.
His duty as a servant of the crown. His duty as the lord of a Great House. Nothing could ever supplant those.
“You are… truly a loyal subject.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. He seemed to recognize that it was no praise.
The brief smile faded from Talia’s lips. Her thoughts grew cold and lucid; what lay before her had sharpened into unmistakable clarity.
When Gareth ascended the throne and demanded her head—even if it meant war with the East—it was obvious where Varkas would stand.
The only question was whether she could sit meekly and await the slaughter.
She pictured her own end. The image of dying in misery soon took on the likeness of the late Duke. That man had been consumed by terror of death, and of whatever lay beyond it.
What of me?
The answer was instantaneous.
I am afraid of death.
It was because she was terrified that she had clawed through every indignity. Because she knew better than anyone that the only soul who would ever shield her was herself.
It was no different now. She had to survive by her own will.
This is not yielding to Mother. I am choosing to fight because I refuse to die.
Stacking justification upon justification in the quiet of her mind, Talia lifted her chin and looked straight into his eyes.
“So you claim you were merely fulfilling your duty?”
His cool stare met hers without flinching. She drove each word home like a spike into those icy irises.
“Then I, too, shall demand your duty as my husband.”
A crack finally split the blank stillness of his face. She thrust herself into that fracture, letting the decree drop without remorse.
“Tonight, I sleep in your bed.”
END