13
The maid lifted the spoon with trembling hands, but unable to bring it to the bowl, she squeezed her eyes shut.
She seemed to hold some faint hope that if she simply held out like this, she might get away. Perhaps she was praying someone would come along and stop it.
Talia seized the table knife in one sharp motion. Her voice was cold as she issued the order.
“Pin her fingers to the plate. If she insists on spurning my generosity, I’ll take a finger as an example.”
The guard caught the woman’s hand instantly, splaying her fingers across the silver plate. Talia gripped the tip of the woman’s index finger and raised the meat knife high.
At that, the maid shrieked in terror.
“I’ll eat it! I’ll eat it! I’ll eat every bite!”
Desperately, the woman plunged the spoon into the bowl. She began shoveling the broth into her mouth, bird carcass and all.
As if convinced she could endure it so long as she did not taste it, she swallowed the chunks whole without chewing. Before five spoonfuls were down, she vomited it all back up.
Even then, Talia drove her on without flinching.
“Every drop. Leave none behind. I expect to see the bottom of that bowl.”
Between retching gasps, the maid cast a terrified look her way. It was no longer the look reserved for something contemptible. It was the look of someone staring into the face of a monster.
Talia offered only a silent, steady glare that forbade her from stopping. Weeping bitterly, the maid choked it down and threw it up, again and again.
Unable to bring herself to put the rotting bird in her mouth, she choked down the broth only to heave it up repeatedly. Her face, smeared with blood, tears, and vomit, turned the color of ash. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and her body crumpled to the carpet with a dull thud.
Talia looked down calmly at the maid, who lay convulsing, white foam bubbling at her lips. She gave a sharp jerk of her chin toward the petrified servants.
“Clean this up.”
Tossing the soiled plate at their feet, she added, “And bring me fresh food. Make sure it is fit to eat this time.”
After that day, the servants’ cruel harassment vanished as though it had never happened.
The maids handled her with the dread one would show a lethal weapon, and some servants trembled with sheer terror in her presence. No one threw contemptuous looks her way or whispered cruel taunts within earshot anymore. The moment Talia appeared, they bowed their heads, their lips clamped tightly shut.
Soon enough, whispers of the Second Imperial Princess’s cruelty rippled through the Imperial Palace. Those who heard how mercilessly she had tormented an innocent maid who had served the imperial family for over a decade clicked their tongues at the girl’s malice.
Priests lamented that a viper’s hatchling had slithered into the imperial household, and loyal subjects fretted that the tyrannical princess would besmirch the dignity of the throne.
Yet there was one person who was entirely satisfied with Talia’s conduct.
On a day just before the first frost, the Empress arrived at the Separate Palace, dressed in a gown of deep blue that matched her eyes.
Talia, who had been descending the stairs with a guarded expression to meet her, halted in her tracks. The instant she set eyes on Senevier, an unbearable ache of longing choked her throat.
This was the mother who had turned her back so coldly. Watching that slender figure stride away after tearing Talia’s hand from her hem, Talia had sworn never to love her again.
Yet as Senevier crossed the wide hall and pressed a kiss to her cheek, that resolve washed away like a sandcastle before the tide.
“Hello, Talia. You look truly lovely today.”
Senevier carried the scent of roses, lilacs, and the ripe sweetness of fruit. It made Talia feel utterly wretched to realize how desperately she had missed that intoxicating fragrance.
Looking down at her daughter’s shadowed, stiffened face, Senevier offered an affectionate smile.
“You must be hurt that I haven’t come to see you all this time. Forgive me. It took a while to prepare a special gift for you, you see.”
Talia looked at her, wary.
“A gift…?”
“I heard how well you broke those insolent servants. You pleased this mother of yours, so of course you deserve a reward.”
Her voice was bright and melodic as a songbird’s as she turned gracefully. Only then did Talia notice the figure of a boy walking slowly across the hall.
Talia’s breath hitched. In the months since she had last seen him, Varkas had apparently been knighted; he was dressed in the formal uniform of the Imperial Guard.
The sunlight piercing through the window shattered against his pale ash-blond hair, scattering sharp fragments of light. Just looking at him felt like shards of glass driving into her eyes.
Senevier stepped up beside the boy and extended a hand toward him as though presenting a prized trophy.
“This is the handsome knight who will guard you from this day on.”
The boy halted before Talia and offered a formal bow.
Those eyes, which once held the proud gleam of an heir to a ducal crown, now burned cold with sharp anger and a trace of humiliation. Anyone could see that he had not come here of his own free will.
He looked down at her as if she were nothing more than an inanimate object, and spoke.
“I am Varkas Raedgo Shearkan.”
His voice was so dry it sent a chill down her spine.
“I have been commanded to attend Your Highness until the day of your coming-of-age ceremony.”
His tone laid bare his single wish: that the day would arrive as swiftly as possible so he might be rid of this humiliating charge.
Talia stared up at his blank, mask-like face with hollow eyes. His frozen stare, flat cadence, and rigid posture were reducing her to something worthless and pitiful all over again.
She fought with all her might not to shrink back, but she could not stop the hot flush of shame creeping up her throat.
In that single moment, Talia understood with absolute clarity.
This beautiful boy would bring her agony, not hope.
And an agonizing torment it would be.
When the lingering drizzle finally cleared after days on end, a blistering sunlight took its place, as though heralding the arrival of the summer heat.
Making her way across the bustling courtyard in search of her fiancé, Ayla dabbed at the beads of sweat on her forehead, squinting against the blinding glare.
The wide drill grounds were packed with dozens of wagons, harness merchants, sturdy draft horses bred specifically for heavy hauling, and soldiers lugging all manner of gear needed for travel.
After a brief frown at the commotion that made the yard resemble a marketplace, Ayla’s eyes brightened when she caught sight of Varkas inspecting a warhorse near the outer curtain wall.
Instead of the white armor that signified the Knights of Roem, he wore an intricately embroidered black tunic beneath a breastplate of dark iron. He looked far more like an eastern lord than an imperial knight.
Ayla smiled, pride softening her gaze. Once this assignment was finished, Varkas would resign from the Imperial Guard and take the steps to succeed as Duke Shearkan.
And she would stand beside him, learning what she needed to rule the Grand Duchy as its mistress. It was a future set in stone from the moment he had followed her mother into the gardens of the Empress’s Palace.
Yet, at times, a sudden swell of doubt gripped Ayla, making her wonder if that day would ever truly arrive.
Varkas was always courteous and occasionally showed her a glimpse of warmth, but Ayla knew full well the chasm that lay between them. It was a gulf that had cost her so much heartache that, even now, she could hardly believe he was to be her husband in just a few short months.
END