16
Ayla glared at Senevier, eyes dark with suspicion.
What was she plotting, trying to force Talia into the pilgrimage? The worst that child could manage on her own was petty spite.
Yet Senevier was not one to move the Emperor for mere trivialities. There had to be a deeper scheme at work.
Ayla spoke, her voice laced with stiff resolve.
“It is custom for a daughter of the Imperial family to make pilgrimage when marriage is at hand. Why send that child now, of all times?”
“Talia may well be wed soon herself,” Senevier replied with an easy, radiant smile.
Ayla knitted her brow. Not a whisper of a marriage proposal for Talia had reached her ears.
Whatever her base birth, Talia remained an Imperial Princess inscribed in the imperial registry. A betrothal could hardly be arranged in utter secrecy. This was nothing more than a pretext concocted to thrust her into the journey.
While Ayla seethed with doubt, Varkas’s cold voice cut through the air.
“The timing of this betrothal is remarkably convenient.”
Senevier did not lose an ounce of her composure despite his brazen contempt.
“It is a joyous turn of events, giving the Imperial house consecutive celebrations to look forward to. Though no formal betrothal has been sealed, as the proposal arrived only recently, His Majesty and I look upon it with great favor.”
A faint sneer touched the edge of Varkas’s mouth.
“May I ask who the fortunate suitor might be?”
“A name you have surely heard. Verdein Serian, head of House Serian. His formal letter of suit arrived mere days ago.”
Senevier wore an expression of benevolent warmth.
“It has been quite some time since the child came of age, so she is well suited to marry. I thought it a fitting match.”
Ayla choked back a hollow laugh. Verdein Serian was one of the Empress’s most devoted lapdogs.
Rumors had it that he had once held the record as Duchess Taren’s longest-standing lover. Was the woman in her right mind, offering her own daughter to such a creature?
Nausea churned in Ayla’s stomach at the memory of Talia entering the banquet hall on Count Serian’s arm. A mother eager to marry her daughter off to her former bedmate, and a daughter willingly yielding to such an arrangement—both were utterly mad.
“Since the matter is settled, make haste with preparations for her journey as well.”
The Emperor gave his decree with finality, gesturing to dismiss them.
Varkas, who had watched his sovereign with an unreadable gaze, gave a silent bow and rose slowly from his seat. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the audience chamber.
Ayla, still glaring warily at Senevier, turned toward his retreating form in bewilderment. She had never expected Varkas to withdraw so meekly.
After a curt formal bow to the Emperor, she hurried after him.
“Are you truly intending to take Talia along? That marriage is nothing but a transparent excuse. Senevier is scheming something foul, without a doubt.”
“Likely so,” he replied indifferently, the heavy thud of his boots echoing as he descended the stairs.
Ayla stared at his back in disbelief before gathering her skirts and rushing to catch up. Clasping his forearm, she burst out in agitation.
“Is that all you have to say? Knowing what the Empress might attempt with Talia, you will simply submit—!”
“What would you have me do?”
The man came to an abrupt halt, fixing her with a bleak, cutting gaze. Ayla flinched. Only then did she notice the foul chill lingering in his demeanor.
He was the very man who had smiled at her barely an hour ago. Now, he stood before her as a distant stranger, looking down with eyes of pure ice. When he spoke, it was laced with derision.
“Would you have me defy His Majesty’s decree?”
“I only meant…”
“He is the sovereign of this empire, and I am bound to him by oath. From the beginning, there was never any choice but obedience. Is that not what you of royal blood have always demanded of nobility such as I?”
Ayla froze, stung by the unsparing cruelty in his words. Looking down at her with dead eyes, the man turned away and resumed his stride.
Watching his broad back retreat without an ounce of hesitation, a sudden panic seized her. Just as she had when she was a frightened child, Ayla ran after him and threw both arms around his waist.
“Forgive me! I was only frightened and spoke out of turn. Please… do not turn away so coldly.”
The rigid tension slowly bled from his frame. Letting out a quiet sigh, he turned around and drew her against him, gently stroking her hair just as he had years ago.
“There is no cause for anxiety. Whatever plot the Empress weaves, no harm will befall Your Highness.”
She raised her head to meet his gaze. The man who had worn the cold mask of a stranger was once more her steadfast protector. The storm of anxiety within her settled in an instant.
A man who could shake her to the core only to soothe her with a few measured words… Before him, her pride, her dignity, and her station as a princess crumbled to dust.
Ayla buried herself in his cool embrace—one that never grew warm, no matter that a decade had passed between them—and searched those pale blue eyes with desperate longing.
What did those eyes truly see? Bottomless and hollow, they always seemed to drift toward some distant place she could never reach.
“I swore to the late Empress that I would keep you both safe with my life.”
He murmured the words, gently brushing aside the stray hairs clinging to her cheek.
“I shall honor that vow, whatever comes. Therefore, Your Highness has nothing to fear.”
Ayla searched his features for a lingering moment before finally nodding.
Yes. As long as this man stood by her side, there was nothing to fear. Nothing at all.
After paring back the broken nail, a heavy emptiness settled over Talia.
How many weeks would it take for it to grow long enough to sink deep into living flesh once more? She looked down with bitter frustration at the tender pink nail barely creeping past her fingertip.
The satisfaction of having drawn blood from the Crown Prince had been fleeting. Her exalted brother would have summoned a priest at once to mend his hand without a trace of a scar. In exchange, she had squandered the quiet weapon she had nurtured for weeks on an impulse.
‘I had wanted to sink it into Ayla, if I could…’
How many times had she dreamed of gouging those emerald eyes whenever that woman gazed upon Varkas?
Talia clawed absentmindedly at the raw skin beside the broken nail.
The frail scab tore away, droplets of crimson beading in its wake. Her frayed nerves only grew sharper. Staring blankly at the reddening skin, she slipped her index finger into her mouth, lazily sucked the blood clean, and stood up from the windowsill.
She had not caught so much as a shadow of Varkas today. There was no longer any use lingering beside the glass, suffering the harsh sunlight.
She crossed the room with sluggish steps, poured cool water into the washbasin on the shelf, and lightly rinsed her sweaty face. Just then, a knock broke the silence. The nanny had likely returned with another tea tray.
Talia blotted her skin dry with a clean linen cloth and answered listlessly.
“Enter.”
Yet the figure stepping through the door was not the stout quarter-dwarf with plump limbs, but a small boy with unruly, reddish-brown curls and brilliant, glowing green eyes.
END