For a long time, he stared in silence at the motionless tip of his pen. Ink pooled from the nib, leaving an unsightly blot on the letter.
As he crumpled the sheet and tossed it aside, the other man went on, sounding uneasy.
“Still, that wolf seems to have stirred up some ugly talk about Her Grace. There were frequent clashes with the Grand Duchy’s retainers, too.”
Varkas pulled open a drawer to fetch a fresh sheet of paper, his brow furrowing.
“Clashes?”
“Well, nothing truly serious. It’s just that the wolf is so ferocious… the men seem thoroughly rattled by it.”
The man scratched the back of his head, offering a vague shrug.
Varkas’s eyes narrowed.
“Has the beast harmed anyone?”
“Not quite. I kept a close watch while I was in Kalmor, and it mostly just bares its teeth to drive people off.”
The man hurried to make clear there had been no bloodshed.
“It’s fiercely protective of its master—possessive to a fault. It seems to loathe the very thought of anyone nearing Her Grace. So long as no one crosses that line, it stays calm. It obeys her without fail and has unusual wits; it isn’t the sort to lash out blindly.”
He rattled off excuses as if pleading its case, then caught his breath and added under his breath,
“Even so, it’s massive… Just hearing it growl is enough to make a man feel his neck is on the block.”
Varkas cast a measured gaze at the stack of missives resting on the edge of the desk.
He had already gathered that the Dire Wolf was causing unrest. The retainers he had posted to guard her safety had begun slipping veiled complaints into their reports.
His orders had never wavered.
If the beast showed any sign of endangering her or caused tangible harm to anyone nearby, they were to bring it down by force. If it did no real harm, they were to leave it alone.
The beast’s head remained on its shoulders, which meant it had yet to draw blood.
In that case, he had no reason to intervene.
The priests and retainers could grumble about harboring a monster all they liked; he could weather it. If it brought her peace, what did it matter if she raised a demon’s whelp, let alone a Dire Wolf?
If only Talia could find some measure of peace…
At that moment, the memory of her weeping in the pouring rain branded itself behind his eyelids.
He forced the persistent image away and dismissed his visitor with cold detachment.
“If you’ve said your piece, leave. You’ll want to clear the canyon before dark.”
“Come now, Your Grace was the one who asked…”
Edric muttered in mild grievance, but with a resigned sigh, he turned toward the entrance. Then, as if an afterthought struck him, he halted and held out an arm.
“Almost slipped my mind. I came to deliver this.”
Varkas’s gaze shifted to the rolled parchment resting in the knight’s hand.
“What is it?”
“A dispatch from His Highness the Crown Prince.”
Varkas took the scroll without a word.
In the clean, practiced hand of a court scribe, the message made a blunt demand for his forces to join the siege at Blodar.
Varkas read it with an unreadable face, his eyes stopping at the line written at the very bottom.
He held his gaze on the ink before bringing the paper over the candle flame. Then, with a curt jerk of his chin toward the startled Edric Ruben, he spoke.
“If your duties are done, be on your way.”
The knight parted his lips as if to object, but thought better of it and walked out of the tent in silence.
Varkas loosened his collar, feeling as though the uniform were tightening around his throat like a noose.
The letters on the parchment curled and squirmed like dying insects in the flame.
He watched them burn to ash, then dipped his dried nib into the ink once more.
There would likely be no battle at Amasec. Should the Emperor offer an audience, the Eastern Alliance would throw open their gates to welcome the imperial forces.
Even so, to pacify a whining Gareth, he would have to make a token show of moving his troops.
At the foot of the letter meant for his retainers, Varkas wrote that he intended to return before summer’s end, then sealed it with wax.
By the time the missive reached Raedgo Castle, the course of the war would be set. One way or another, he would see to it.
Faint light washed over a world bleached of color. Standing alone at the threshold of a garden white as snow, he watched as a woman, pale as an apparition, reached out a hand so translucent her veins showed through.
“Why do you stand there like a statue? Come here, quickly.”
He looked up at the dark-haired woman bathed in the glare of the sun. Or perhaps her hair had not been black at all.
He had never known her true hues. Even in a realm stripped of color, he could discern only that she was cast in exceptionally sharp contrast.
The woman coaxed him with a gentle, patient smile.
“You have nothing to fear. It is safe here.”
Her voice was soft, like someone gentling a skittish animal.
He took a slow step into the garden. As he drew near, a marble pavilion came into view through the neatly trimmed hedges.
Beneath its roof, huddled together on a stone bench, sat two small children, staring blankly at him with round eyes.
The woman rested her hands on the children’s shoulders, her face glowing with pride.
“Give your greetings. These are my children. In a sense, they are your cousins.”
He stepped up to the pavilion, looking down at the young brother and sister in silence. Both bore dark hair and large eyes, yet the impression each gave was entirely different.
The boy glared as if consumed by some inner fury, while the girl with braided pigtails looked on the verge of tears.
He studied the girl’s trembling expression with quiet curiosity. A moment later, her plump cheeks twitched, and she let out a piercing shriek.
“Ayla.”
The woman scooped her daughter into her arms, soothingly patting her small back.
As he watched, something wet and heavy struck his chest with a soft thud.
He turned his head. The boy, his face smeared dark, was furiously hurling mushy chunks of cake from the table.
“I hate you! Get away!”
“Gareth! Stop this at once!”
At the woman’s sharp cry, the maids waiting nearby hurried over, crowding around the boy to coax him into calm.
Spattered with sticky syrup, he waited motionless for the storm to subside.
When the girl’s weeping finally ceased, the woman placed her in the care of a lady-in-waiting and walked back toward him.
“I am so sorry, Varkas.”
She drew a handkerchief and wiped the syrup and cream from his face, her dark eyes shimmering with unshed tears right before his eyes.
“What am I to do with him? I shall see to it that Gareth is thoroughly disciplined.”
“…I am fine.”
She looked so terribly contrite that he finally parted his stubborn lips.
At the sound of his voice, the woman’s eyes widened in wonder, then softened into warm crescents.
He could not fathom her reaction. What reason had she to look so glad?
“You have spoken at last. I was so afraid you might never speak again.”
He knitted his brows. He had remained silent simply because he found no need for words. It had never occurred to him that she took him for a mute.
“Come now. Let us find you fresh clothes.”
Taking him by the hand, she led the way, a smile so innocent on her lips that it was difficult to believe she was the Empress of the realm.
With every step he took behind her, his small shadow stretched longer across the ground. His once-light tread grew heavier, step by step.
Before he knew it, he stood before the wide doors of a bedchamber, wearing a surcoat emblazoned with the crest of the Roem Knight Order.
He smoothed his uniform, then rapped his knuckles lightly against the wood. A familiar voice answered from inside.
“Come in.”
He turned the handle, revealing a warm, intimate chamber filled with aged wooden furniture and woven rugs.
His eyes took in the room as he walked, coming to rest at the window.
The woman, who had been gazing blankly down at the garden from the terrace, looked toward him with a fragile smile.
“Thank you for coming.”
In that single breath, he smelled death.
“I heard you tried to take your own life.”
Her faint smile crumbled at the blunt accusation. He pressed on, his voice hard as stone.
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“Why, you ask… Even I cannot say.”
She murmured the words, her expression hollow.
“They all tell me I did… but truly, I remember nothing. When I opened my eyes, I was merely lying in this bed.”
Her vacant gaze drifted back to the glass.
“Why did I do it? Was I hoping he would weep and regret it when he saw me dying? Or did I hope he would finally recognize what I was worth?”
Talking as if of some stranger, she let slip a brittle laugh.
“The maids were gathered all around me, wailing… and through it all, my eyes sought only his face. How pathetic, isn't it?”
He had nothing to say.
Taking his silence for judgment, her face seemed to collapse in on itself.
“You could never understand me. When I took you away from that place, my heart broke for you. You had been stripped of every feeling, and I wanted so desperately to heal you.”
· · ·
“Yet now… I envy you more than anyone.”
END