“What is that supposed to mean?”
When Varkas countered in a frigid tone, Gareth, whose face had gone red with fury, flinched and took a step back.
Watching him with pure weariness, Varkas added ruthlessly:
“I am merely fulfilling my duty as a loyal subject of the Empire. Wherever my heart lies, it is not for Your Highness to meddle.”
The Crown Prince’s sun-bronzed face turned a dark, venomous shade.
Glaring at him with eyes full of betrayal, Gareth spoke through gritted teeth.
“You swore an oath to our mother. To me and Ayla…!”
“And is that not why I am standing here now?”
Varkas cut him off, a sharp edge of irritation in his voice.
“If I had not dissuaded her, the First Princess would be Duke Heimdal’s hostage by now. If I hadn’t anticipated the North’s movements and choked off their funding, we wouldn’t have isolated the rebels this easily. And even now, I am trying to bring this war to a swift close so no misfortune befalls Your Highness.”
Pausing, Varkas stared intently at his cousin’s face, which had flushed crimson with humiliation.
“What more must I do to satisfy Your Highness?”
“Ha! You speak as though you're so noble, but in the end, you abandoned Ayla and chose that bastard girl! Even now, caring for that woman matters more to you than supporting me! How am I to trust your loyalty…!”
“Your Highness.”
The low, heavy tone cut Gareth’s raving short.
Varkas stepped toward the Crown Prince, seizing his broad, armored shoulder with one hand and pressing down firmly.
“We struck a bargain, didn't we? You gave your final consent to my marriage as well.”
Veins bulged along the Crown Prince’s neck and temples. Varkas pressed down even harder as the man twisted to break free, then whispered coldly into his ear:
“Why do you insist on dredging this up?”
In an instant, the color drained from Gareth’s face. He looked like a hound whose throat had just been clamped in its master’s jaws.
Varkas let out a long breath and loosened his grip.
“I meant what I said: bringing an end to this war is what serves the Empire best. Put your temper aside and weigh the situation calmly.”
Giving the man's shoulder a light pat, Varkas stepped out of the tent, the dense scent of damp earth hitting him at once.
He looked up at the blackened sky for a moment, then walked slowly through the camp in the tapering rain.
Between rows of uniformly pitched military tents, the bleak, jagged landscape of the Kairas Valley showed dimly through the mist.
Having established a garrison at Beldis, the junction between the East and the North, he had shifted a portion of his elite troops to the northwest to prepare for whatever came next.
The forward camp held a strategic position: from here, his forces could strike straight into Amasec, the heart of Balto, in an emergency, or reach Dolakan Castle—the presumptive site for the peace talks—within four days. He intended to hold this position until the Emperor gave word either to march north on Amasec or advance toward Dolakan Castle.
Now that talks were decided, he would ride south at daybreak to oversee the signing of the treaty.
The Emperor would dispatch a plenipotentiary, so Varkas’s presence was not strictly necessary, but remaining close by seemed prudent in case unforeseen trouble arose.
He raked a hand through his rain-damped hair and looked down the narrow canyon where mist coiled between the cliffs.
If the treaty went through, the Heimdal family would be cast out by their own kin, and the rebellion would be cleanly snuffed out.
Then he could return home.
‘Not that she will welcome it…’
With a bitter sigh, Varkas rested against a rough-hewn fence, unhooked the waterskin at his belt, and took a drink to wet his throat.
Through the rain, a dark shape approached, leading a mount.
Varkas narrowed his eyes, recognizing the figure. It was Tairon El Drakan, who had been stationed at Beldis, riding across the muddy camp.
“Your Grace.”
The man halted before him and inclined his head respectfully.
Varkas frowned, taking in the state of a man who looked to have ridden at breakneck speed.
“What has happened?”
“Word arrived from Kalmor. I rode hard to deliver it to Your Grace without delay, but…”
Tairon slid a hand into his tunic, breaking off as he looked around.
Following his gaze, Varkas saw the Crown Prince’s personal guard drawn up outside the perimeter and gave a low sigh.
“He only came to vent his fury after learning I proposed peace talks to His Majesty. Pay them no mind. Deliver your report.”
“Ah, so that is how it settled.”
A brief look of relief crossed Tairon’s face, as though he, too, was sick of the fighting.
Varkas held out a hand to the lancer without bothering to mention that, even with a signed treaty, troops would remain along the northern border for some time to keep pressure on the region.
Tairon blinked in momentary confusion, then remembered himself and drew a letter from inside his tunic.
“Your Grace has been absent from the castle for so long. It seems several matters have grown contentious during your time away.”
Taking the crumpled sheaf of parchment, Varkas stepped under the awning of a nearby tent. The soldiers warming themselves over a small brazier scrambled out of his way.
He sat at a trestle table strewn with cards, dice, and cups, then smoothed out the pages.
The ink was slightly smeared where water had seeped in, but the text remained legible. Most of it concerned jurisdictional disputes within Kalmor and unsettled skirmishes with the barbarian tribes.
Skimming the lines impassively, Varkas’s eyes narrowed as he reached the end.
Watching his lord's face closely, the lancer ventured carefully:
“It seems the beast kept by Her Grace the Grand Duchess caused quite an uproar across the estate. They are eager for Your Grace to return and resolve the matter.”
Varkas’s gaze swept down to the final line, and his hand crushed the parchment into a ball. A throbbing ache flared along his temple and across his brow.
As he pressed his fingers to his forehead to massage the pain away, a horn sounded in the distance.
Turning, Varkas watched Gareth march through the camp.
His rage still burning, the Crown Prince hurled a searing glare in Varkas’s direction, joined his personal guard, vaulted onto his gold-caparisoned courser, and spurred north with his knights trailing behind.
He had orders to remain encamped at Amasec until the outcome of the peace talks was decided, so he would not dare ride down to the negotiations and ruin everything.
Varkas tapped his temple once more, then rose.
“Find Beirof. We strike camp immediately and make for the East.”
“Right now, Your Grace?”
The knight looked stunned.
Varkas headed toward his own tent, his voice level.
“The talks take place in the south of Balto. There is no longer any reason to remain bivouacked here.”
“Then what of the cavalry stationed at Beldis?”
“I leave command of them to Daren and you for the time being.”
Varkas, having crossed the camp in long strides, spoke as he pushed aside his tent flap.
The lancer trailing him immediately looked crestfallen; he, too, had evidently hoped to ride back to Kalmor.
Varkas laid a hand on the shoulder of the man who had been away from his home for so long.
“The civil war will conclude shortly. Endure just a little longer.”
“Does Your Grace intend to remain in Kalmor for good?”
Varkas frowned at the sudden question.
Certainly, if these talks ended well, there would be no reason for him to return to the front.
For an eastern lord to spend two years roaming from battlefield to battlefield was unprecedented enough.
He could not leave the governance of his lands to his vassals indefinitely. Though it came earlier than planned, ending his campaign life now was hardly a mistake.
The question was how she would receive his return.
“Well…”
Varkas stared at the flickering candle flame with a distant look, lifted his cuirass, and murmured:
“What comes next… I suppose I must go there to see.”
END