Even now, the memory remained like an open, festering wound inside him.
Though born out of wedlock, she had been brought up as an imperial princess.
All her life, she had never spared a second glance for garments or jewels that were not of the finest make, fastidious to the point of obsession about cleanliness. Yet that very woman had tried to sleep upon a bed of dusty straw, looking like a tattered wreck.
Simply because she could not bear to be near him.
He tore his gaze away from her face, where it had lingered. He told himself again: he must not read meaning into this sudden shift in her manner.
With time, her grief might have worn thin. As the agony of losing the child faded, her bitterness toward him might have dulled a fraction.
That hardly meant she wanted his company now.
It was useless to dwell on it.
“Yesterday…”
Pulled from his thoughts by her voice, Varkas looked away from the carriage window.
The blue eyes that had been fixed on the view outside were now studying him.
“Where did you sleep last night?”
His brow furrowed at the sudden question, but he answered after only a brief pause.
“In the room adjoining the study.”
“Sleep in your own bed from now on.”
For an instant, his mind seized. His expression stiffened as he looked at her.
Toying absently with the metal pendants at her waist, Talia added, “Keep that up, and the servants will whisper that the Grand Duchess drove the Grand Duke from his bedchamber.”
He frowned.
In truth, it felt as though he had been cast out, but he held his tongue.
Talia continued, tugging on the ornament so hard it threatened to tear free.
“I will use my old chambers, so use yours. The war is done, and you will remain at Raedgo Castle. The Grand Duke cannot live out of an office indefinitely.”
“You need not trouble yourself. There is enough official business waiting for me that I will hardly spend much time in bed anyway.”
“Do you intend to run all of Shearkan on your own?”
She snapped at him without warning.
“You rotted on a battlefield for two years. What business could possibly be so urgent the moment you return?”
Swallowing a sigh, he kept his voice level.
“Matters that cannot be left to deputies or vassals. Having been gone so long, there are things I must oversee myself.”
“You still need proper rest. The other nobles spend their days drinking, hunting, and carousing. Why must you be the only one working yourself to the bone?”
“A good portion of those who indulge so freely wind up bankrupt, or unseated by their own men.”
“Not all of them. You simply lack tact.”
Rather than explain the intricacies of managing a city the size of Kalmor alongside hundreds of far-flung estates, he offered a low nod.
“I suppose I do.”
A flush crept up her neck. He forced his eyes away from her set, sulking mouth.
He did not want to deceive himself into thinking her anger came from concern. Yet perhaps a sliver of it did. Sharp as she was to everyone around her, had she not always been fragile at the core?
Even in the early days of their marriage, she had begun to open up to him, little by little.
If she had delivered the child without harm, they would still share a room and a bed. They would not be searching for words across this strained silence.
Their child would have been two years old by now. Perhaps they would have fallen asleep side by side, a restless young son settled between them.
As the thought formed, Varkas crushed it as though it burned.
He refused to indulge in useless longings.
“Regardless, keep that room and do not worry over me. You need the space if you are to keep Khan by your side.”
“That may be, but… they will still call me a spiteful wife who chased her husband into a study.”
“Anyone who says such things will be thrown from the castle.”
“Do you really think that helps? It will only give them more reason to despise me.”
Under the strain of her fingers, one of the small clasps on her belt gave way with a snap.
Fingering the broken piece, she hesitated.
“So, it would be better if…”
The carriage slowed and rolled to a gentle stop. Outside, an escort knight knocked lightly upon the panel.
“We have arrived, Your Grace.”
“Wait.”
Varkas answered stiffly, his eyes returning to Talia.
“Go on.”
“…Never mind.”
Her face went sullen as she rose, stumbling slightly. Instinctively, Varkas moved to catch her by the waist, then drew back and curled his fingers into a fist.
She turned back to glare at him, her voice laced with pique.
“Well? Are you going to escort me or not?”
Only then did Varkas step out first and extend a hand. Talia took it, stepping carefully onto the flagstones.
A hush fell over the square, followed by a low, collective murmur of awe.
Varkas glanced across the yard. His brow darkened at the hundreds gathered for the service, staring at Talia with glazed, vacant eyes. Some stood with their mouths hanging slack, utterly transfixed.
He closed a firm hand around her arm, using his broad frame to shield her as best he could. Yet no shoulder was wide enough to shut out the sheer volume of eyes pressed upon her from every angle.
Enduring those cloying, persistent stares, he guided her toward the cathedral doors.
The great hall enveloped them in cool, vaulted air. As they walked down the central aisle, thousands packed into the nave stood as one. Among them were wealthy merchants, lesser lords, and magistrates he had raised up himself.
Varkas looked past the eager faces vying for his glance, keeping his stride measured toward the dais. Flanking the altar upon wide marble steps were the seats reserved for the Shearkan bloodline.
He stepped aside to let her take the stairs ahead of him, assuming she would want to conceal her slight limp. But she gave no sign of minding the crowd.
With a calm, lifted chin, Talia climbed the steps at an unhurried pace, her hand resting lightly on the rail. The entire congregation watched in silence, caught beneath her cold, imperious grace.
It was not the gaze men turned on flesh and blood. It was the look reserved for something sacred and terrible in equal measure.
Reading the uneasy silence settling over the hall, the presiding priest stood and struck the altar bell with a grim set to his mouth.
The sharp ring seemed to break a spell, and the congregation straightened in their pews.
“Let the sacred rites commence.”
At the priest’s announcement, a fleeting look of guilt passed over several men in the crowd.
Varkas ground his teeth. He knew full well the sort of thoughts passing through their heads. In all his years guarding her, he had spent half his time shielding her from men whose eyes ran thick with lust.
Burying the urge to strike them down, he followed her up the dais.
A few kin were already seated in the upper gallery, Lucas and Raina among them. Varkas met his siblings’ sullen greetings with a slight tip of his head, then took his place beside Talia.
Shortly after, the choir boys rose, lifting their voices in an ancient Osirian chant. As he stared down into the nave to mask his weariness, a soft breath of laughter brushed his ear.
Surprised, he turned to see her looking at him, her blue eyes bright with naked malice.
“Look at him.”
She murmured against his ear, the warm brush of her breath leaving an odd prickle of heat against his skin.
“His face has gone entirely purple.”
He made himself look toward where she was gesturing.
Before the altar stood the Grand Priest. The man was glaring up at her, trembling with an outrage so deep it seemed as if she had personally desecrated the altar.
“He warned me once to dress with utmost modesty and keep my face veiled if I dared step inside this cathedral. He is furious that I showed up looking like this just to mock him.”
She gave a stifled giggle, like an unruly child delighting in some vicious little game.
His brow twitched. She had never been pious, but neither had she harbored any special hatred for the clergy. At one time, she had even devoured theological tracts with intense focus.
What could have happened in his absence to turn her against the priesthood like this?
END