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A pale hand, thin veins visible beneath the skin, pushed desperately against his chest.
Varkas gathered both of her wrists in one hand, using the other to press her head firmly against his shoulder.
How long had they remained like that? Gradually, the strength drained from her body, which had been taut as a drawn bowstring.
Once she was completely spent, he laid the heavily panting woman back against the bed and touched the back of his hand to her forehead. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to have a fever.
As he let out a quiet breath, she lifted her wet lashes and glared at him.
“I loathe you.”
Varkas offered no reaction. Weariness pulling at her, the woman lowered her eyes and murmured in a fading voice,
“And… I loathe myself even more.”
The Season of Rest was deepening.
A biting wind swept across the training grounds, frozen white under overnight snowfall.
Despite the bitter frost, Lucas—clad only in a thin tunka against bare skin—swung his wooden sword before abruptly glancing up at the sky.
Gray clouds veiled the sun, heavy with the promise of more snow. As he stared blankly through unfocused eyes, an easy voice called out nearby.
“Do you truly recall nothing of how you were hurt?”
Turning his head, he found Baredon perched on the fence of the sparring grounds, idling a dagger in one hand.
Lucas let out an irritated sigh.
“How many times must I say it? I don’t remember.”
“Yet you remember everything else—about me, Lady Raina, and all the rest, do you not?”
Baredon countered, tilting his head.
Lucas, who had been rhythmically striking a straw training dummy with his wooden sword, froze and turned around.
“Are you claiming I’m faking it?”
“Who said that? It’s only… rather hard to grasp.”
“It is the same for me.”
Fixing a sharp glare on Baredon, Lucas muttered, disheartened,
“It feels as though someone ransacked my head as they pleased. Even when memories begin to surface… they cut off abruptly, as if blocked by something. Especially…”
He nearly confessed that most of his recollections concerning the wolf that had allegedly attacked him, and the wolf’s owner, were lost in fog. But he held his tongue. For reasons he couldn't name, speaking of it made him deeply uneasy.
Fingering the scar on his neck, he looked toward the wooded path bordering the training grounds.
According to the soldiers, he had been mauled somewhere over there by a direwolf kept by the Grand Duchess. And that woman had supposedly fled with the beast, leaving him to bleed out.
He could not fathom why a hollow ache opened in his chest every time his thoughts drifted there. All he remembered of the woman were fragmented glimpses suggesting they despised one another.
He vaguely recalled sharp arguments breaking out shortly after Varkas’s return to the East, yet her actual face remained obscured, veiled in shadow.
Why was it that his memories of that woman alone had vanished entirely?
The moment Lucas asked himself that, a sharp throb pierced his temple, and he caught his head in his hands.
An instinctive revulsion seized him. It felt as though he dared not dwell on anything tied to her.
“Are you well?”
Noticing how pale he had grown, Baredon hurried over.
Lucas waved a dismissive hand.
“Just a sudden spell of dizziness. Don’t make a scene.”
“Did you strain yourself for nothing and worsen your state? The High Priest bade you rest for the time being.”
“I’ve been confined to bed for over a month. Isn’t that rest enough?”
Lucas snapped with venom.
“If you’re so concerned, stop hovering and attend to your own duties. Don’t you have enough to handle with my share of the work?”
“I came only to see when you might return. But looking at you now, it seems I’ll be waiting considerably longer.”
Baredon sighed heavily, sliding the dagger into his belt.
Lucas gave a humorless scoff.
“So you were interrogating me simply to see if I was malingering?”
“Given the burden of duties you used to carry, I had reasonable cause to suspect you might be feigning it to prolong your leave…”
Baredon, bantering smoothly, abruptly clamped his mouth shut. From the ramparts, the blare of a horn resounded, signaling the arrival of an important guest.
Lucas turned toward the castle gate.
To the rhythmic clatter of hooves striking stone, half a dozen riders mounted on stout warhorses entered the grounds in formation.
Recognizing the crest of the Roem Knights stitched upon their cloaks, Lucas dropped his wooden blade and bolted toward the gate.
“What brings you here?”
At his shout, the lead rider turned.
It was a familiar face. Was his name Edric Luvon? A man who had often traveled to Raedgo Castle bearing imperial missives.
He swung down from his mount and offered a courteous greeting.
“Pardon our unannounced arrival. We have come bearing an order from His Imperial Majesty.”
“A decree from His Majesty?”
When Lucas narrowed his eyes with doubt, the man gave a grim nod.
“An insurrection has erupted across the North. Fearing the rebellion will spread if suppression is delayed, His Majesty commands the regional lords to dispatch reinforcements without delay.”
A sharp murmur rippled through the gathered men. The imperial envoy cast his eyes over the crowd and projected his voice as though issuing a formal proclamation.
“The East is no exception. Shearkan must obey His Majesty’s decree immediately and join the suppression!”
The Grand Duke entered the council chamber an hour after the emergency summons had been called.
As Varkas strode through the room with his customary, unyielding composure and took the high seat, the murmuring crowd went dead silent.
Ever since the direwolf had been brought down, the Grand Duke had remained secluded in the annex, conducting all administrative affairs strictly through written correspondence.
This was his first public appearance in nearly a month. Naturally, the retainers watched him with profound suspicion. They seemed terrified he might openly defy the Emperor’s command.
“Proclaim mobilization throughout the Southeast at once. I will commit an additional four thousand lancers to the North.”
The Grand Duke, having perused the imperial missive, broke the silence.
One of the messengers seated at the far end of the long table stood to object.
“His Majesty commanded ten thousand additional troops!”
“Shearkan has already dispatched eight thousand cavalry to the North. With Eastern security unstable as well, I cannot spare another ten thousand men.”
“Yet the East commands over fifty thousand—”
“Sending four thousand more means nearly a quarter of my total strength is committed to the North.”
The Grand Duke cut the envoy off coldly.
“Anything beyond that is an excessive demand. If His Majesty does not wish to alienate the Eastern populace as well, advise him to settle for four thousand.”
The expressions of the envoys—save for Edric Luvon—hardened at the veiled warning. Yet the Grand Duke remained unbothered.
Brooking no further contest, the Grand Duke rose with finality. Seeing him prepare to leave, Edric Luvon spoke up urgently.
“What answer shall I carry regarding the order appointing Your Grace as Supreme Commander of the Imperial Allied Forces?”
A pair of blue-gray eyes turned upon him. Then came the flat reply:
“Tell him I accept with profound gratitude.”
With that, the Grand Duke turned and left the chamber.
Only after he had gone did low murmurs return to the hall, breaking the suffocating stillness.
While fierce arguments erupted among the retainers over raising the four thousand additional troops, the imperial messengers rose one by one.
Baredon, who had quietly observed the exchange from the table's end, got to his feet to escort them to their lodgings. Though servants could have done it, he could not risk word spreading that imperial envoys had been slighted.
He approached the imperial knights with a courteous air.
“If you would follow me, I will guide you to your quarters.”
“Thank you.”
Edric Luvon answered politely.
Baredon led the way out of the hall. Just then, a low voice sounded from the corridor leading toward the keep.
“You. Step out and speak with me a moment.”
Baredon turned, his eyes widening to see the Grand Duke leaning against a corridor pillar.
Edric Luvon pointed to himself.
“Do you mean me?”
“Yes.”
Emerging from the shadows, the Grand Duke answered with his typical impassive tone:
“There is something I must ask of you in private.”
END