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Varkas fixed him with a stare as cold as ice.
Normally, Gareth would have wilted under that look, but this time his fury proved beyond containment. He thrashed about, ruthlessly grinding the garments scattered across the floor beneath his boots.
“You made me the sacrificial lamb for that wretched whelp! Twice now you’ve betrayed me for that whore!”
Gareth hurled a wine bottle. It shattered at Varkas’s feet, splattering dark red across his boots and hems.
Varkas glanced down at the dark pool spreading through the carpet like blood, letting out an exhausted breath.
“Just how long do you intend to throw these childish tantrums?”
Gareth’s face contorted with acute humiliation. Varkas pressed on, driving every word into him like an iron spike.
“You are the Crown Prince of this Empire. Taking a daughter from a house chosen by the Assembly is a duty you cannot shirk. If it quiets unrest in Balto and binds this realm together, you ought to accept it with good grace—”
“A daughter chosen by the Assembly?”
A harsh sneer tore from Gareth’s lips. He strode forward, crushing glass beneath his heels.
“Ha! A wench from a line that raised an open rebellion against the throne! Stringing every last northern traitor up on the scaffold wouldn’t suffice, and you expect me to welcome their tainted blood as Crown Princess? Don't make me laugh!”
Gareth shoved Varkas hard in the shoulder. His green eyes, inches away, burned with venomous heat.
“And who are you to lecture me on duty? You keep a barren woman installed as Grand Duchess, doing nothing but coddling her—where do you find the nerve to preach to me?”
Varkas’s features set into an unreadable mask.
Blind to the fact that Varkas was at his tether, Gareth raged on.
“If you want to tell me how to live, dispose of that woman first. Cast Talia Roem Guirta aside right now and install Ayla as your Grand Duchess. Do that, and I’ll obey whatever you demand—this marriage or anything else.”
At that, the frayed cord of Varkas’s patience finally snapped.
Before thought could intervene, his hand shot out and clamped onto the Crown Prince’s collar. Gareth froze, his mind paralyzed by the sheer violence of the touch.
Varkas hauled him forward, driving his low, frigid voice straight into Gareth's face.
“I grow weary of your whining.”
Gareth went stark white with shock.
Varkas held those wide, bulging eyes and drove the nail deeper.
“If you are so set against the match, then break it off. I am eager to see how His Imperial Majesty reacts while bleeding to keep this fractured realm in one piece. I wonder how the North will respond to such a brazen insult, whether the great lords will continue backing an irresponsible prince for the throne, and what new intrigue the Empress will weave to seat her young son in your place…”
· · ·
“It should prove quite a spectacle.”
A naked tremor of dread flickered across Gareth’s haughty face.
Gareth ground his teeth to mask it. Varkas stared him down with flat indifference before releasing his hold. But as he turned toward the tent flap, a strangled cry caught him from behind.
“Are you… truly abandoning me now?”
Varkas looked back, his eyes hollowed by disgust.
Over the Crown Prince’s stricken face fell the faint memory of a boy wailing over his mother’s body. The man before him had merely grown in stature while remaining trapped in that ruined hour, spitting spite into the air.
“My mother took you in! When your own father threw you to the wolves, she was the one who sheltered you! She labored tirelessly to make a broken beast remotely human…! How can you turn your back on me and Ayla for the spawn of the filthy whore who hounded my mother into the grave?!”
Varkas closed his eyes for a single beat, then drew a hard, unyielding line.
“I gave everything to honor my vow to the late Empress. You are the one who trampled every ounce of that devotion beneath your feet.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit! You care more for that wretched creature than for us—”
“Keep her name out of your mouth. Talia has done no wrong to any of you.”
The ferocity of his tone made the Crown Prince flinch into silence.
Varkas leaned closer, his voice grated through clenched teeth.
“If you desire vengeance on Senevier, I will grant you every weapon I possess. I will drag that woman to her knees before you myself. But not my wife. She belongs neither to Taren nor Guirta. She is Shearkan.”
The vow hardened like stone, and the blood vessels burst red in Gareth’s eyes.
Turning away from the murderous face, Varkas delivered his final word.
“If you wish to keep me at your side, you had best accept that truth.”
Whether the warning took root or not, Gareth departed Yotengar with the main host shortly thereafter.
From the parapet of the watchtower, Varkas watched the Crown Prince’s standards fade into the mist, then turned to order the camp struck.
Tents collapsed, stakes came out, and lines dissolved. Weeks of quiet preparation meant the withdrawal unfolded with brisk, clockwork discipline.
As ranks of soldiers heaved crates onto hundreds of transport wagons, Varkas walked the lanes, inspecting the remaining stores.
Sufficient grain and dried meat remained to sustain an army for months, but they could not haul it all. A large share had to be handed over to the Northern Noble Alliance, which was assuming the defense of Yotengar.
He summoned the quartermaster, ordered two-thirds of the stores surrendered to the alliance, and turned toward the command pavilion where his officers waited.
Across the churned mud, he caught sight of Daren heading his way.
A dispatch was clutched in Daren’s fist, and Varkas stopped dead. He had sent word asking for reports from the East. Had something gone wrong?
Varkas strode over without hesitation.
“What has happened?”
“Ah, merely the regular courier from the East.”
Daren extended a missive sealed in red wax, his cadence level.
“I broke the seal for a preliminary glance; nothing dire has occurred. Word of Your Grace’s wounds stirred some brief unrest, but order has been restored. That said, the vassals have inundated the estate with petitions urging haste on marriages for Young Master Lucas and Lady Raina.”
The skin tightened around Varkas’s eyes as he took the parchment and cracked it open.
Just as Daren said, most of the lines concerned marriage arrangements for Lucas and Raina.
“Talks for Young Master Lucas remain stalled, but Lady Raina appears to have chosen her candidate. She wishes to conclude an engagement with the second son of House Skart.”
House Skart was one of the grand lineages of the East, long bound in loyalty to the Grand Duchy.
Varkas nodded, his eyes scanning down the page.
“A suitable match. Tell them I approve.”
“The retainers hope Your Grace will preside over the rite in person.”
Varkas looked up from the parchment. Daren rested his weight against a wooden palisade, his tone leaning toward persuasion.
“This makes twice that Your Grace has brushed against death. Would it not serve us well on many fronts to let everyone see you alive and whole?”
Varkas glanced down at the final leaf of the dispatch, his gaze heavy and brooding.
News of her took up only a few sparse lines. He read the flat, indifferent words reporting that she remained quiet, causing no trouble, and slowly crushed the parchment inside his fist.
END