The thick cords along the Crown Prince’s neck strained with fury.
Edric edged nearer to Talia, bracing for the prince to throw a fist at any second. He was not the only one who felt the danger; Varkas, who had remained as silent as a shadow, stepped between them.
“We are already far behind schedule. Let us proceed with the rites.”
The Second Princess froze for an instant before shifting her eyes toward Lord Shearkan.
It was only a fraction of a second, but Edric, every nerve on edge, caught the way her frame locked tight. It seemed even this reckless woman knew when she had to yield—specifically, when Lord Shearkan adopted that cold, uncompromising tone.
She pressed her lips into a thin seam and looked away. The Crown Prince, looking as though he might burst, ground his teeth and returned to his place before the altar.
Seeing the crisis pass, the high priest—who had tucked his head down like a turtle while watching the mood—cleared his throat and resumed the ceremony.
Standing a short distance back, Edric watched the three members of the imperial family receive their consecration in turn.
The Crown Prince stepped forward first, bowing his head. The high priest raised a silver chalice and tipped holy water over him, chanting blessings in an ancient tongue.
Next came the First Princess and her betrothed, Lord Shearkan. Finally, Talia bowed before the altar.
Edric looked at Talia with her eyes cast down, gazing at her as if she were a total stranger.
Bathed in the mystical glow of hundreds of candles, her tawny gold hair and pale skin made her look like a creature from another realm.
While he stood staring in a daze, the priest poured holy water over her head as well.
The clear stream sank into the golden strands of her hair, tracing paths down her smooth forehead, her cheek, and the bridge of her straight nose before gathering at the point of her chin.
The priest laid a hand on her head and invoked divine grace.
“May the grace of God remain with you for all eternity…”
The prayer, which had felt as though it would never end, finally trailed off.
When the priest rang a silver chime, the Crown Prince was the first to rise and stride past the assembled crowd.
The First Princess and Lord Shearkan followed, and then Talia Roem Guirta slowly drew herself up. With her chin tilted high and an air fit for an empress, she walked out among the onlookers.
Not a single person could pull their eyes away from that haughty bearing.
An embodiment of strife. A sinister, ill-omened presence.
Yet in that moment, it was as if they realized for the very first time that the woman they had always branded with such names was, after all, an Imperial Princess of the Empire.
Perhaps because they had gained so much elevation, the air—once as stifling as a bathhouse—had turned cool and crisp.
Breathing in the dry, chilly air, Talia looked through the carriage window at the sky as the sun sank.
A deep indigo night was bleeding in from the east. Another day was passing without anything happening.
Her throat burned as if she had swallowed an ember.
Talia opened the storage compartment tucked into the corner of the carriage and pulled out a small silver knife she had pocketed at the monastery. The pale, gleaming blade seemed to whisper that it had grown tired of waiting.
Sliding it into her pocket, she stepped down from the carriage. The bustling sights of the campsite immediately greeted her.
She pulled her hood low over her head and surveyed the area. A grand banquet seemed to be under way to soothe Gareth’s foul temper.
Servants hurried frantically between the tents carrying wine and trays of food, while some of the soldiers were already deep in their cups.
Talia toyed with the cold metal in her pocket and wet her dry lips. The clamor worked in her favor; it would make things far simpler. Keeping her head down, she slipped into the camp.
Just then, a knight of the guard caught sight of her and came jogging over, his face brightening.
“Your Highness!”
Talia’s brow furrowed.
Why did this hound keep wagging his tail at her? His persistent friendliness was beginning to grate on her nerves.
Glaring at that guileless face—as if he truly had no hidden intent—Talia let out a cold snort and brushed past him. But the man was entirely undeterred.
“It was stifling inside, wasn’t it? Come, this way. The servants are preparing food right now. If you watch them cook it yourself, you’ll be able to eat in peace, won’t you?”
Paying no mind to the knight’s ceaseless chatter, she walked toward the sound of music.
Before long, she found Gareth holding court before an ornate tent where a roaring fire blazed.
She halted some distance away. Attendants were bustling around to humor the Crown Prince, who sat slumped over a goblet in dark silence. While servants dressed as grotesque jesters juggled daggers, musicians played sultry tunes to his liking, and several maids flirted openly under the guise of pouring his wine. As she sneered at the spectacle, the knight cut in front of her.
“It would be best if you headed that way instead.”
Talia looked up at his earnest expression. He had worn that exact face while watching over her at the temple. As if he were genuinely trying to keep her from harm.
Talia sneered inwardly. As if I’d fall for that.
“Mind your own business.”
Snapping at him, she turned and made for the line of tents along the riverbank.
Gareth had never been her target to begin with. Talia scanned the perimeter of Ayla’s pavilion, keeping her movements as natural as possible. Soon enough, she spotted her half-sister dining leisurely, ringed by a flutter of handmaidens.
She hesitated for a beat.
Knights were posted around Ayla. To them, Talia was a known threat; any reckless attempt to approach would see her pinned to the dirt immediately.
She gnawed on her lower lip.
How could she get close to her half-sister without drawing notice?
While she racked her mind, the knight who had been babbling beside her went abruptly silent.
Talia glanced over. The man was looking down at her, suspicion creeping into his gaze. Her odd behavior had clearly begun to register.
Feigning composure, she took a seat at a nearby bench. Then, to throw him off the scent, she barked:
“I’m hungry. Go fetch me something to eat.”
The knight’s face lit up at once, as if relieved to hear the demand. He was absurdly simple.
“Wait right here! I’ll bring it straightaway!”
With the tiresome watchdog gone, Talia pulled her hood down further and resumed tracking Ayla’s movements. Ayla was laughing pleasantly at some joke from her maids.
Can I truly end that loathsome woman’s life?
Her throat went bone-dry. A guard might spot her before she even drove the blade home. If she were seized, it would not be brushed off as some petty fit of spite.
Tracing the outline of the knife through her pocket, she weighed whether this was truly worth throwing her life away for.
Even if Ayla vanished from the world, it would not make Varkas hers. He would go on living his life untouched, while she would scatter like morning dew beneath the headsman’s axe. The only thing waiting at the end of this foolishness was a squalid death.
Even so…
Would watching Varkas take Ayla as his wife truly be any better than death?
While Ayla became the Grand Duchess of Shearkan and bore his children, Talia would wither away in agonizing torment.
Or perhaps she would be handed off to whatever suitor Senevier chose. In the end, she would hang herself, unable to bear the touch of some vile stranger. No, that was the only future awaiting her.
Whether she died this way or that, she was finished regardless. It might be better to make a clean end of it today and drag Ayla down with her.
Her mind made up at last, Talia rose. She was about to stroll toward Ayla as casually as possible when a familiar figure caught her eye.
That woman…
END