“You truly never seem to understand that there are lines you must not cross.”
Varkas spoke in his usual flat tone. Yet his handsome face was twisted into a harsh grimace, his patience worn down to nothing.
Talia wrenched her wrist, trying to tear herself free. But the trained knight’s grip was an iron shackle. Standing like an unyielding shield before the Crown Prince and Ayla, Varkas hauled Talia toward him and spat the words into her face.
“Just how low do you intend to sink before you are satisfied? Have you still not shown us the very bottom?”
“The bottom?”
Talia tilted her chin, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh.
“Noble young Lord Shearkan, do you really believe you know the first thing about the depths of human nature? Don’t act so high and mighty.”
She leaned in close, wearing a strange, suggestive smile. Unlike the other men who lost their senses at her gaze or scent alone, Varkas did not show the faintest stir of agitation. In his eyes lay nothing but weary disgust.
An abrupt urge seized Talia—she wanted to drive the fingernails she sharpened so meticulously every night straight into those icy eyes.
“From where you stand, I must look utterly vile. But I still have a long way to fall before I reach my worst.”
She spoke while staring straight into his eyes. A distant abyss lingered inside them.
Someday, this man would push her into that very void. If that was her fate, she would at least leave long, bleeding claw marks across their future before she fell. That was only fair.
Her deep blue eyes gleamed with venom. A dangerous light flickered in Varkas’s gaze as he looked down at her spiteful face. As they stood glaring at each other as though ready to kill, a pitiable voice drifted from behind him.
“Varkas.”
The man who looked ready to pierce Talia through turned toward his fiancée at once.
Ayla wore an expression so heart-wrenching it would ache in anyone’s chest. She delicately caught the hem of his coat, her voice pleading.
“I… I wish to change. Will you take me out of here?”
“…As you wish.”
Varkas draped an arm over Ayla’s shoulders and turned. As though Talia had been wiped from his mind entirely, he did not glance back even once as he escorted his fiancée from the hall.
Talia felt the madness that possessed her drain away all at once.
Despair, pain, and jealousy rushed into the hollow it left behind. Yet even in that gut-wrenching agony, she kept her posture straight.
Carrying a triumphant smile as if she had won, Talia walked toward the terrace where the wine and food were laid out. People parted before her in a hurry, shrinking away as though dodging something foul.
Unmoved, she picked up a fresh glass with practiced grace. But before she could take two sips, Count Serian, who had watched the confrontation from a distance, rushed over and plucked it from her hand.
“You would do best to leave the banquet hall at once.”
“Why?”
She asked indifferently, reaching toward a platter of pomegranates.
“Didn’t you hear the First Princess tell me to enjoy myself to my heart’s content? I haven’t had nearly enough yet.”
“I admire your nerve, Princess, but a dangerous beast is glaring at your back as if he might tear into you at any second.”
The Count gestured toward the Crown Prince with a flick of his eyes. Just as he said, Gareth looked ready to unleash a bloodbath on the spot.
Thick veins stood taut along his sun-bronzed neck, the hard muscle of his clenched jaw twitching faintly. It was clear he was barely holding back an explosive fury.
Normally, she would have baited her brother further, goading him until he did something dreadful, but she had no strength left for it now.
Dropping her bravado, Talia placed her hand on Count Serian’s forearm. They slipped from the hall swiftly, though not so fast that it looked like flight.
A carriage stood waiting before the gardens. The royal guard opened the door as though he had been anticipating her, and Talia stepped onto the footboard. But just as she was about to sink into the plush seat, someone shoved her violently from behind.
Talia crashed to the carriage floor and looked up. Gareth, having shoved past her guard, shoved his head inside, eyes flashing with murderous intent.
“We are barely tolerating your existence.”
He snarled, clamping a rough, calloused hand around her throat. The guard, unable to lay hands on the Crown Prince, could only shout, asking what he thought he was doing.
Ignoring the frantic knight, Gareth tightened both hands on her windpipe. Talia instinctively kicked her legs and dug her nails into his vein-ridged hands. But consumed by fury, he seemed beyond feeling any pain.
Gareth hissed the words into her ear.
“For a very long time, we have endured, and endured, and endured.”
The Crown Prince’s vivid green eyes burned like coals.
“So you do not need to provoke us further, sister. We already hate you quite enough…”
Gareth finally wrenched his hands away and straightened up.
Talia clutched her neck with both hands, gasping for air. Convulsive coughs wracked her body as she choked. While she wheezed, her face flushed crimson, the Crown Prince’s chilling voice drilled into her ears.
“Remember this well. Your mother’s arrogance and a filthy bastard like you strutting through the Imperial Palace—none of it will last.”
With that, he had the courtesy to shut the carriage door himself before walking away.
Struggling to pull herself upright, Talia noticed two of her carefully sharpened nails had broken, and her brow knit. Sticky blood clung to the fractured edges. She stroked them with satisfaction, murmuring in a rasping breath.
“…I’ll have to grow them out again.”
Next time, she would hone them sharper still. Sharp enough to cut down to the bone.
A dry, wheezing laugh escaped her.
She did not even know why she was laughing.
The useless guard, having yanked the door open to see if she was unharmed, stared down at her in horror. To him, she must have seemed mad. Perhaps he was right. She had surely lost her mind a long time ago.
Curled on the dark carriage floor, she giggled for a long while.
The entire Imperial Palace was in an uproar. In a few days, the First Princess and the Crown Prince were to set out on a pilgrimage. It was a rite that every descendant of Dorian—the great emperor who had unified the ten realms—was bound to undertake upon coming of age.
Normally, women embarked before marriage and men after their twentieth year. But at the Crown Prince’s insistence that it was only right for twins born on the same day to receive the divine blessing together, preparations were made for both.
To escort the two heirs second in standing only to the Emperor and Empress, the elite order of the Imperial Knights was mobilized. Naturally, the command fell to Varkas, who served as Commander of the Guard. Because of this, Talia frequently caught sight of him bustling through the inner courtyard from the windows of the Separate Palace.
Today, he was once again out in the drizzling rain, inspecting weapons, mounts, and provisions. Talia leaned over the windowsill, watching him without so much as blinking.
Varkas looked up toward the sky as though reading the hour. The silvery rain softly veiling his face filled her entire view.
It had been raining just like this on the day she fell in love with him.
Talia remembered that day.
END