She remembered the days when she gathered every word that fell from his lips like a precious jewel, turning them over and over in her mind, savoring each one.
Even when his words pierced her heart like daggers, she had lingered on them, stroking the blades a thousand times.
She did not want to hurt anymore. She was tired of loading his trivial words and offhand gestures with meaning, only to be crushed under the weight of disappointment.
She was no longer a foolish, starry-eyed girl. She had learned, down to the marrow of her bones, that Talia Roem Guirta meant nothing to him.
She fought the urge to cling to the steady arms lifting her so carefully, ruthlessly cutting down every sprout of foolish hope that tried to reach toward him.
Responsibility was the only reason he tended to her like this.
She had watched him, dissected him, and turned him over in her mind hundreds of times for more than ten years. She knew the principles by which he lived.
No matter how deeply he loathed Talia Roem Guirta, she remained under his charge, someone he was sworn to protect. Even if she never held the importance of Gareth or Ayla, she was not someone he could simply abandon to rot in misery.
A man who lived solely to fulfill his duty had failed in his charge; naturally, he felt indebted.
“I will have a meal brought.”
Before she realized it, they were inside the dim tent. Varkas spoke as he laid her down on the cot.
Lost in a haze, Talia looked down at her legs. The effects of the medicine were already fading, and a sharp, stinging ache crept from her shins up toward her hips.
“Forget the food. Just light the incense.”
“After you eat.”
A firm voice dropped over her head.
She forced focus into her unfocused eyes and glared up at him. But Varkas had already turned his back, issuing orders to a page.
She wanted to hurl a pillow at that infuriating, broad back, but her limbs were sodden cotton, refusing to obey. In the end, she let her anger collapse and pressed her face into blankets scented with cedar and mint.
Varkas returned a short while later carrying a bowl of porridge. Talia reluctantly picked up the spoon. Forcing food into her stomach felt like a chore, but unless she made a show of eating, this stubborn man would never let the incense burn.
Unable to endure the throbbing pain, she choked down the greenish porridge, packed thick with bitter herbs.
“There. Satisfied?”
She set the half-empty bowl down with enough force to nearly tip it over. The man, who had stood over her like a warden through every bite, scrutinized the remaining contents as if inspecting rations.
Talia snapped,
“I ate! What more do you want from me?!”
Varkas studied her face, where cold sweat was already beading from the sheer effort of enduring the pain, before turning aside to order a servant to bring the burner.
Soon, the hazy smoke began to seep into her mind once more. As the sharp edges of the agony softened, Talia let her body go slack.
It felt like dissolving into a cold cloud. The presence of the man, which had been scraping at her raw nerves like a blade, receded into the distance.
She could not tell how long she lay there, adrift in that heavy languor, when an unwelcome shadow fell across her blurred sight.
Talia forced her eyes to focus. The elegant silhouette of a woman stood framed against the dusk outside, etched into the dark. An instant later, she recognized her noble half-sister.
Talia watched the woman’s rigid expression as if appraising an ornament in a glass cabinet. Something had unsettled her, for faint fissures marked that face, usually as pristine and poised as fine porcelain.
A flicker of curiosity stirred in Talia. This was a woman who rarely lost her composure, no matter how cruelly Talia baited her. What could possibly have reduced her to such open distress?
“I know you feel responsible for what happened. But you are my fiancé. Keeping that child in your tent indefinitely is improper…”
Ayla’s voice, smooth and soft, filtered into her muffled ears as though she were underwater.
Talia knitted her brows. It was not the words themselves, but that calm, effortless composure that grated on her nerves.
Did the woman have to sound so refined even when she was furious?
For Talia, who could only breathe once she had clawed and screamed out every drop of rage, such poise was a discipline she could never hope to mimic. Perhaps that was why she hated Ayla all the more.
It was nauseating that this woman, adorned with virtues Talia could never attain, was her half-sister. If she had not been forced into a life lived entirely in her shadow, she might have hated Ayla a little less.
Ayla spoke on.
“If you are uneasy leaving her unattended, I will have her moved to my quarters. Then you will have no cause to worry over her…”
“Who puts a snake and a lynx in the same cage?”
A flat, weary voice cut the princess short.
Talia shifted her gaze toward Varkas, who stood with one shoulder leaned against a tent pole.
For a man who kept his spine as rigid as an iron rod, leaning on anything was rare. Had he stayed beside her the entire time she had been breathing the draught? If so, his composure was astonishing. She could barely manage to keep her eyelids parted.
“Are you comparing me to some filthy beast?”
Ayla’s tone sharpened.
Talia strained her eyes. She wanted to see Ayla’s composure break with her own two eyes. But Varkas straightened, his broad shoulders cutting off the view.
Then, his cold voice cut through the tent.
“Do you truly need me to explain what would happen if the Second Princess were placed in your quarters?”
He let out a low sigh, his tone dry and biting.
“Or do you wish to see the throats of those maids you hold so dear slit before morning?”
Ayla fell struck dumb, silence settling between them.
Talia stared blankly at his broad back, submerged in the gloom.
‘…I knew it. He was keeping watch over me. He kept me at his side so I wouldn’t throw another fit.’
She had expected nothing from the start. She had no reason to feel let down.
Why, then, did the hollow ache inside her chest flare anew?
Disgusted with herself, she shut her eyes.
The moment she let go of the frayed thread of consciousness she had clung to, the intrusive voices fell away. It was like plunging into deep, cold water. She gave herself over willingly to the dark.
A stifling heatwave pressed down on them for days.
For a procession dragging dozens of corpses across the barren land, the weather was nothing short of a nightmare.
To slow the rot, they had packed the open wounds and body cavities with salt and dried herbs, rubbing myrrh and resin over the grey flesh, but with every passing day, a foul, sweet stench seeped from the seams of the wooden boxes.
The faces of the marching soldiers were twisted in silent revulsion. Talia leaned against the carriage window, watching the grim line crawl forward, and remembered how she had prayed for this procession to march straight into the depths of hell the day they set out from the Imperial Palace.
Had God granted her prayer?
Or was this her punishment?
She was tracing the throbbing ache in her knee, brooding over the thought, when the shrill note of a scout’s whistle drifted from the front.
Narrowing her eyes against the blinding sun, she looked past the crest of the hill. Beyond the gentle slope bake beneath the harsh glare, the grey curtain walls of the palace loomed high.
The wretched, endless trek had finally come to an end.
END