56
He wasn’t exactly scowling, so why did it feel so unnerving?
Asros, who had been feigning nonchalance while fiddling with a coat button, finally raised his head after a long pause.
Lord Shearkan had already moved toward the north transept and stood talking with the High Priest.
Asros narrowed his eyes at the grave atmosphere between them.
The lord had his back turned, hiding his face, but the veins stood out thick on the old priest’s withered neck.
As the priest’s shoulders heaved while he vented some grievance, a cold edge flickered across Lord Shearkan’s face.
They clearly were not on friendly terms. Asros’s eyes sparkled with interest.
‘What are they talking about?’
The priesthood staunchly backed the Crown Prince, and so did the future Grand Duke Shearkan.
Why two people belonging to the same faction would be clashing piqued his curiosity.
Driven by intrigue, Asros slipped quietly out of the pew. He was about to duck behind a pillar by the crossing to listen in when someone caught him firmly by the collar.
Asros jerked his head up, saw Berens’s stern face, and let his eyebrows droop.
Berens looked down at him gravely, rebuking him in an undertone.
“They are Your Highness’s political foes. Do not go near them.”
“What political foes? I don’t have any of those.”
He pouted in protest, but the man did not budge.
Asros wore a sullen scowl and glanced back toward the transept.
By then, Lord Shearkan had concluded his conversation with the High Priest and was striding toward the crossing.
Asros quickly ducked behind Berens’s legs.
Lord Shearkan cast a fleeting, cold glance his way before sweeping across the nave with an elegant gait.
Watching that retreating back from behind Berens, Asros asked in a hushed whisper,
“What do you think the High Priest said to Lord Shearkan?”
“He was likely holding him accountable for the recent incident.”
“Why? Lord Shearkan and the Cathedral are allies. Even if Lord Shearkan made a mistake, shouldn’t they shield him?”
A faint, bitter smile touched Berens’s eyes.
“The world is not so simple.”
Berens’s voice was gentle yet chiding as he turned toward the altar, where the funeral rites were underway, and continued slowly,
“Many among the priesthood harbor deep resentment toward the Khan. In particular, the fundamentalist priests’ hatred for the Shearkan clan runs deep.”
Asros was about to ask why, then fell silent. What he had learned in history lessons surfaced in his mind.
Long ago, it was the Khan who had resisted to the bitter end against the unification war led by Dorian Roem Guirta.
During the ‘Final Battle’ in the north, they had even inflicted a mortal wound upon Wigru, the knight revered as chosen by God.
Though the Easterners were incorporated into the Roem Empire after the war ended, the Khan had never truly assimilated into Western society, and the imperial citizens’ hostility toward them had never entirely faded.
Remembering this, Asros let out a soft snort.
“It’s foolish. The other tribes fought fiercely too. Isn’t it petty to shun them just because they surrendered last?”
Berens glanced down at Asros in mild surprise, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“It is not solely for that reason. It is closer to fear, born of the immense power the Shearkan clan wields.”
“Immense power?”
When Asros tilted his head, puzzled, Berens paused for a moment before speaking.
“According to the records, a rare few of the Shearkan clan were born with extraordinary gifts—foreseeing the future, reading the hearts of men, or commanding all manner of beasts at will. Reigned over by such uncanny power, they were once objects of terror.”
Asros’s eyes widened at the intriguing tale.
“Does Lord Shearkan possess a special power as well?”
“Most unlikely. The priests examined him thoroughly and found nothing out of the ordinary.”
Berens stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“Perhaps the blood diluted over generations, causing the power to fade. Not since a powerful mind reader was born eighty years ago has a ‘Primal Sorcerer’ appeared in the Shearkan line.”
Having stated that firmly, he rubbed his chin again as another thought struck him.
“Come to think of it, there was once a rumor that the late Empress possessed the gift of foresight, but…”
“Brother’s mother?”
Asros looked back in surprise.
Berens deliberated a moment, then shook his head.
“It was likely nothing more than a fabrication by those seeking to deify her. After all, the Crown Prince and the First Princess are quite ordinary, are they not?”
Then, offering a gentle smile, he added,
“Perhaps the abilities of the Khan have vanished entirely.”
Asros felt a twinge of displeasure at that reassuring tone.
Why should he feel relieved that the Shearkan clan had lost their ancestral powers?
He had no desire to stand against his brother. Thus, the Shearkan clan was no enemy of his.
Yet, knowing that voicing such thoughts would only be dismissed as childish petulance, he held his tongue.
“The ceremony appears to be drawing to a close. We should return.”
Seeing the dignitaries in the seats of honor begin to file out of the nave, Berens placed a gentle hand on Asros’s back.
Asros readily followed him out of the chapel. He, too, had no desire to encounter his half-siblings, who viewed him as a thorn in their side.
They skirted the main entrance crowded with mourners and made their way to the rear garden. Yet even there, a gathering of nobles stood conversing.
Spotting several ardent followers of Gareth among them, Asros scowled.
They would not dare harm an imperial prince, but there was no reason to subject himself to those unpleasant faces.
He tugged at Berens’s hand and turned down a narrow, shaded path.
Just then, a familiar name caught his ear.
“What do you think the odds are that Talia Roem Guirta will recover?”
“Who can say? They say she was found in a state scarcely different from a corpse. Even the elves would struggle to restore her completely.”
Asros’s eyes went wide as he looked up at Berens.
“Is that true?”
Berens hesitated, debating inwardly, before slowly nodding.
Asros’s expression instantly turned grim.
He had heard his sister was unwell, but he had never imagined her injuries were severe enough to stir such talk.
He demanded accusingly,
“Why did no one tell me Sister was hurt?”
“Because it is not a matter Your Highness needs to know.”
“She is my sister! Of course you should have told me!”
At his sharp outcry, the murmur of the garden abruptly ceased, as though cold water had been thrown over the crowd.
Asros glanced back, frowning at the nobles who belatedly realized his presence and hurriedly bowed their heads.
Unwilling to deal with them, he stormed out of the garden in long strides, while Berens followed silently with a sigh.
“Your Highness, that lady despises you. Even if you show her concern, it will not be welcomed.”
Asros stopped dead in his tracks and glared up at him.
He knew Berens was right. Talia Roem Guirta hated him. Had she not said so herself?
Yet he could not bring himself to accept it so easily.
“Maybe… just maybe she regrets saying that to me. She might have just had a bad day and snapped. People do that sometimes, don’t they?”
· · ·
“If I go see her, won’t she apologize to me?”
It was an impulsive thought, but the more he spoke it, the more convincing it seemed.
Without waiting for Berens’s response, Asros spun around and set off toward the Separate Palace.
Along the way, he gathered an armful of the prettiest blossoms from the garden as a gift.
‘She’ll be so surprised to see me, won’t she?’
‘Maybe she’ll even feel a little fond of having such a thoughtful younger brother.’
Buoyed by sudden hope, Asros marched across the expansive palace grounds without pausing.
Soon, beyond the garden blooming with vibrant leaves and flowers, the austere, drab silhouette of a gray building came into view.
END