66
“Have you been burning those incense candles again?”
Varkas spoke as though rebuking her, his gaze fixing intently on her dilated pupils.
In an instant, Talia’s cheeks flushed hot.
She had only used the medicine because of the pain.
She had done nothing wrong, yet she could not understand why she felt like a scolded child.
As she lowered her eyes to evade his stare, a dry sigh brushed her forehead.
“…Perhaps it is for the best.”
Varkas muttered bitterly. Sinking down onto one knee, he wrapped an arm behind her back.
Talia’s eyes widened as she looked up at the sharp jawline right before her.
He slipped his other arm under her legs and slowly stood.
Talia instinctively clutched her skirt. A chill ran down her spine at the thought that the fabric might ride up.
“I—I can walk.”
“Just stay hazy with the medicine.”
Varkas spoke flatly as he stepped out of the carriage.
“It will make today easier to bear.”
Hearing the cynicism in his voice, Talia flinched. To him, this day was clearly nothing more than an ordeal to endure. As her head drooped dejectedly, an unfamiliar voice sounded from nearby.
“Commander, His Majesty appears to be running late.”
Talia winced and burrowed deeper into his chest.
Varkas drew his cloak wider to shield her and gave a curt order to the man who had approached.
“Go inform the High Priest.”
With that, he strode toward the carved marble archway.
Talia unconsciously caught a handful of his shirt. Beyond the edge of the light fabric, laced with the scent of peppermint, stretched a sky heavy with leaden clouds.
A gloomy gray cast, as if foreshadowing her bleak future, bathed the stone faces of the saints carved into the walls and pillars in an eerie pallor.
As those carved faces drew nearer, the dread pooling in her stomach rose to choke her throat.
Impulse seized her tongue.
“The weather is so dismal today.”
Blue eyes flecked with silver shards drifted down to her forehead.
Shunning his gaze, she stammered, “No one gets married on a day like this.”
‘So let us call it off.’ The words were on the tip of her tongue when his lips parted.
“Then we shall be the first.”
His quiet, measured voice made Talia swallow back the words.
He was merely weary of her whims, she told herself. He was placating her, nothing more.
She tried to steady her thoughts, but her shameless heart beat wildly against her ribs.
She bowed her head, hiding her burning face.
Before long, the cathedral’s great maw swallowed them whole. The chill, heavy air pressed down through her thin gown.
Talia drew her shoulders in and peeked out from the folds of Varkas’s cloak. Hundreds of onlookers crowded the nave. The sea of unexpected guests made her throat go dry.
None of them had gathered to celebrate this union.
They had been coerced into attending out of fear of Senevier.
Or perhaps they had come to gawk at the ruined bastard princess.
She looked down to ensure her legs remained hidden beneath the skirts. Even after seeing the voluminous silk pooling past her toes, the gnawing anxiety refused to subside.
With cold sweat slicking her palms, she pulled the fabric taut around her ankles, searching the pews to see if anyone stared at her legs. Instead, hundreds of wide, watchful eyes met hers.
Worrying that she looked grotesque, her spine went rigid—until the dark broadcloth of his cloak blocked out the hall.
“We must wait until His Majesty arrives.”
His voice was strangely gentle.
Guiding her past the crossing and toward the quieter transept, he added, “Try to rest until then.”
Talia stared blankly up at his chin.
He was saying peculiar things today. Where in the world was there a bride who slept through her own wedding?
Just as she opened her mouth to speak, a familiar voice called out from behind them.
“Lord Shearkan.”
Talia glanced over his shoulder. The knight who followed Varkas like a shadow came trotting up.
“Marquis Oristein is asking for you. He wishes to speak with you briefly before the service begins.”
Marquis Oristein was Gareth and Ayla’s maternal grandfather. What business did he have coming to this wedding?
Looking up, she saw Varkas’s jaw tighten. After a moment of heavy silence, he lowered her gently into a choir stall. Taking off his cloak, he draped it around her shoulders.
“Wait here. I will return shortly.”
Talia reached out to grasp his sleeve, then hastily drew her hand back.
He had only taken her because of the Emperor’s decree. She had to learn to accept being set aside.
“Keep watch over her.”
Varkas tossed the order to the knight and walked out of the transept with measured strides.
Talia bit her lip, watching his retreating figure.
Marquis Oristein had undoubtedly come to stop this marriage. What words would he use to sway Varkas?
As she sat there, lost in her spiraling thoughts, she felt a prickly gaze upon her cheek.
Startled, Talia snapped her head around and found a pair of dark brown eyes staring down at her.
The knight, who had been studying her with an odd look, flinched and quickly turned his head away. Cold sweat pricked her skin.
Why was he staring at her like that?
Was something wrong with her appearance beyond her ruined legs?
She looked down at the gossamer dress enveloping her body. Perhaps the twisted outline of her legs showed through the layers of fabric.
“Would you like some water while you wait?”
The knight cleared his throat, his tone awkward.
Talia masked her agitation behind a haughty facade.
“I… need nothing.”
Yet her tongue, heavy and slurred from the medicine, refused to obey her.
Moistening her parched lips, she looked around the hall.
Besides the knight guarding her, priests and attendants waiting for the rites lined the stone walls of the transept.
They, along with the crowd lingering near the crossing, were all stealing glances at her. Those cloying, persistent stares grated against her nerves.
She bit her lip until it bled, desperate to scream and demand what they were staring at.
Senevier’s voice echoed in her ears: that hideous things existed only to be mocked and trampled without mercy.
She wanted to flee this cathedral this very second. But if she tried, she would only collapse onto the flagstones for all to see, and mockery would rain down on her like a downpour.
Bastard.
Cripple.
A ruined bride.
“Your Highness, you look unwell. Shall I fetch a priest?”
The knight stepped closer, his brow furrowed with concern.
Talia shook her head.
“Leave it.”
“Even a minor recovery spell might ease—”
“Are you deaf? I told you to leave it.”
At her sharp reprimand, the man fell silent. Yet he did not avert that unsettling gaze.
His presence grew utterly suffocating. Every pair of eyes fastened upon her felt like an open wound.
She stared toward the door through which Varkas had disappeared.
When was he coming back?
What could they possibly be discussing for so long?
Suddenly, Ayla’s parting warning—that she would live to regret this—rang loud in her mind. What if that woman had urged her grandfather to intervene?
Yes, of course. A marriage between Varkas and her had been an absurdity from the start.
What if this entire affair had been a farce orchestrated to make a fool of her?
Varkas might have already walked away, leaving the cathedral behind. She would not only be a bastard and a cripple, but a wretched creature abandoned at the altar.
“I am leaving.”
The sudden words caught the knight off guard, his eyes widening in confusion.
Talia threw off the cloak Varkas had draped over her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and rose unsteadily. Desperate to escape the suffocating eyes, she staggered toward a small side door at the edge of the transept.
The knight, panic flashing across his face, rushed to block her path.
“Where are you going? The ceremony will begin at any moment—”
“Out of my way!”
She reached out to shove him, but her feeble strength could not budge an armored knight.
Her eyes flashed with desperate malice.
“Did you not hear me? Move!”
As she shoved against him once more, the strength gave out in her knees and her balance gave way. Instinctively, she grabbed onto his arm.
She felt his entire frame stiffen beneath her grip. The contact was just as repulsive to her.
A man’s touch made her stomach churn. An imposing body against which she was entirely powerless made her skin crawl.
The only one she could bear to touch was Varkas. But that man had discarded her at the altar. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks.
“Let go of me!”
She thrashed, knocking away the hand trying to steady her shoulder, when suddenly her body was swept upward into the air.
Talia turned her head, startled, and met Varkas’s cold blue eyes.
He stared down at her trembling face as if she were on the verge of shattering, then shifted his gaze toward his subordinate.
The knight ducked his head, his face flushing crimson. After a long, silent look, Varkas turned around, holding her firmly against his side.
“The guests have all assembled. The rites will begin.”
His low, frigid voice rang clear above her head.
“It is too late to turn back.”
END