The maids walked quietly down the corridor.
Talia trailed behind them, treading as carefully as she could.
By the time she reached the stairs at a crawl slower than a tortoise, sweat soaked the back of her gown.
She looked down the staircase with bleak eyes.
Just then, she caught sight of Varkas striding into the residence.
Talia forgot how to breathe, raking her eyes over him from head to toe.
Instead of the uniform of the Imperial Guard, Varkas wore a black breastplate etched with the Shearkan crest. Draped loosely across his broad shoulders was a dark gray mantle of animal hide.
Seeing him look so much like the Khan horse-lords who had once struck terror across the entire continent of Robiden made her chest tighten.
Taking the stairs several at a time, he marched up and stopped directly in front of her.
Perhaps because he had rushed back, his usually immaculate hair was unusually rumpled.
He bent toward her, his gaze—sharp as whetted steel—boring into her eyes.
“How do you feel?”
Talia could only blink, dazed. Ordinarily, she would have told him to mind his own business, but her mouth had gone inexplicably dry.
After a long, hollow silence, she finally squeezed out a reply.
“…I am fine.”
His eyes narrowed, clearly skeptical of her uncharacteristic meekness.
After studying her face intently, Varkas peeled off his leather glove and reached out toward her forehead. Talia reflexively slapped his hand away.
A sharp crack rang out, followed by a thick, stifling quiet. Clutching her stinging palm, she nervously gauged his reaction.
He did not appear offended. No—she could never tell. Had she ever read him correctly even once?
Talia lowered her eyes and muttered beneath her breath.
“You… you startled me, reaching out without a word.”
Then those long, pale fingers returned to her field of vision.
Talia pulled back her chin. But he gave her no second chance to push him away.
Unyielding, Varkas lightly brushed the stray hair from her brow. Then, before she could utter a protest, he scooped her up into his arms and said bluntly,
“You had best accustom yourself to my touch from now on.”
Talia’s eyes widened. Her heart gave a sudden, fluttering spasm.
What did he mean by that?
No. She could not let herself hope.
He was merely taking pity on a useless cripple. While she fought to tear out the lingering attachment spreading inside her like weeds, Varkas shifted his grip to hold her more securely and began walking slowly down the stairs.
Afraid of slipping from his hold, Talia looped her arms around his neck. Varkas cradled her back with one broad hand and descended step by careful step.
Before long, the courtyard garden came into view, filled with unfamiliar men.
Talia looked them over, bewildered. At a glance, they bore no resemblance to the knights of the Roem Empire.
Each carried a long halberd strapped across his back, and over dark breastplates, they wore loose, robe-like coats.
One of them stepped forward to meet Varkas.
“Is she to be the new Grand Duchess?”
Talia scrutinized him. He was a young man with skin the color of sun-baked wheat, brownish-black hair, and dark eyes.
He took in the sight of her peering from inside the voluminous hood, then offered a courteous bow.
“It is an honor to meet you, Princess. I am Tyrone El Drakan.”
Only upon hearing that unfamiliar name did Talia understand that the men gathered here were Easterners. It seemed the vassals of House Shearkan had arrived to escort their lord.
She pushed back the hem of the fabric concealing her face to return his greeting. But Varkas cut her short.
Pulling the hood back over her head, Varkas swept right past him, his voice flat.
“We set out at once. Have the horses brought around.”
“Will you not pay your respects at the Imperial Palace before we leave?”
“The handover of the guard is finished. There is no reason to linger here any longer.”
Varkas cut the matter short, then shot a cold look at the footman standing motionless beside the carriage.
“What are you dawdling for? Open the door.”
Snapping out of his stupor, the servant wrenched the carriage door wide.
Varkas climbed inside and set her down on a seat layered with thick cushions. Then, his hands deft and precise, he smoothed her garments and said, “We will ride for several hours without stopping. If you feel unwell, knock for the coachman.”
Talia looked up at him, puzzled.
She could not fathom why he was in such a haste. Was someone pursuing them?
The faces of Gareth and Ayla flashed through her thoughts.
Were the two of them plotting something?
Ayla’s venomous warning that she would regret this still rang in her ears.
Talia bit the inside of her lip. Scheming had always been her own weapon. Now their positions were reversed.
If Ayla loved Varkas even half as much as she claimed, she would stop at nothing to take him back.
Perhaps she would send assassins to intercept them. Could that be what Varkas feared…?
“Your Highness.”
As if reading the dark storm brewing in her mind, he cupped her chin and drew her gaze to his.
“I told you before. You need not think about anything.”
His low, steady voice reverberated through her mind like an incantation.
Talia looked away, flustered.
Why did he keep speaking like that? Was he trying to rein her in beforehand so she would not cause trouble?
Or was he…
She quickly pulled the reins on her wandering mind.
This was the man who had turned her heart upside down and then turned his back as if nothing had ever happened.
The man who had dumped her in an unfamiliar house and not shown his face for an entire week.
The scars carved into her were far too deep to let a few ambiguous words nurture empty hopes.
Talia shoved his hand away.
“…Stop speaking in riddles and just go, if we are leaving.”
Even at her sharp tongue, he did not budge an inch.
His unreadable eyes lingered on her brow. Talia swallowed dryly. Only when her throat burned from the silence did he finally rise and leave the carriage.
Only when the door clicked shut did Talia exhale the breath trapped in her lungs.
She edged toward the carriage wall, peering through the small window at Varkas conferring with the Easterners.
Standing among the dark-haired, wheat-skinned men, he looked somewhat apart from them. Yet it also struck her that he was not so different after all.
He had left his homeland as a small boy and spent nearly his entire life within the Imperial Palace. To him, the East must be just as foreign.
Suddenly, the image of a child sent alone into a strange land rose before her eyes. It overlapped with the memory of the day she had first stepped through the palace gates.
Had the six-year-old Varkas felt as desolate as she had? Had he felt that same dizzying suffocation, as though he had walked into the belly of a beast?
While she was lost in those memories, the heavy carriage began to roll forward. Talia watched through the window as landscapes, both foreign and familiar, slipped past like running water.
A bitter laugh escaped her. Was she really in any position to worry about the future ruler of the East?
She was the one being dragged off alone into an alien territory. She was the one about to begin a life where she had no one to lean on, yet she was busy fretting over someone else…
‘Not that I ever had anyone to lean on in the first place.’
Talia curled into a corner of the carriage and buried her face against her knees.
The Imperial Palace had been no different. She had never had a place to plant her feet there, either.
To Senevier, she was nothing more than a convenient tool.
To the Emperor, she was an uncomfortable presence that constantly dredged up past mistakes, and to her half-siblings, she was merely a stain to be scrubbed away.
A sudden curiosity crept into her chest.
What would she become once she reached the East?
END