Lucas looked weary.
Ever since hearing the news of Varkas’s marriage, his younger sister seemed to have lost her mind completely.
Raina, who had harbored a subtle admiration for the relationship between Ayla and Varkas, had constructed a clumsy romance novel inside her head. In that story, Talia Roem Guirta was the ultimate villainess who had torn apart a pair of tragic lovers.
Raina’s eyes burned with the same competitive fire as when she had first followed the cavalry out to hunt a manticore.
“Just you wait. I’ll make that woman leave on her own two feet. We’re going to rescue Brother from the clutches of that Taren witch!”
What on earth had blinded her to make Varkas Raedgo Shearkan look like someone in need of rescue?
Sometimes Lucas genuinely wanted to pry open her skull to see what was inside.
Swallowing a sigh, he picked up his coat from the back of the chair.
“Well, good luck with that.”
“Are you seriously going to back out and leave me to do this alone?”
“Didn’t you see Brother practically bundling her up and carrying her away earlier? I have no desire to get on the bad side of the future Grand Duke over something so pointless.”
“That’s all just her cunning trickery! Haven’t you heard the rumors? That the women of Taren use wicked sorcery to steal men’s souls?”
Raina was practically spitting with rage.
“She must have acted fragile to win his pity! Brother simply couldn’t turn a blind eye to someone in that state!”
He shook his head. There was no talking to Raina when she was like this.
As he let out a long breath and stepped toward the door, Raina shrieked at the top of her lungs.
“Where are you going?!”
“To ride. I’m suffocating in here; I need some air.”
“You can’t! Don’t you know Brother’s welcome banquet is starting soon?”
Ignoring her, he walked out of the room.
The central hall bustled with servants moving luggage.
Pale-complexioned laborers, seemingly brought from the central provinces, piled large crates into mountains along one side of the vast hall, while the servants of Raedgo Castle pried them open to catalog the contents. Even a passing glance revealed treasures that would make anyone’s eyes bulge.
‘I guess the rumors about her extravagance were true.’
He scanned the chests heaped with clothes and ornaments before slipping out through the back door.
He intended to head straight for the stables, but he noticed warriors of the Wolfram Lancer Corps, newly returned from escorting Varkas, swarming around the training grounds in the courtyard.
Spotting a familiar face among them, Lucas veered off his course.
“Tyrone!”
A man nursing a drink, loosely clad in a single tunka, looked back over his shoulder.
“Ah, the second young master.”
He wiped his wet lips and spoke in his characteristic slow drawl.
“How have you been?”
“Well enough—bored to death, actually.”
Lucas dropped onto the steps framing the training grounds, snatched the bottle from Tyrone’s hand, and took a long swig.
“How’s the capital?”
“As expected, a mess.”
Unbothered by the impudence, Tyrone shrugged with an easy, unruffled expression.
“Not just Marquis Oristein, but most of the conservative lords were shaken by this marriage. Lord Shearkan had quite a time soothing them.”
“What about the First Princess and the Crown Prince?”
“I never caught a glimpse of Her Highness the First Princess. Word is she’s shut herself in her chambers. Understandable, given she was cast aside just before the wedding… She won’t likely show her face in public until another match is arranged. As for His Highness the Crown Prince…”
Tyrone crossed his arms, his brow furrowing as he weighed his words.
“He was fuming, yet surprisingly calm in accepting the reality. He likely weighed the scales and decided pretending to swallow the marriage and securing the alliance was far better than making an outright enemy of Lord Shearkan.”
Lucas tilted his head at the unexpected news.
“That’s strange. I thought he’d try to start a war with the East to make Brother pay for betraying his sister… The rumors claim he dotes on the First Princess.”
Lucas frowned, recalling the harsh impression left by the Crown Prince during a visit to the capital years before. Tyrone let out a dry laugh.
“Before power, even a swine learns to work an abacus. It’s true the Crown Prince cherishes his sister, but hardly more than he cherishes the throne. In truth, he seemed far more terrified of his political footing giving way than of the humiliation the First Princess suffered.”
Lucas grimaced.
Though he had spent several years studying at the capital’s academy, he had never grown accustomed to the sensibilities of the central nobility.
In the East, the ties of blood ran deeper, bound tight and unyielding.
As infuriating as Raina was, had she been cast aside like that, they would have marched to war to wash out the insult.
Suddenly, a flicker of pity stirred in him for the First Princess.
Betrayed not only by her betrothed, but by the very brother she relied upon.
Perhaps Raina was right. Perhaps women of Taren blood wielded some sinister enchantment that drove men to abandon even their allegiances.
He remembered the deep blue eyes he had caught beneath that hood.
Those two eyes, burning with a low, smoldering heat, had resembled living jewels.
No. Even the finest lapis lazuli could not compare.
Reaching out to pull back her hood had been entirely instinctual. The moment their gazes locked, his hand had moved before he could think.
His voice tightened slightly as he spoke.
“What is she like? The Second Princess.”
Deep furrows creased Tyrone’s brow.
He hesitated a moment before answering.
“I’ve only exchanged words with her once, so I can’t say much. But her temper is every bit as fierce as the rumors claim.”
“Worse than Raina?”
“Surely she couldn’t surpass our young lady,” Tyrone teased. Yet he didn’t sound entirely convinced, faint lines tightening the corners of his eyes.
Lucas felt his curiosity flare higher.
What kind of person could she be, to make a man as slippery as an eel scowl like that?
“What about her face? Is she truly that beautiful?”
At the abrupt question, Tyrone paused in reaching for the bottle and gave him a measuring look.
For some reason, a prickle of guilt washed over Lucas.
He dug his heel into the dirt and averted his gaze.
Tyrone watched him in silence for a beat, drained the last dregs of wine, and muttered casually,
“Beautiful enough to cause trouble.”
Then, looking thoughtful, he added with a pointed edge,
“Which is likely why Lord Shearkan keeps her hidden away so tightly.”
When she opened her eyes, thick darkness smothered the room.
Talia gasped for breath, clawing at her throat. It felt as though invisible hands were choking the life out of her.
Tearing at her skin to pry away those formless fingers, Talia dragged herself toward the headboard and jerked the bell cord.
A moment later, the door creaked open.
Talia turned her head.
The sight of that familiar silhouette unblocked her throat at once. It was as if her body recognized him before her mind even could.
“Are your legs cramping?”
Varkas, who had brought a lamp to her bedside, leaned down over the mattress and asked.
Talia drew a long, ragged breath and shook her head.
“I was merely thirsty, so I rang for a maid.”
His eyes narrowed. He clearly did not believe a word.
Varkas checked her forehead for a fever with one hand, then barked a curt order to the maids who had hurried in late behind him.
“Fetch medicine from the healer.”
Then, pouring a cup of water himself, he offered it to her.
A flicker of irritation rose at how blatantly he brushed aside her excuse, but grateful that he had come running, she took the cup without complaint.
A sip of cold water chased away the remaining haze in her mind.
Setting the cup down, she looked him over, the fever of sleep finally receding from her eyes.
Varkas wore a fitted tunic draped with the kind of loose coat the men of this region favored.
The unfamiliar attire sent an uneasy tremor through her chest.
She stole a glance at the outline of his chest, exposed through the parted opening of the garment, before lowering her eyes with a sour frown.
“What on earth are you wearing? It looks strange.”
“…It is traditional Eastern dress.”
“Do not wear it again. It doesn’t suit you.”
In truth, it suited him terribly well.
Seeing a man who was always bound up in razor-sharp formality draped in loose robes—cloth that looked as though it could slip off at the slightest tug—felt oddly suggestive.
And that unsettled her.
She spoke with cold certainty.
“It looks entirely undignified. If you walk about like that, your vassals will take you lightly. So don’t wear it.”
Looking down into her face, Varkas gave a slow nod.
“I understand.”
END