Lucas snorted derisively, making no effort to hide his disdain.
“Since when did the men of the East care about things like peace?”
“It’s about time they started.”
A faint shadow of warning crossed Tyrone’s face. The mounted warrior fixed Lucas with a piercing gaze from his narrow eyes before continuing solemnly.
“While His Grace has been confined to his sickbed, solidarity in the East has noticeably weakened. Conversely, the Zram have been steadily expanding their reach. If they decide to launch a full invasion, the East will become a sea of fire in an instant. This is no time to squabble over petty grievances.”
Lucas wiped the crooked smirk from his lips.
“Aren’t you exaggerating? The Zram are a nuisance, sure, but we possess the most powerful mounted force in the Empire. What can savages driven to the fringes actually do, no matter how bold they get?”
“Even the finest cavalry is nothing more than a mob without a firm hand to lead them.”
Tyrone exhaled a weary sigh.
“While the Grand Duke was away from the front, lords across the East nurtured their own ambitions. The warriors under their banners swear fealty to their local masters, not House Shearkan. If those lords band together and raise the flag of rebellion, the East will shatter in a heartbeat.”
Confronted with such a grim forecast, Lucas’s expression hardened.
He knew certain vassals were growing restless. Yet he had never imagined the situation was as precarious as Tyrone claimed.
Lucas countered stiffly.
“If the vassals plot treason, the Imperial Palace won’t simply look on. House Shearkan serves the Emperor. Defying the Grand Duchy is no different from rebelling against the Roem Empire itself.”
“You’re missing the point.”
Tyrone clicked his tongue roughly.
“I’m saying we must prevent a rebellion from brewing in the first place. By the time the Imperial Palace steps in, the East will already lie in ruins. Order must be restored before things deteriorate to that point.”
Lucas fell silent, stripped of a rebuttal. Tyrone held him in a stern gaze, driving the lesson home.
“The inauguration of the new Grand Duke will serve as the banner to unite the East once more. As a son of Shearkan, you must do your part.”
“…In short, you’re telling me to keep my head down and fall in line behind my brother.”
“Is that not the lot of a second son?”
Tyrone tossed out the pointed remark.
Lucas glared at him in silence before snapping his reins, eager to outrun the nagging.
He was only fifteen years old. He had no desire to burden himself with the tangled politics of the East or the heavy expectations placed on a second son.
He dug his spurs in with deliberate defiance.
As he tore across the plains, vast grazing lands unrolled beneath the sinking western sun.
Reining in his horse at the crest of a ridge, Lucas watched hundreds of mounts grazing peacefully before steering toward the sprawling encampment nearby.
As he approached the grand pavilion serving as the main hall, a burly man in an ostentatious coat came jogging out to meet him.
“Welcome! I’ve been waiting anxiously for your arrival!”
He was a Shearkan vassal Lucas knew well. Lucas dropped down from the saddle and greeted him warmly.
“Kun Badela! It’s been too long.”
“It truly has, Young Master Lucas. Look how tall you’ve grown.”
“And look how much weight you’ve put on since I last saw you.”
The man bellowed with laughter and roughly mussed Lucas’s hair.
“That sharp tongue of yours hasn't changed one bit.”
With an easy grin on his bearded face, he cast an inquiring look around.
“Where are the others? I was told the new Grand Duke was riding in with the cavalry…”
“They’ll be here shortly,”
Lucas muttered casually, nodding toward the ridge.
“Tyrone wouldn’t stop lecturing me, so I rode on ahead.”
Hardly had the words left his mouth before hundreds of mounted lancers crested the horizon.
Kun Badela immediately began barking orders at the servants to prepare for the reception. Lucas turned toward the rising ground to carry out his duties.
Just then, Varkas stepped down from the carriage that had pulled up before the pavilion.
Lucas, jogging forward to attend to him, stopped dead in his tracks. The Second Princess lay cradled in his brother’s arms.
Varkas carried the woman—limp and thoroughly exhausted—effortlessly with one arm as he surveyed the surroundings.
“Where are our quarters?”
Kun Badela, who had been gaping at the sight, hurried forward with a deep bow.
“G-Greetings, Your Grace. I am Kun Badela, master of the herd.”
Flustered and tense, the man turned and motioned ahead.
“Please follow me. I will show you both to your lodgings.”
Varkas tucked her drooping head against his shoulder and followed. After a beat of hesitation, Lucas trailed behind.
The man guided them to a massive conical tent at the heart of the camp, its tarred canvas sheltering a wide bed and rich furnishings.
Scanning the room, Varkas set her gently on the spacious bed before turning to Lucas.
“Fetch an attendant. Her Highness has a maid of quarter-dwarf blood—bring her.”
“…I understood my duty was to attend to you, Brother.”
Lowering the bed curtains, Varkas let out a dry, humorless chuckle.
“Did I not just give you an order?”
“That is an errand for a servant. My role is to tend to your mounts and your weapons—”
“Your role is to obey my commands without question.”
Varkas rose and advanced toward him. Lucas instinctively took a step back.
Clamping a firm hand on Lucas’s shoulder, Varkas brushed aside his unkempt bangs and spoke with quiet deliberation.
“Lucas. You will learn obedience. It is a virtue you should have mastered the moment you first mounted a horse.”
Lucas froze like a mouse cornered by a viper. Varkas pinned him with an icy stare.
“From this moment on, every insolent word will earn its price. Am I understood?”
Lucas swallowed hard and nodded. Varkas gave a sharp jerk of his chin.
“Then go and fetch the maid at once.”
Lucas bolted from the tent.
It was abundantly clear that this provincial tour would be anything but enjoyable.
He trudged across the grounds, dragging a frustrated hand through his hair.
A throbbing ache crept from her stinging knees up to her hips.
Shifting against the heavy linen sheets, Talia forced her heavy eyelids open.
An unfamiliar ceiling met her gaze, bathed in the dancing glow of firelight.
Blinking, Talia pushed herself up. The sudden realization that she was wearing only a sheer chemise made her gasp in terror.
Her trembling hands quickly checked her legs, finding the bandages wrapped fresh that morning. Only her outer gown had been stripped away. Just as a faint sigh of relief escaped her, the soft trickle of water reached her ears.
Talia turned her head and froze: Varkas stood stripped to the waist, washing his face.
He cupped water in his hands and smoothed it down his neck, the clear beads trailing across the taut contours of his back and shoulders. Talia, staring dumbfounded, barely managed to find her voice.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
Wiping his face with wet palms, Varkas glanced over his shoulder. The sight of his pale, glistening torso seared into her eyes.
Flushing scarlet, Talia yanked the blankets up to her chin.
“Why are you naked?! You—you brute!”
Varkas regarded her in stony silence, then let out a heavy sigh.
“I can hardly bathe in my clothes, can I?”
“I-I meant, why are you washing in here…!”
Her shrill protest was cut short in an instant. Leaning over the bed, Varkas clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Quiet.”
END