Kalian stood on the outer rampart, a chilling wind tugging at his princely garments, his gaze fixed on the receding figures below.
He watched Blayden, a dark, formidable silhouette, ride towards the distant castle gates, a stark contrast to the emerging dawn.
It was impossible to miss the smaller, more vulnerable form mounted on Blayden’s horse.
Beyond the flapping hem of the knight’s black cloak, a flash of vibrant crimson caught Kalian’s eye—the slave’s red cloak, a beacon against the somber backdrop.
A strange, almost unsettling image flashed through Kalian’s mind: a small, delicate bird.
Not just any bird, but the beautiful spiritual creature from Poriye Forest that a seven-year-old Blayden had once cherished with an almost fierce devotion but, ultimately, had tragically failed to protect.
Why did that specific, long-buried memory resurface now, so vivid and poignant?
Kalian remembered the child Blayden, a rare glimpse of vulnerability, crouched on the forest floor, his small frame shaking with uncontrolled sobs before the tiny, lifeless form of the bird.
The image brought a twisted satisfaction to Kalian’s lips, a cruel spark in his eyes.
I want to see your tears again, Blayden Rehart.
The silent vow echoed in his mind, cold and precise.
I’ll make you kneel before me and beg to save what you hold dear.
The thought of Blayden, the unyielding, emotionless knight, brought to his knees, was a vision Kalian savored, a future he meticulously planned to orchestrate.
Descending from the rampart, his steps measured and silent, Kalian made his way towards the Crown Princess’s chambers.
The corridors, usually bustling, were quiet at this early hour, adding to his stealth.
He subtly signaled to the ladies-in-waiting guarding the chambers, a discreet gesture that conveyed his command: do not announce his arrival.
Their swift, silent nods confirmed their understanding.
He then quietly entered the inner room, his movements so controlled they made no sound, as if he were a phantom drifting through the palace halls.
Princess Via was standing by the window, her back to him, seemingly lost in thought.
Her delicately braided chestnut hair, meticulously styled, caught the sunlight streaming through the tall panes, sparkling like threads of spun gold.
Her green dress, a rich emerald hue, was adorned with strategically placed pearls that shimmered subtly with every breath, perfectly matching the deep, captivating green of her eyes.
Feeling as if he’d received an unexpected, precious gift, Kalian secretly watched Via, allowing himself a rare moment of undisturbed observation.
A perroniere, exquisitely set with garnets, hung gracefully on her elegant forehead, drawing attention to her serene features.
A black pearl choker, a striking contrast against her fair skin, adorned her graceful neck, enhancing its slender curve.
From her full bosom rising above the square neckline, meticulously cut to reveal just enough, to her delicate hands extending from below the cuffs, his wife, Princess Via, grew more beautiful by the day, a constant source of quiet fascination for him.
Beneath the abundant, flowing hem of her dress, Kalian noticed a small detail: simple indoor slippers peeked out.
The plain, unadorned cloth slippers were far beneath the status of a Crown Princess, a stark contrast to the opulent attire she wore.
Yet, instead of disdain, Kalian’s heart swelled with an unexpected emotion, a profound sense of contentment as he recalled the horrific corpses he had witnessed on the battlefield, the grim reality of war.
How long had it been since he felt such peace?
A sense of calm, of order, of possession.
Yes, this is what I fought for.
The quiet domesticity, the beauty he possessed, was the tangible reward for his brutal endeavors.
His moist gaze, heavy with complex emotions, returned to Via’s face.
As she admired the scenery outside, her expression dreamy and distant, Via occasionally wore a wistful smile, a faint curve of her lips that hinted at unspoken thoughts, at perhaps a longing he could not quite decipher.
What is she thinking about?
Just as Kalian silently wondered, a subtle shift in her posture indicated she was about to move.
Via looked away from the window, her contemplative moment broken, and turned around, her emerald eyes meeting his.
“Gretchen, the sun is lovely, perhaps a walk…?”
Her voice, soft and melodious, trailed off as she discovered him standing silently in the arched doorway.
Her calm eyes, moments ago filled with dreamy introspection, flickered uneasily, and the color visibly drained from her face, leaving her pale and startled.
“Your Highness, what brings you here?”
Her voice was a mere breath, betraying her surprise.
Was she truly so flustered by his sudden, unannounced visit?
Kalian swallowed a bitter smile, a cynical twist to his lips, as Via behaved precisely like a rabbit encountering a wolf, her natural apprehension laid bare.
Via, who had entered the palace and become Crown Princess three years ago, a political marriage forged in the crucible of war, still treated him with an undeniable distance.
Their relationship was formal, polite, but lacking any true warmth or intimacy.
He consoled himself that he couldn’t entirely blame her; he was a husband who had married during wartime and had spent more days apart in military campaigns than together within the palace walls.
Yet, despite his rationalizations, Kalian’s mouth still tasted bitter, a lingering dissatisfaction.
“What reason do I need to see my wife?”
He tried to inject a note of casual warmth, but his voice came out flatter than he intended.
“It’s not that… it’s just that you’re usually busy with state affairs at this hour.”
Via lowered her head, her gaze dropping to the intricate patterns on the carpet, pointedly avoiding his eyes.
Kalian hesitated, a strange uncertainty seizing him, unable to readily approach her as he wished.
“I’ve been distant due to various matters,” he began, attempting a conciliatory tone.
“Have you been very disappointed with me?”
“No, Your Highness.”
It was an overly quick denial, almost a reflexive defense.
He had a distinct feeling that what Via truly wanted was for him to simply leave her alone, to grant her the solitude she seemed to crave.
That’s absurd.
This woman is my wife.
The thought solidified in his mind, a defiant assertion of ownership.
A husband seeking and taking his wife is his right.
Yet, contrary to his own firm thoughts, whenever he was with Via, he always hesitated, always acted like a fool, his usual strategic mind fumbling for words, for gestures.
Kalian’s gaze fell on the small book clutched in Via’s right hand, a simple object that seemed to hold a hidden significance for her.
“What were you reading?”
Via’s cheeks instantly flushed a delicate pink, a blush that spread quickly, betraying her discomfort.
Seeing Via slowly hide the book behind her back, almost instinctively, Kalian chuckled softly, a low sound that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room, and took a step closer, reducing the distance between them.
When Kalian unwound and gently lifted Via’s hands, which were tightly clasped behind her back in a gesture of concealment, her small hands trembled in his grasp, a fragile, almost imperceptible tremor.
A simple leather-bound book, its cover worn smooth from repeated handling, was held in her left hand, adorned with a single, elegant sapphire ring that glittered faintly.
The title, in a quaint script, was clearly visible: <A Collection of Stories for Children>.
“You like these kinds of stories?”
Kalian asked, a playful note in his voice, as if he had discovered a delightful, unexpected fact about her.
But Via’s neck, following her cheeks, also turned a vivid pink, her embarrassment evident.
“My knowledge is not profound… I’m terribly sorry,” she stammered, bowing her head slightly, as if ashamed of her simple literary taste.
“I’m not scolding you. I like stories too,” Kalian quickly reassured her, his voice softening.
He supported Via’s hand holding the book with one hand, his fingers brushing hers, and placed his other hand gently on the back of her hand, a gesture of unexpected tenderness.
Via’s eyes, still avoiding his, welled up with moisture, seeming to swell with unshed tears.
Kalian disliked the trace of fear in her beautiful eyes, a silent accusation he couldn’t quite bear.
“You still don’t trust me.”
It was a statement, not a question, tinged with a familiar frustration.
“No, Your Highness.”
An immediate, unconvincing denial.
A lie.
Kalian could read it in the nervous flicker of her eyelashes, the subtle tension in her slender form.
Driven by a sudden, frustrated impulse, Kalian wrapped his arm around Via’s waist and pulled her sharply towards him, bringing her flush against his chest.
Embraced in his arms, Via held the book to her chest like a shield, a flimsy barrier against his imposing presence.
Her slender body was rigid with tension, stiff and unyielding in his embrace.
This woman is mine.
I can embrace her however I want.
Take her.
Desire her.
This woman belongs to you.
It felt as if a devil’s whisper echoed in his mind, a dark, possessive voice urging him onward, fueling a raw, primal urge.
Kalian, with a conscious effort, suppressed the blood-boiling desire that threatened to consume him and pressed his lips to Via’s neat forehead, a chaste, controlled kiss.
Via’s eyelashes fluttered like a butterfly’s wings against her delicate skin, a startled reaction. Reluctantly, Kalian pulled back his lips, his gaze still lingering on her, and asked gently, his voice almost a murmur, “Shall we hear a story for a change? Perhaps a nap while listening to a fairy tale would be nice.”
Via glanced up at him, her emerald eyes still wary, but a hint of curiosity flickered within them.
Kalian took Via’s hand, his fingers intertwining with her small ones, and led her further into the room, towards the more intimate space of the bedchamber.
As they approached the bed, her small hand stiffened and curled, a subtle resistance he keenly felt.
Kalian had Via sit on the edge of the bed, then lay down beside her, arranging himself comfortably.
He reached out and gently caressed the delicate lace decorating the cuffs of her dress, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns.
Then, with a hint of vulnerability, almost like a child pleading for a bedtime story, he murmured, “Read me the most boring story.”
“I should read you an interesting story, shouldn’t I?”
Via replied, a hint of confusion in her tone.
“Only a boring story will put me to sleep,” Kalian explained, a small, wry smile playing on his lips.
“Oh, is that so?”
Via, who finally smiled at his joke, a genuine, albeit hesitant, smile that transformed her face, opened the book.
She fiddled with the worn leather cover for a moment, her fingers tracing its familiar contours, then opened the book somewhere in the middle and began to read.
It was the story of a fairy cursed to become a tree, a melancholic tale. Kalian, mesmerized by Via’s clear voice, which flowed like a tranquil song, stared intently at her, his gaze unwavering.
His hand tingled, wanting to reach out, to touch her delicate yet captivating face just once, to feel the warmth of her skin.
Kalian, clenching and unclenching his fist, fighting the urge to reach out, instead stroked the wide flare of Via’s dress around her waist, his fingers moving gently over the rich fabric.
“Green suits you well,” he murmured softly, a genuine compliment.
Via looked up from her book, her emerald eyes meeting his.
“Does it?”
Her voice was soft, surprised.
“Yes. It makes your eyes stand out,” Kalian confirmed, his smile widening slightly as their eyes met.
But Via, as if unable to sustain the intimacy, averted her gaze, almost as if to flee, her discomfort returning.
“I’ll continue reading, Your Highness.”
Her clear hand, turning the page, was trembling slightly, a tiny tremor that Kalian didn’t miss.
Kalian tightened his grip on the hem of her dress, a subtle act of possession.
The rustle of silk made his chest ache, a strange pang of emotion he couldn’t quite name.
***
An hour’s ride east from Klaville Castle, through winding country roads and stretches of ancient forest, the Kynolf squad arrived at an inn.
Emerging from the dense, shadowy forest, the tavern, which appeared as if it had dropped from the sky, isolated and imposing, was a three-story building converted from an old manor.
Its very existence seemed out of place, an unexpected haven in the wilderness.
A heavy wooden sign, bearing the faded name <The Haven of the Nameless>, hung over the entrance facing the wide, unkempt front yard.
The iron chain holding the sign creaked and swayed rhythmically in the damp, cool wind, a mournful, rhythmic sound.
The old brick walls of the manor were crumbling in places, patches of mortar missing, and the windows, instead of gleaming glass, were more covered in thick ivy and moss, giving the building an ancient, almost forgotten appearance.
“Wow, Gustav certainly has rustic tastes,” William remarked in a thick, amused voice, pushing open the heavy wooden door, which groaned in protest.
Blayden stepped inside past the door held by William’s thick, gloved hand, his expression unreadable, and the rest of the squad members followed close behind their captain, their steps purposeful.
Despite its dilapidated exterior, the inside of the tavern was bustling with a surprising amount of life and noise.
Simple but savory food, emanating steam and inviting aromas, sat on every rough-hewn table, and the boisterous chatter of tipsy guests mingled with the clatter of tankards and occasional bursts of laughter.
The air was thick with the smells of roasted meat, stale ale, and unwashed bodies, a symphony of pungent odors.
In one dimly lit corner, men and women were giggling and clinging to each other, almost undressed, their movements suggestive and uninhibited.
In another corner, a group of burly men had spread silver coins on a grimy table and were deeply engaged in a furious dice game, their shouts and curses punctuating the general din.
Blayden surveyed the decadent, chaotic feast, a gathering of all sorts of people – weary merchants on long journeys, hardened soldiers returning from war, beautiful women with painted smiles, and men in women’s clothing, their laughter high-pitched and carefree – with a look of undisguised disdain.
His eyes, cold and assessing, swept over the scene.
Then he ordered Lentz, who stood respectfully behind him, his voice sharp and precise:
“Find Gustav. If he’s drunk, sober him up.”
No sooner had he spoken than a black-haired woman shrieked, “Kyaaaa!” her voice cutting through the tavern’s clamor, and burst out from a narrow passage deeper inside the inn.
The front of her dress was undone, revealing half of her ample chest, and she wore several brightly colored bangles on her wrist that jingled with her frantic movements.
A young man, disheveled and grinning foolishly, ran after her, stumbling slightly.
“Hoi!”
Red lipstick was liberally smudged around the mouth of the man, who was making strange, unintelligible noises and giggling uncontrollably.
Dressed in black like a priest, though his demeanor was anything but holy, the man, with long, shimmering silver hair flowing behind him like a waterfall, weaved between the tables with his long, slender legs, almost dancing.
The woman glanced back over her shoulder, a playful glint in her eyes, and winked one eye mischievously. The man, finally catching up, wrapped his arm around her waist, whispered drunken endearments into her ear, and pushed her around the corner, disappearing from view into another passage.
Blayden muttered with evident displeasure, a low growl in his throat
“He has enough decency to save us the trouble of looking for him.”
His tone was laced with dry sarcasm.
Sharino interjected from behind Lentz, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“It seems like he’s having a lot of fun. How about we let him finish?”
Blayden’s jaw tightened, a muscle flexing under his skin.
Just as he was about to retort that it was absurd, that such indulgence had no place in their mission, Leni, who was clinging to Sharino’s side, suddenly came into his line of sight.
True to her childlike nature, Leni had her hands clasped to her chest like a squirrel with its front paws together, an almost instinctual gesture of vulnerability.
Her eyes were wide, taking in the chaotic scene, and her lower lip was tucked in, a sign of her unease, at the shouts and exaggerated giggles erupting from the corner where Gustav had taken the woman.
Blayden was displeased to see a blush spreading across her innocent cheeks, a visual manifestation of her discomfort and perhaps a dawning awareness of the debauchery around her.
“We’ll stay here tonight, so make sure he’s ready for a long journey by tomorrow morning.”
Having given his orders, his voice firm and final, Blayden gripped Leni’s nape with a strong, unyielding hand and pulled her backward, away from the boisterous crowd.
“Everyone, disperse and eat.”
He commanded the rest of his squad.
“Oh, oh.”
Leni gasped, flustered and disoriented, being held so roughly.
While she was caught off guard, the rest of the squad members, accustomed to Blayden’s abruptness, paired up and efficiently found seats at other tables, blending into the background of the tavern.
Blayden, still holding Leni by the nape, steered her towards an empty table close to the doorway.
It was a secluded spot, almost like an isolated island amidst the turbulent sea of drunkards and revelers, far from the main commotion.
He pushed Leni towards the wall, urging her to sit, and sat on the opposite stool, his gaze sweeping over the room, when a deep voice suddenly called out, cutting through the din.