The quiet of dawn offered no solace to Leni, only the distant hoot of an owl piercing the stillness of the forest.
Her earlier apprehension proved unfounded as Blayden, with an unexpected calmness, guided her to the inner reaches of the tent and settled down for sleep.
His proximity was palpable, her every breath audible to him, yet he made no move to disturb her.
Thus, another night unfolded, a silent vigil that gradually eased the tension from Leni’s stiff body.
A profound weariness settled over her as her initial resolve to remain awake crumbled.
Her eyelids grew heavy, and despite her best efforts, Leni finally succumbed to sleep.
It was only when Leni’s breathing settled into a steady rhythm that Blayden allowed himself to close his eyes.
His slumber was short-lived, however, abruptly broken by a soft, sniffling sound.
In the absolute quiet, where even the wind had ceased its whispers, he perceived the trembling of Leni’s shoulders, hunched in the corner of the tent.
He found his thoughts consumed by the time that had passed since he and Leni had been reunited.
Their initial encounter in the forest felt like an unforeseen gift, a stroke of luck that had brought them together in the king’s chambers.
In his mind, their connection should have ended there, their paths diverging, never to cross again.
He questioned the severity of his own actions, the harshness he had displayed.
In truth, Leni had done nothing to warrant his disdain or animosity.
She had simply acted on her genuine feelings, offering help to someone in distress.
Her actions were born of a natural instinct to protect herself and those she held dear.
He had called her dim-witted, delusional, meddlesome, and needlessly stubborn.
Those cutting words he’d uttered in front of Martin Scarlson were, he now realized, a twisted reflection of the unspoken hopes he harbored deep within.
Blayden secretly wished for Leni to develop a shrewdness, to prioritize her own well-being, to shed any illusions of a world as a mere flower garden, free from hardship.
He pondered if it wouldn’t be wiser for her to embrace gentleness, to compromise with the stark realities of their existence.
What was the point, he mused, of her insistent declaration that she was not a slave, a mere brat?
It seemed pathetic, this desperate plea to safeguard a trivial name.
He thought her arrogant, believing herself so clever.
She should have bartered for comfort, exchanged her defiance for ease.
She should have given him a reason, an excuse even, to grant her solace.
A suffocating sensation coiled in Blayden’s chest, like a tangled ball of yarn.
It was Leni’s quiet weeping that filled the night with a poignant dampness, yet it was his own throat that felt tight, constricted.
His mind drifted back to his childhood, a haunting memory resurfacing.
He saw Tigrinus the Conqueror, a dagger glinting in his hand, standing over the lifeless body of the executed Tyrant.
He recalled his seven-year-old self, a child forced to carve open his beheaded father’s chest, to extract his heart and offer it to the enemy.
It wasn’t subservience that had driven him to survive; it was sheer, paralyzing fear that had frozen his heart.
The bewildered child he once was hadn’t even registered guilt for desecrating his own flesh and blood.
The memory of that day remained hazy, even after all this time.
There were moments he convinced himself it was nothing more than a horrific dream.
Only when the vivid faces of the excited crowd, filling Zeto Square, materialized in his nightmares did he acknowledge the undeniable reality of that day.
He remained in a daze when Tigrinus confined him to the dungeon. Initially, he was too terrified to even shed a tear.
Then, he gritted his teeth, suppressing his cries, fearing that any sign of weakness would provoke his captors and lead to even crueler treatment.
As he matured, he hardened himself, refusing to display vulnerability to those who mocked him.
On the battlefield, countless lives depended on his unwavering resolve, leaving no room for sentimentality.
Living a life so devoid of emotional expression, he had forgotten the very act of crying.
He believed he had become utterly indifferent to tears.
Yet, here he was, inexplicably stirred. Why did her cries pierce his heart, Solenia?
A muffled sob, a “Sniffle!” tore through the oppressive darkness, a direct strike to his heart.
It was a heart he now recognized as a prison, still holding captive the terrified seven-year-old boy he once was.
A shimmering phantom of that boy seemed to hover over Leni’s small shoulder.
The boy from his memory gazed at him, silently weeping, surrounded by the blossoming cries of a girl maturing into a woman.
Solenia Radelaion, he thought, let’s play a game tonight, too.
A game of concealing sound within sound.
A game of piling sorrow upon sorrow.
A cruel game where your innocence, ironically, wounds me like a dagger.
Even when Leni had sobbed beneath the Tree of Lies after their departure from the Tower of
Time, his heart had ached for her.
He had instinctively moved to offer comfort, a foolish impulse he had fortunately reined in before making a spectacle of himself.
A master, he had reminded himself, does not comfort a slave.
With that cold thought, he had turned his back on her tear-filled eyes.
“I am not a slave!”
Her shrill cry, sharp and defiant, had embedded itself in his heart like an unyielding thorn.
Solenia Radelaion, he silently questioned, who are you?
Who are you to inflict such pain upon me?
Why do you so profoundly shake and confuse me, a man who has lived a life seemingly untouched by suffering?
It was a blessing, he conceded, that the war was finally over.
She, with her uncanny ability to sow doubt within him, would have proven far more lethal than any enemy he had ever faced.
Blayden suppressed a sigh, folding his arms and resting his forehead upon them.
The sniffling, which had seemed destined to last through the entire night, gradually subsided. Have you cried enough, brat?
Your tears are as boundless as your stubbornness.
Leni was quiet now, likely having succumbed to sleep once more.
Hearing her soft, even breathing, Blayden finally rose.
In the gentle darkness, Leni’s shoulders appeared remarkably small, softly rounded.
A mere handful of shoulder, a handful of waist.
He wondered what she had been doing during the years others were growing.
Had every morsel she ate contributed solely to her abundant hair?
Recalling her long, vibrant red hair, Blayden frowned slightly.
He then picked up the cloak lying discarded on the ground.
He unfolded the crumpled fabric, intending to drape it over Leni’s shoulders, but hesitated, pulling his hand back.
What am I doing?
He chastised himself.
A master does not care for a slave. He sternly erected a wall in his heart, yet he knew the deeper truth.
The black cloak, steeped in memories of blood, was utterly unsuitable for Leni.
He recoiled from the thought of it touching her pure form.
Dropping the cloak back to the ground, Blayden turned and exited the tent.
William stood guard near the cluster of trees where the horses were tethered.
Blayden approached William.
“I’ll take over from now on, so get some rest, William.”
A wry smile touched William’s lips.
“I can’t sleep even if I lie down. Standing guard is perfect for me.”
The cessation of hostilities did not signify the end of the war for everyone.
Some were destined to engage in bloody battles for the remainder of their lives, fighting against painful memories more tenacious than any enemy, with no genuine chance of victory.
“Just lie down,” Blayden insisted, patting William’s shoulder.
“Rest your legs at least.”
William, without further argument, retreated into his tent.
Silence descended, encompassing everything.
Blayden gazed up at the exceptionally bright, moonlit sky, then began to pace.
He was assessing the following day’s weather by the scent of the earth and the humidity in the air when a rustling sound, the unmistakable rhythm of footsteps, reached his ears.
The moment his hand instinctively went to his sword, Blayden identified the approaching figure. It was Leni, standing a few steps away, facing him.
Bathed in the moonlight, Leni appeared ethereal, like a fairy descended from the heavens.
The illusion was so striking, so absurd, that sharp words escaped his lips.
“What are you doing here?”
Despite the scolding tone, Leni remained unperturbed.
She straightened her back, approaching him directly, her gaze unwavering.
She deliberately closed the distance between them slowly, then spoke in a clear, unwavering voice.
“Why do you keep saving me?”
Blayden felt as if he had been ambushed.
Her question was a blow as luminous as the moonlight itself, and therefore, all the more dangerous.
“Keep saving you?”
“When you captured me and took me to the Porye Forest,” Leni continued, her voice steady.
“Before you entered the cabin, you ordered them to guard me strictly. Thinking about it now, it seems like you were warning the soldiers. Though your words and actions were rough, you protected me so that no one could harm me.”
An ominous premonition, he knew, was rarely wrong.
Leni’s intelligent gaze sent a distinct chill down Blayden’s spine.
Leni paused for a moment, as if observing his reaction, before speaking again.
“Even before that. When I was escaping eastward on horseback, I lost my balance while swinging my dagger. If the Wolf Lord hadn’t quickly caught me, I would have fallen off the horse.”
This one is quite perceptive, he thought.
“It seems you’ve finally grasped the subject. Don’t engage in cavalry battles. You’ll break your neck falling off the horse before you even properly fight.”
He was about to scoff and turn away, but Leni merely blinked once.
Then, with an elegant bow of her head, she lifted her gaze.
A triumphant smile bloomed on her face, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight.
“Thanks to you, I survived. Though, you held me so tightly on the horse, I thought I’d suffocate.”
“Are you complaining even after being saved?”
Blayden retorted, his voice edged with irritation.
“If you think you owe a debt, think about how to repay it.”
“I will prove my usefulness,” Leni declared.
“I will be of help to the Wolf Lord. So please keep your promise to save my father when we return.”
That “Wolf Lord” again.
You’re toying with me, he thought, his frustration growing.
Cutting your hair didn’t knock any sense into you.
Blayden regretted the fleeting moment of pity he had felt for Leni earlier in the tent.
“To hold your head high and bargain with your master,” he scoffed.
“You should be begging, if anything.”
“Will you listen if I beg?”
Leni asked, her gaze unwavering.
“No.”
Blayden replied coldly, turning to walk away.
Leni followed him.
“Why do you need me?” she pressed.
“What?”
“I’m curious why you’re taking me to the Shadow Lands.”
Blayden stopped walking.
He shouldn’t have.
He should have shown no sign of agitation.
But his emotions had betrayed him, and Leni was annoyingly clever enough to perceive his weakness.
“You’re not the kind and gentle person who would broaden my horizons. You called me baggage, but you’re certainly not foolish enough to add unnecessary baggage.”
The emphasis she placed on “foolish” suggested she was deliberately trying to provoke him.
“You’re wrong,” Blayden countered, mimicking Leni’s tone.
“If I set my mind to it, I can be kind, and sometimes I do something very ‘foolish.'”
He suddenly wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close.
“I’ve already done something foolish, so how about I try being kind now?”
“Gasp!”
Leni’s eyes widened, shimmering with unshed moisture.
Blayden lowered his head, his gaze fixed on her tear-filled eyes.
He had forgotten that a woman’s tears could be a potent weapon.
Even a small one like her would someday fully blossom, tormenting men’s hearts with something far more formidable than tears.
“The reason I need you…”
Blayden turned his head slightly, lowering his voice to a murmur.
“Tell me why you followed me, and I’ll tell you.”
Leni’s waist, caught firmly in his hands, flinched.
“My… my reason? What reason could there be? Who was it that loaded me onto the horse like baggage?”
“Ah, so you were dragged along by force?”
Blayden subtly raised the end of his sentence, like casting a tempting bait.
Leni’s lips parted slightly, touched by his breath.