33.
After dismissing her attendants and following him out of the corridor, a garden overgrown with Marigold, Daisy, and Rosemary revealed itself.
The plants, drenched in the downpour, filled the air with a thick, herbal scent. Inhaling the pungent aroma, Aila turned her head to look up at Varkas.
“What happened last night?”
The man, who had been walking in silence, turned toward her at the hesitant question.
Aila stared intently into his eyes. His pale, shimmering blue irises held nothing. Gazing into those depths—eyes that seemed to reflect the world exactly as it was—she felt a sudden, suffocating tightness in her chest.
*Will there ever come a day when I reside within those eyes?*
Just as the thought took hold, Varkas’s firmly closed lips parted.
“There was nothing that would concern Your Highness.”
“……It seems it is certain that something happened, then.”
Without offering a reply, Varkas stepped boldly into the rain-drenched garden.
Heavy raindrops soaked his broad shoulders and back, turning his attire a stark white. Watching his indifferent back lead the way, Aila stifled a flicker of dissatisfaction as Varkas extended one hand toward her.
“The puddle is deep.”
Realizing the meaning behind his words, Aila flushed and gave him a sidelong glance.
She didn’t want to throw herself into the arms of a man acting with such chilling reserve. However, she could not leave her fiancé—who was waiting for her to approach in the rain—to fend for himself. Pretending to be indifferent, Aila stepped toward him, surrendering to the inevitable.
Varkas bowed slightly, sliding one arm behind her knees to lift her with ease.
Aila leaned her head against his shoulder, just as she had done since she was five years old.
“Do you know that you have a mean streak?”
At the disjointed accusation, his eyebrows arched slightly. Instead of explaining her complex, swirling emotions, Aila hugged him tighter.
Varkas wrapped his cloak around her, shielding her from the storm as he crossed the large rear garden. Aila buried her cheek against his lapel.
Varkas’s body smelled of pungent herbs, the faint metallic tang of his armor, and a lingering, earthy aroma reminiscent of dried hay. Intoxicated by his cool scent, her irritation subsided as if by magic. Aila let out a self-deprecating laugh.
It was ridiculous that she, like a naive girl, would be so stirred by an action that was nothing more than an old habit to him.
The only reason this man treated her with such tenderness was to honor the vow he had made to her mother. Kindness born from a sense of duty. Nothing more, nothing less. Even though she knew this, she could not stop the ache in her heart.
*Cruel man. You should have just remained unkind. Then I, too, could have been satisfied with a political relationship…….*
She lowered her eyes in sorrow.
“I will instruct them to bring bathwater to your room. Please rest after warming your body.”
Having crossed the rear garden in an instant, Varkas spoke as he stopped at the entrance to the quarters. Aila nodded.
Varkas, having gracefully ascended the stone steps, bowed slightly to set her down.
Just then, the sky flashed and a booming clap of thunder echoed.
Aila reflexively grabbed his neck.
A roar that seemed to shake the heavens echoed continuously, and a golden flash tore through the black clouds. As she stared blankly over his shoulder at the apocalyptic scene, a pale figure sitting on the second-floor window sill caught her eye.
For a moment, she wondered if she were seeing a horrific hallucination. Aila stood with her mouth agape.
The lightning illuminated a face of freakish beauty. Perched atop a neck so slender it looked as if it might snap, the white, gaunt face seemed to blaze with chilling hatred.
She knew of her half-sister’s extraordinary appearance, yet the sight still paralyzed her.
Talia, her eyes gleaming viciously amidst the storm, looked like an angel of death. As Aila held her breath at the ominous sight, Talia—who had been as motionless as a statue—picked up a vase from the window sill. Immediately after, the porcelain flew toward the pillar where they stood.
Aila let out a scream.
Thanks to Varkas shielding her, she avoided the shower of glass shards, though a small scratch appeared on Varkas’s face. Aila hurriedly took out her handkerchief and pressed it against his cheek.
Varkas, who had taken the cloth with his characteristic deadpan expression to cover his wound, glanced upward.
Following his gaze, Aila stiffened as she discovered Talia still glaring at her.
As if feeling no guilt for her actions, Talia twisted her lips. Her blood-stained mouth looked like crushed roses.
A fear greater than rage stirred within Aila’s chest. The half-sister she had always considered insignificant felt, at that moment, like the most threatening existence in the world. It felt as if the evil spirit that had kept her mother in misery would now drag her down into the abyss of sorrow as well.
Aila shuddered at the eerie premonition.
* * *
The rain that had fallen all night only eased at dawn.
Talia, who had spent the night almost entirely awake, gazed with hollow eyes at the garden illuminated by the morning light.
The grass, once lush, was now half-submerged in muddy water, emitting a heavy, raw smell of decay. The flowers that had decorated the beds so colorfully now lay strewn about like corpses, their necks broken.
Gazing down at the destruction with dark eyes, Talia rose from bed and approached the small table by the fireplace.
The food on the silver platter had hardened into a crust. After scanning it with indifferent eyes, she picked up a small knife left beside the tray.
It had been crafted for the purpose of cutting food, but it looked as if it would have little trouble slicing through human flesh.
Talia stroked the sharp tip with her fingertips, tucked it into the pocket of her robe, and slipped out of the room.
The hallway was thick with damp, stagnant humidity. Swimming through the sticky, heavy air, she gripped the ice-cold knife.
Her palms were drenched in cold sweat. She couldn’t tell if it was from nerves or excitement. Perhaps it was both.
Licking her parched lips, she crept up the stairs like a thief in the night.
Aila was staying in the room on the top floor. Reaching the landing, Talia pressed her body against the wall to survey the dark, shadow-filled corridor. Fortunately, no one was guarding the door.
Heaving a small sigh of relief, Talia stepped cautiously toward the room at the end of the hall.
As she approached the iron-rimmed wooden door, the faint smell of herbs pricked her nose—the scent of aromatic candles burned to steady the nerves.
Talia twisted her lips. It seemed last night hadn’t been entirely comfortable for Aila, either. Remembering the face that had turned deathly pale upon seeing her, Talia let out a giggle. But the scene that followed made her mood plummet.
Talia’s face distorted viciously. She shoved her hand into her pocket and gripped the handle of the knife.
Her whole body trembled. The moment she had seen Varkas holding Aila in his arms and walking out into the pouring rain, she had felt something she had barely been holding onto crumble to pieces.
She rubbed her eyes, which were blurring with moisture, with the sleeve of her robe.
It had been her one and only memory.
A memory she had buried in her heart for so long, one she would secretly take out to look at.
Did even that memory have to be reduced to nothing?
Couldn’t they have left at least one thing as something special just for her?
Her brain seethed with anger. She knew it was an irrational emotion. Even so, she could not forgive the two of them.
She wanted to punish Aila, who had stolen the last sanctuary she had left. She wanted to return to that man as much pain as she had felt.
Talia forced her eyes, which burned as if on fire, to glare at the tightly closed door. Once she crossed this threshold, there would be no returning.
Perhaps she would be recorded in history as a wicked witch who had taken the life of a poor, innocent Imperial Princess. But it didn’t matter. She was already considered the worst villainess. If she fell even further from here, what was left to lose?
With trembling hands, she gripped the door handle.