50.
Talia’s face contorted in agony as she struck his cheek.
“You detestable bastard! You’re never satisfied unless you’re getting in my way!”
His blue eyes flickered in the gloom, but the face looking down at her remained frozen in an icy, unwavering composure—a sight more chilling than any outburst.
Talia dug her nails into his skin, leaving trailing red marks down his cheek. Without a flinch, Varkas caught her wrists, his gaze sweeping the chaotic campsite: the maids’ pallid faces, the flustered knights, and the woman sobbing as she clutched her burned cheek.
A dry sigh escaped his lips.
“Take her to the healer.”
He tilted his chin toward the woman and turned his back.
Talia twisted wildly, letting out a shrill scream.
“By whose authority! That woman is a sinner! You should be lopping off her head right now!”
She caught the eyes of those who had rushed over at the commotion, their whispers rising like a tide. But she lacked the strength to uphold her dignity. She shrieked, her voice tearing through the stillness of the campsite.
“You damn bastard! What kind of a knight are you!”
Varkas did not blink. He strode through the tents in silence, carried her into his barracks, and laid her upon the wide bed.
Talia, ignoring the fact that she had been dragged into his quarters, focused only on venting her boiling rage.
“You have never protected me properly! Never! You’ve always left me to be torn to shreds! You had no intention of saving me this time, did you? You must have wanted me to die. That’s why you left me behind! You didn’t even come to rescue me immediately, did you? I know everything!”
He ignored her shouting, pinning her wrists to the bed to hold them still before forcibly opening her hand.
Blood and serous fluid oozed from her burned palm. Varkas furrowed his brows, reached for a small glass bottle on the shelf, and tipped the contents onto her hand.
She screamed, flinching away.
“No! Don’t! Just leave me alone!”
He applied the medicine in silence, retrieved white bandages, and wrapped her hand tightly.
Talia, who had been pounding his shoulder with her free hand, eventually exhausted her strength. Her limbs went limp. Varkas looked down at her with a dry gaze and stood up.
“I will bring you a sedative.”
Talia, face half-buried in the pillow, raised her eyes to track him. He walked to a shelf on the far side of the barrack, taking down a medicine bottle to inspect it.
Against his straight, rigid back, the memory of him rushing toward Aila overlapped. A searing, white-hot pain tore through her.
Talia spat out the words, her voice twisted.
“You must be disgusted to see me alive and breathing, aren’t you?”
His hand, reaching for the shelf, faltered and stiffened.
He stood motionless for a moment before turning back with an unnatural, heavy slowness.
As she looked at his refined face, stripped of all human emotion, something inside her finally shattered.
A grim smile touched Talia’s lips.
“What a pity for you. It was a perfect chance for that eyesore of a woman to disappear from this world.”
Tears overflowed, wetting her cheeks. Through the blur, his cold expression distorted, submerged beneath the film of her grief.
He stepped forward and leaned down. The cold glass bottle touched her lower lip.
“Drink it. You will feel a bit more comfortable.”
“I don’t need it.”
“……”
“I don’t need anything from you anymore.”
Varkas set the bottle down.
The lamp light dimmed, casting a pitch-black shadow over his face. It didn’t matter. She knew exactly what he looked like—the usual indifference, perhaps a faint flicker of fatigue or annoyance.
She turned her back to him.
The man watched her in silence before leaving the barrack.
As his footsteps faded, Talia reached down to touch her legs. A chill ran down her spine at the hard, wood-like sensation.
Crippled.
She banished the word from her mind the moment it surfaced.
That couldn’t be. It was just a lie spread by those who hated her. The Imperial Palace was full of excellent healers. If it were Mother, she would surely know sorcerers who wielded forbidden magic.
She would use every means necessary to fix me.
And then, in front of all those who mocked me, I will show off my perfect body just to spite them.
Clutching her throbbing knees, Talia finally closed her eyes.
* * *
The grand pilgrimage that had begun at the Imperial Palace had transformed into a somber funeral procession.
The royal attendants swapped red surcoats for black robes, and the knights wore dull-colored sashes over their armor. The wagons that had once carried precious wines, silks, and jewels now held thirty-four respectfully prepared corpses. The musicians played a low-tempo funeral dirge at rhythmic intervals.
Talia listened to the sound listlessly, her dormant pain pulsing as she groped for the incense burner.
The brass jar was empty, filled with nothing but gray ash.
With a curse, Talia forced herself up from the cushions. She opened a box beneath the seat and pulled out a new incense stick—a dense, compressed blend of dried ice grass, evening primrose, mandrake leaves, and red flower shards.
She placed it in the jar and ignited it with a magic stone. Thick, white smoke billowed out.
As she sprawled back, the fog swallowed her mind. Since the return procession had begun, Talia lived in a haze of painkillers. Wrapped in the acrid smoke, days bled into one another until time lost its meaning.
In her stupor, she would vaguely recognize a mage coming to check on her or an Imperial Guard bringing food, but they were merely phantoms grazing the edge of her consciousness.
The only one who could drag her back into the agonizing reality was Varkas.
As the wagon finally came to a halt, she looked up at the shadow appearing in the doorway, squinting her dulled eyes.
Her wagon, once at the rear, had been moved to the front, now under the direct watch of the Commander-in-chief of the Imperial Knights. Perhaps he felt the need to keep her under surveillance so she wouldn’t cause further trouble.
Varkas entered the wagon and leaned over her as she lay spread out like seaweed.
He brushed a few strands of hair away from her sweaty forehead with cold fingers.
“Use the incense in moderation. If you keep this up, you will build a tolerance to it very quickly.”
“……”
She stared at his face as if it were an old, burdensome assignment.
The man waited for a reaction, but when none came, he let out a light sigh.
“We plan to make camp here for the night.”
The sun had set; the wagons had stopped. Naturally, they would spend the night here.
She had no way of knowing why he bothered to explain the obvious. Was he not the man who maintained silence even when he should have spoken?