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Chapter 33
Once I dismissed my attendants and followed him out of the Cloister, a lush Garden came into ‌‌‌view, thick with marigold, daisy, and rosemary.
The moisture-laden plants released a pungent herbal fragrance into the ‌‌‌‌air. As I drew in that sharp, intoxicating scent, I turned my head to gaze up at Barcas.
"What happened ‌‌last night?"
At my hesitant question, the man who had been walking quietly turned his head toward me.
I stared directly into his eyes. His pale blue irises held nothing—they seemed to reflect everything ‌‌‌‌back without absorbing anything. As I met those vacant, luminous eyes, my chest tightened with a familiar ache.
Will there ever come a day when I take root in those depths?
Lost in such thoughts, Barcas's firmly pressed lips finally parted.
"There was nothing for Your Highness to concern herself with."
"...So something did happen, then."
Barcas made no reply, striding instead into the rain-drenched ‌‌‌Garden.
Heavy raindrops covered his ‌‌broad shoulders and back in a sheet of white. As I watched his cold, retreating form with displeasure, Barcas extended one hand toward me.
"The puddles are ‌‌deep."
Understanding his meaning, I flushed and cast him a sidelong glance.
I did not wish to surrender myself to this infuriating man. Yet I could hardly leave my betrothed waiting in ‌‌‌the downpour. After a moment of pretense, I approached him as ‌though yielding to inevitability.
Barcas bent slightly and slipped one arm beneath my knees, lifting me effortlessly into his embrace.
I rested my head against his shoulder, as I had done since I was five years ‌‌‌old.
"You know you have a petty side to you?"
At my nonsensical accusation, his eyebrow rose slightly. Rather than explain my tangled emotions at length, I held him more tightly.
Barcas wrapped his cloak around me without gaps and crossed the ‌‌‌vast Garden. I ‌‌buried one cheek against his collar.
From Barcas's body emanated ‌the sharp scent of herbs, the faint metallic smell clinging to his armor, and a distant fragrance reminiscent of dried leaves and hay. Intoxicated by that ‌‌cool, austere scent, my displeasure melted away like a lie. I laughed at myself with bitter irony.
I found it absurd how I, like a ‌‌‌foolish girl, grew ‌flustered over an action that was merely habit for him.
His kindness toward me exists only to ‌‌‌honor the vow he made to my mother. Compassion born of obligation—nothing more, nothing less. Yet knowing this so well, I could not prevent my heart from aching. ‌‌
'Cruel man. If only you would not be so tender. Then I could have been satisfied with a purely political arrangement...'
I lowered my eyes sadly.
"I shall have bathwater sent to your Room. Warm yourself and take your rest."
Having crossed the Garden in moments, Barcas stopped at the entrance to the Lodging and spoke. I nodded.
Barcas ascended the ‌‌‌stone steps lightly and bent slightly as though to set me down.
Then the sky flashed brilliantly, and a deafening thunderclap split the air.
I reflexively clutched his neck.
The heavens seemed to shake with successive booms as golden lightning tore through the black clouds. Gazing blankly over his shoulder at the apocalyptic scene, I suddenly noticed a pale figure perched at a second-floor window.
For a moment, I wondered if I were witnessing some terrible phantom. I stood with my mouth agape.
The flashing light illuminated a face of grotesque beauty with startling clarity. Upon that ‌‌‌‌snow-white countenance, set atop ‌‌‌a neck so slender it seemed ready to snap, burned a look of such chilling hatred that it seemed to consume her entirely.
I was not ignorant of my half-sister's extraordinary beauty, yet why was I so shocked now?
In the tempest, Talia's eyes gleamed with poisonous malice—she looked like ‌an angel of death. At that sinister sight, I held my breath without thinking. Then Talia, who had remained motionless as a ‌statue, seized a vase from the windowsill. In the next instant, porcelain shattered against a pillar near where we stood.
I screamed.
Thanks to Barcas's protection, I escaped being showered with glass ‌‌‌shards, but a small cut appeared on his cheek. I hastily drew out my handkerchief and pressed it to his face.
With his characteristic impassive expression, he accepted it and wrapped it around his cheek, then glanced upward.
Following his gaze, I found Talia still glaring down at me, and my face hardened.
Without a trace of remorse for her actions, Talia twisted her lips, her bright eyes blazing with malice. Her bloodied lips resembled a crushed rose.
A fear far more ‌‌‌terrible than anger writhed within Ayla's chest. The half-sister she had always dismissed as insignificant now loomed before her as the most ominous and menacing presence in the world. ‌‌It felt as though the malevolent spirit that had condemned her mother to a life of misery would drag her own soul down into the same abyss of sorrow.
Ayla shuddered at the sinister premonition.
* * *
The rain that had fallen throughout the night finally ceased as dawn broke.
Talia, who had spent the night with barely a moment's sleep, gazed out at the Garden bathed in the pale light of early morning with hollow, exhausted eyes.
The verdant grass blades that had once gleamed with vitality now lay half-submerged in muddy water, exhaling a thick, acrid smell of wet vegetation, while the flowers ‌‌that had adorned the Flower Bed in vibrant colors ‌‌‌‌lay scattered like corpses, ‌‌their stems snapped and broken.
Talia descended from her Bedroom and approached a small table positioned before ‌‌‌the fireplace, her gaze still fixed upon that desolate scene below. ‌‌‌
Upon the silver plate lay untouched food, hardened into brittle fragments. She swept her indifferent eyes across it, then seized a small knife resting beside the tray.
Though designed for cutting food, it appeared more than capable ‌‌‌of piercing human flesh.
Talia ran her fingertip along the blade's sharp edge, then slipped it into the pocket ‌‌‌of her gown and slipped from the Room.
The Corridor was thick with damp humidity. She moved through the viscous, heavy air as though swimming, her grip on ‌the ice-cold knife unyielding.
Her palm grew slick with cold sweat. Whether from tension or exhilaration, she could not say. Perhaps it was both.
She moistened her parched lips and crept up the stairs like a prowling cat.
Ayla occupied a Room on the topmost floor. Upon reaching the landing, Talia ‌‌‌pressed herself against the wall and surveyed the Corridor shrouded in darkness. Fortunately, no guard stood before the door.
Talia exhaled a small sigh of relief and carefully advanced toward the ‌‌‌‌door at the end of the Corridor.
As she approached the wooden door bound with iron bands, a faint herbal scent pricked ‌‌‌her nostrils—the fragrance of incense burned to ‌‌calm the nerves.
Talia's mouth twisted. So the night had ‌‌not ‌‌‌‌been entirely peaceful for Ayla either. ‌‌‌Recalling the ashen pallor that had drained from her sister's face at the sight of her, Talia let out a stifled laugh. But the image that followed in her mind sent her spirits plummeting into darkness.
Talia's face contorted with savage fury as she thrust her hand into ‌‌‌‌her pocket, gripping the knife's hilt.
Her entire body trembled. The moment she had witnessed Barcas emerging from the pouring rain with Ayla cradled in his arms, ‌‌‌‌something she had barely managed to hold together came crashing down.
She roughly wiped her blurring eyes with her gown's sleeve.
It had been her only memory.
A recollection she had buried ‌‌deep within her heart for years, one she had secretly retrieved and cherished in solitude.
Did even that precious memory have to be rendered meaningless?
Could we not have kept at least one thing sacred—something that belonged only to us?
Her mind boiled with fury. She knew ‌‌her rage was ‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌irrational. Yet she could not bring herself to forgive them.
She wanted to punish Ayla for stealing even this last ‌‌‌sanctuary. She wanted to inflict upon ‌‌‌that man the same agony she herself endured. ‌‌‌‌
Talia's eyes burned with an intensity like flames as she fixed her gaze upon the sealed door. Once she crossed this threshold, ‌there would be no turning back—she would have crossed a ‌‌‌river from ‌‌which no return was possible.
Perhaps history would record her as ‌‌‌‌a wicked witch who had stolen the life of an innocent, pitiful princess. But it mattered not. She was already regarded as the worst of villainesses. What more could she lose by sinking further into darkness?
With trembling hands, she grasped the door handle.

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Brought to ‌‌you by Valir Scans! To support our team and enjoy the latest releases, ‌please read directly on our official site: valirscans.org
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