The Sole Heir
Lucas immediately turned and fled. Daren, who had been watching the scene from nearby, clicked his tongue with a worried expression.
“Isn’t that going a bit too far? What if he ends up harboring resentment toward Your Grace because of it?”
“Lucas is currently the Grand Duchy’s only heir. If anything happens to me, that boy will have to carry on the family line.”
Barcas spoke in a flat, emotionless tone.
“Rather, I’d like to ask what you were thinking, leaving him in that state until now.”
“Your Grace is still so young and vigorous—there’s no reason to prepare the second young master as heir.”
Daren shrugged lightly.
“Besides, now that you’re married, you’ll soon have a direct successor of your own, won’t you?”
Barcas offered no reply. Instead, he unfastened the canteen at his waist and took a sip.
Among the soldiers hurrying back and forth, fourteen supply wagons and a large four-wheeled carriage built for travel came into view. A quarter-dwarf carrying an enormous basin approached, apparently intending to attend to his wife.
Suddenly, a bitter, metallic taste—like chewing on old iron—spread across Barcas’s tongue.
Ever since injuring her leg, Thalia had grown extremely sensitive about exposing her body. She refused to let anyone touch her leg except the healer her mother had provided. Whenever he tried to examine the wound himself, she would suffer a seizure. The memory made the metallic taste in his mouth grow sharper.
He poured another mouthful of strong liquor down his gritty throat, then deliberately changed the subject.
“Was there anything unusual inside Dorcaen Castle?”
“Nothing particularly suspicious. It seems they simply invited us to forge ties with the Grand Duchy.”
Daren stroked his beard and continued in a calm voice.
“While Your Grace was meeting privately with the lord, I inspected the training grounds. The claim that they’re short on soldiers appears to be true.”
“Is there a special reason for the reduced numbers?”
“Financial difficulties, most likely.”
Daren let out a deep sigh.
“The lord of Dorcaen doesn’t seem to have much talent for governing his territory. He couldn’t pay proper wages, so many warriors left, and with the raiders growing bolder, manpower losses have been severe. Still, he doesn’t appear likely to rebel against the Grand Duchy.”
Barcas gazed at the grassland bathed in sunset light, lost in thought. His own assessment aligned closely with Daren’s. While his father lay bedridden, the provincial nobles had been quietly strengthening their private forces. A lord without a proper army would naturally feel threatened by neighbors growing stronger by the day. For the sake of his own safety, supporting the new Grand Duke must have seemed the wiser choice.
The real question was whether the man would prove useful.
“Do you intend to back Darken in order to keep the other vassals in check?”
While Barcas was mentally tallying possibilities, Daren asked the question.
Barcas slowly shook his head.
“I’ll decide after meeting the rest of the nobles.”
“A wise judgment.”
Ending the conversation, Barcas made his way toward the center of the camp. The soldiers had already gathered around the campfire for their evening meal. He glanced around once, then turned toward his own tent.
The moment he stepped into the dim interior, the heavy scent of rose oil and a cloying sweetness assaulted his nose. He paused at the entrance, his gaze drawn to the bed where a single candle burned. A woman in loose blue linen pajamas lay sprawled across the blankets.
A chill seeped between his ribs.
He strode to the bedside and pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. A faint sheen of cold sweat glistened on skin as smooth as glazed porcelain.
Was the pain tormenting her again?
Frowning, Barcas straightened and rummaged through the display cabinet. If she was suffering even in her sleep, burning herbs would be best. He pushed a bundle of dried herbs into the small censer the healer had prepared.
Just as he was about to light it, a thin voice drifted from close by.
“……Barcas.”
He turned. Sleep-heavy eyes, still clouded with drowsiness, met his gaze. He narrowed his eyes at her intoxicated appearance.
Had she already burned the sleeping herbs?
Leaning closer, he pressed his nose to her collar, but smelled no smoke—only a sweet body scent so thick it coated his throat. The overwhelming richness blurred his thoughts for an instant, as though long-dormant senses were stirring all at once.
Struggling to shake off the strange sensation, he lifted his head. Her shoulders had drawn inward, as if uncomfortable with the proximity. Pretending not to notice, he asked in a deliberately calm voice.
“Do you have a fever?”
She tugged the blanket up to her chest and answered curtly.
“I’m fine. I just dozed off for a moment.”
“Did you eat properly?”
“I ate a little while ago.”
She gestured with her chin toward the tray beside the bed. He looked down at the untouched bowls and frowned. There were almost no signs anyone had eaten. Probably just a few sips of honey wine and a piece or two of fruit.
The odd sensation that had been stirring his nerves twisted into irritation. He ran a rough hand through his hair. Thalia was watching his expression, her restlessness making his nerves sharper by the second. It would be better if he stayed outside until she fell asleep again.
He turned toward the tent entrance.
“Rest now.”
“Ba…… Barcas!”
A desperate hand shot out from behind and seized his coat sleeve. He spun around in surprise. Thalia’s eyes darted anxiously as she forced the words out in a cracked voice.
“I…… my leg hurts.”
When he gave no reaction, she swallowed hard and continued with difficulty.
“Give me the medicine.”
Barcas blinked, then lowered his gaze to her lips. The swollen red flesh looked like crushed pomegranate seeds. The memory of taking them into his mouth and sucking on them returned vividly—the soft, moist inner flesh wrapping around his tongue.
A burning thirst flared at the back of his throat. He walked slowly to the shelf, took down a small glass bottle, and sat on the edge of the bed. Deep anxiety clouded her face.
He held the bottle out as if testing her.
“This?”
A pink flush spread across her nearly transparent skin. Ears and nape reddened, she rolled her eyes this way and that before giving a small nod.
He opened the bottle at once, held the thick liquid in his mouth, and cupped her slender nape. A rapid, strong pulse beat beneath his fingers. It reminded him of holding a small bird—the powerful heartbeat pulsing beneath delicate skin. An anxious feeling welled up inside him.
He cradled her delicate chin and brought his lips to the plump flesh that looked as though it had been molded from blood. As he slipped his tongue into the slight gap, a moan like a cat in pain tickled his throat.