The Scent of Blood
Barcas, who had been watching her movements through the windowpane, slipped out of the corridor and descended the stairs. When he stepped outside through the back door, densely tangled shrubs blocked his view.
Hurrying through them with impatient strides, Barcas came to an abrupt halt the moment he spotted Thalia sitting beneath a red barberry bush.
The instant he took in the sight of her seated on the bare ground in nothing but a thin gown, his throat prickled as if he had swallowed shards of glass.
Swallowing the sharp words rising inside him, he strode firmly toward her.
“What are you doing in a place like this?”
The woman who had been quietly gazing at the flower bed lifted her head. Unfocused eyes groped at empty air. Barcas’s eyes narrowed.
“Have you been burning sleep herbs?”
“……I haven’t. I’m just a little tired.”
Thalia answered in a languid voice and dropped her gaze back to the flower bed.
Following her line of sight, Barcas discovered a bird lying limp among the long blades of grass, and his face hardened.
It looked as if a stray cat had mauled it; through the torn belly skin, intestines swarmed with ants and maggots.
She had once been a woman who would throw a fit at the mere sight of insects. A woman who hated dirt almost to the point of mysophobia, who loved beautiful things so much she drew criticism for extravagance—yet at some point she had begun turning her eyes toward the ugly. That strange change rankled him.
With a somewhat rough hand he pulled her to her feet.
“If you’re tired, you should rest in your room. Why are you doing this?”
“……I felt stifled, so I just came out for a bit of air. The room was strangely hot.”
Thalia muttered as if offering an excuse.
Wrinkles gathering at the corners of his eyes, Barcas pressed the back of his hand to her forehead.
No fever. Rather, her skin was cool—likely from sitting out in the cold wind in such thin clothes.
Letting out a small sigh, Barcas shrugged off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.
“Let’s go inside now. Your body is cold.”
“Hey……”
Just as he wrapped an arm around her and was about to step toward the back door, a tightly locked voice held him back.
He lowered his gaze again. Shadowed blue eyes filled his vision. The woman who had been chewing her lips as if hesitating over something struggled to continue.
“Before……”
“So this is where you were!”
At that moment a booming voice cut off whatever she had been about to say.
Barcas turned his head toward the sound. Daren Dru Seorkan, leading five or six subordinates, was cutting across the garden, trampling the wildflowers around the narrow path.
“I have an urgent report. I went to the inn and met informants from the capital—they say the trends in the imperial palace are unusual. It seems the Empress is beginning a full-scale expansion of her influence……”
The man who had been pouring out words in haste fell silent when he belatedly noticed Thalia.
Barcas checked her complexion. The face that had looked defenseless as a lost child’s was now frozen cold.
She took a step back and muttered in a low, sunken voice.
“I’ll go up to my room, so you take care of your business.”
“I will escort you to your chambers.”
“I can go alone.”
“Haven’t I told you repeatedly that you must not go about without an escort?”
At the words spoken like a reprimand, a faint look of dissatisfaction rose on her beautiful face.
She scanned the knights standing behind Daren, then pointed to the smallest man among them.
“Then assign that man as my escort.”
The soldier who had been pointed out hunched his shoulders with a flustered face.
Ever since the incident in which his wife had charged at them threatening to rip out Lucas’s tongue, the family’s warriors treated her as a person of interest. The man who had been singled out also seemed reluctant, fidgeting and only watching for cues.
Barcas coldly barked an order.
“What are you doing standing there? Escort her at once.”
At his command the soldier hurried over.
Barcas reluctantly released the arm that had been around her. Thalia moved away from him without hesitation.
After watching her retreating figure for a moment, Barcas turned his head back to Daren. As if he had been waiting, the man pulled a bundle of parchment from his breast and held it out.
“These are documents recording the events that have taken place in the capital since Your Grace left the imperial palace.”
He carefully read through the documents. The report stated that cracks were forming among the conservative nobles and that the Empress had begun openly gathering supporters for the Second Prince.
Barcas wrinkled the corners of his eyes.
That’s not like her.
The Emperor was still robust. Barring any unforeseen events, Virus Roem Guerta’s reign would continue for more than ten years. So why was the Empress not waiting until the Second Prince came of age?
A strong wariness rose at the hard-to-understand move. Just as she had used her own daughter to provoke Gareth, was she now intending to stir up strife by putting forward her young son? If that woman was inducing Gareth’s rampage, then far greater dangers might be lurking behind this marriage talk.
Reading that the engagement between the heir of the Heimdal family and the First Princess was being seriously discussed, Barcas irritably crumpled the parchment.
Strengthening relations with the North itself was not bad. But entrusting Aila’s person to them was a hasty judgment.
Northerners were a people with an extraordinary obsession with their bloodline. Were they not the ones who had not hesitated at incestuous marriages over generations to preserve the platinum hair and red eyes characteristic of the ancient giant race? There was no way they would quietly accept a black-haired imperial princess as their mistress. They must have other designs.
Barcas, who had been stroking his lips with a thoughtful expression, soon left the garden.
Guided by the head butler, he entered the study, and a young page brought writing implements. He sat at the desk and drafted several documents—orders to thoroughly investigate the scale of the army mustered by the Heimdal family and the flow of funds.
After sealing them and handing them to a messenger, he additionally drafted two telegrams to send to the capital. One to Marquis Oristein, the other to Gareth.
Writing sentences that warned of the North’s dangers in as mild a tone as possible, Barcas signed at the end of the documents and stamped his seal.
Daren, who had been watching from the side, asked in an awkward tone.
“Do you intend to halt the First Princess’s marriage?”
Barcas looked at him with a puzzled gaze.
“Is there a problem?”
“Well…… if Your Grace steps in to dissuade it, wouldn’t the appearance be a bit strange?”
Daren scratched the back of his head.
“People might think that Grand Duke Seorkan still harbors lingering feelings for the First Princess.”
Barcas let out a dry laugh.
“Worrying over such trivial things.”
Gossip that the imperial palace’s busybodies prattled about would have little effect on the East. He had already firmly introduced the new Grand Duchess to his vassals. At present, giving the conservative nobles the impression that his relationship with the Crown Prince had completely soured was more dangerous.
He rolled up the parchment and stamped the sealing wax.
“Choose the swiftest man and send him to the capital.”
The man, who had worn a strange expression for a moment, took the parchment and went out.
Barcas leaned back against the chair and turned his head toward the window.
Before he knew it, the sky was pouring down thin streaks of rain.
Suddenly the afterimage of Thalia standing blankly in the garden flashed through his mind. What had she been trying to say then?
As the desolate eyes that had been looking at the dead bird rose in his mind, an uncomfortable sensation stirred in his chest. Seized by an unidentified restlessness, Barcas tapped the desk, then immediately left the study.
The hall was all in an uproar, as if preparing for a welcome ceremony. He passed the bowing servants and climbed the stairs.
When he opened the bedroom door, a small figure curled up on the wide bed came into view.
He approached the bedside. A faint flush had risen on the pure white cheek that drew an elegant curve. She had been drooping all day like a sickly chick, and it seemed she had finally come down with a fever.
Letting out a long breath, Barcas picked up a clean towel from the shelf. Just as he was about to wipe her face with it, a strange smell brushed his nose.
He stopped all movement. A dark red stain had spread around her mouth. Staring blankly at it, he gently shook her body that was lying on its side. The nape of her neck, soaked in cold sweat, flopped weakly to the side.
Only then did the red marks spread on the pillow come into view. Barcas, slowly blinking his eyelids, carefully lifted her head.
A thick smell of blood stabbed his nose. The red liquid gathered at her lips flowed down her pale, ashen neck.