Shattered Illusions
Thalia fidgeted awkwardly with her hands before spitting out in a prickly voice, “If you so much as cut a single strand of my hair, I won’t let it slide.”
He offered no reply, yet his touch seemed to grow even more careful, as though he were caressing her hair rather than merely untangling it. Thalia swallowed hard against the dry sensation in her throat. Through the parted collar of his shirt she glimpsed the strong column of his neck and the elegant, wing-like ridge of his collarbones. The supple yet powerful muscles of his forearms flexed with every movement, and the long legs encased in woolen trousers rested far too close to her own thigh for comfort.
She ducked her head to hide the flush rising in her cheeks. “Is it… taking long?”
Freeing a single strand caught on a button should not have required this much time—or perhaps her nerves had simply stretched the moment into something unreal. Sweat began to bead on her palms. She rubbed her hands against the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, only to recoil when she noticed the flush creeping up the inside of her wrists.
Good heavens, was her entire body turning red? How hideous she must look. Irritation sharpened her tone. “It’s fine now—just cut it off!”
Barcas, usually so swift and decisive, fumbled for an absurdly long time before finally lowering one hand to his waist. Thalia stiffened as she saw him draw a dagger. He reached behind her again, and she clutched unconsciously at his shirt.
“Still… don’t cut too much. My hair…”
Before she could finish, a soft snick sounded and the faint pressure on her scalp vanished. Heart pounding, she twisted around, terrified he had hacked off a chunk of her hair.
Instead, a gleaming golden button lay on the floor. She picked it up and examined it closely. The Roem Knights’ crest was finely engraved upon its surface.
When she looked up again, Barcas had already risen and was sheathing the dagger at his hip. “How long do you intend to remain seated on the floor?”
While straightening his rumpled clothes, he spoke in his usual curt manner. Thalia scrambled to her feet, an inexplicable awkwardness settling over her. She cleared her throat and held the button out to him. “Here. Take it.”
“I have no need of it. Throw it away.”
Barcas dismissed the matter with a glance toward the window. Crimson twilight had already begun to stain the sky. He turned back, surveyed the disordered room, and exhaled wearily. “May I take my leave now?”
Thalia nodded without a word. He inclined his head once and departed at once. She listened to his fading footsteps, then hurried to the bedside, retrieved her jewelry box, and tucked the button deep inside.
That night, a strange fluttering in her chest kept sleep at bay. Unnameable emotions ached within her. She turned his words, his actions, his gaze over and over in her mind. Perhaps… No. It could not be. And yet… perhaps.
Chaotic thoughts crowded her head until it felt ready to burst, yet somehow a smile kept tugging at her lips. She tossed and turned through the night, steeped in a fragile happiness.
But the collapse of a schoolgirl’s foolish fantasy required far less time than she had imagined. Only days later, news of Barcas and Aila’s betrothal reached her ears.
It felt as though she had been jolted awake from a daydream—worse, as though she had floated among the clouds only to plummet violently to earth. She fled the detached palace at once and made for the training grounds. Barcas would come to her at noon to fulfill his duties as a royal guard, but she could not wait that long.
Thalia crossed half the imperial palace in a single rush and burst into the wide courtyard where the knights trained. Though she felt the wary stares of those who recognized her, she paid them no mind. Her eyes darted desperately across the field in search of that pale ash-blond head. Realizing the men present were only trainees rather than full knights, she turned away. If he was not on the training grounds, he was most likely in his office attending to paperwork.
She headed for the military administration building beside the grounds. As expected, Barcas was inside—though he did not appear to be working. Thalia had just grasped the door handle when a faint sob froze her in place. Through the narrow gap she saw Barcas standing with his back to the window, and a woman clinging to his chest, weeping.
The sight was so utterly unexpected that she stood rooted to the spot. The unknown woman lifted her head and gazed up at him with desperate eyes. “You don’t love that woman, do you?”
Her voice was so piteous it turned the stomach. She clung to him as though begging. “You’re only marrying her for political reasons. Please—just say it’s true.”
Thalia’s throat tightened painfully. The mere existence of a woman who could plead with him in such a manner struck her like a blow. She watched his face with bated breath. At last his tightly pressed lips parted.
“I fail to see what significance my answer holds for you.”
His voice was so utterly devoid of warmth that a shiver ran down her spine. With a face as expressionless as a wax doll, Barcas regarded the woman and tilted his head in apparent confusion. “Whether the marriage is political or otherwise, what difference does it make? I have given my word to take Her Highness the First Princess as my wife, and I intend to honor that promise.”
The woman’s slender back stiffened visibly. She must have felt as though her heart were being torn apart. Yet the man did not stop there.
“I do not know what you expected of me, but I made it clear from the beginning that I would not return your feelings.”
Color drained from the woman’s neck. Barcas sighed tiredly, as though the sight did not move him in the least. “Henceforth, I would prefer we avoid these awkward encounters. Now that the betrothal is official, I have no desire to invite unnecessary scandal.”
The woman staggered backward and collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. A flicker of irritation crossed Barcas’s face. Thalia felt her skin crawl at the utter lack of compassion in that impassive expression. That look, that gaze—everything about it was chillingly familiar.
She fled the scene at once. Had she arrived even a moment later, it might have been she who knelt there sobbing. The mere thought sent ice through her veins. If Barcas ever turned that same cold gaze upon her while she begged for his love, she would surely die on the spot. No—she would die.
From that moment on, Thalia found herself truly afraid of him. The man who could slay her with a few words now filled her with genuine terror. Naturally, her manner toward him grew even more defensive than before. He was no longer merely the object of an unrequited affection; he had become something closer to a natural enemy. If she failed to keep this heart of hers perfectly in check, she would be doomed to live in excruciating pain for the rest of her days.