The Threshold of Laedgo
“Even if the exterior looks a bit crude, the interior is decorated as lavishly as any castle in the central regions. You won’t find any inconveniences while staying here.”
The man spoke in a soothing tone as he studied her complexion. Thalia merely returned a skeptical look.
This country bumpkin—had he ever set foot inside the imperial palace or the castles of the great nobles?
Sensing her dismissive air, a faint vein pulsed at the man’s temple. He pressed on, emphasizing each word.
“Laedgo Castle was built by dwarves during the era of the divided kingdoms. It boasts a scale and convenience to rival the imperial palace itself……”
“I know. It’s the fortress your Khan tribe forced the northeastern dwarves to build as slaves.”
Her sharp retort snapped the man’s mouth shut.
Thalia continued in a cold voice, determined to silence this seemingly lighthearted man before he could speak out of turn again.
“Since you’ve rattled off everything without being asked, would you mind leaving now?”
“Ha. Really.”
The man shook his head in disbelief.
“Your Highness, do you perhaps know the meaning of the word ‘sociability’?”
“Do you know what ‘unnecessary meddling’ means?”
Thalia sharpened her tone.
“Or perhaps the meaning of ‘rudeness’?”
Realizing further conversation would bring no profit, the man whipped his reins and fled as though escaping.
Thalia snorted at his retreating back, then pulled the window shut.
People who approached with unprompted kindness almost always carried hidden motives. This easterner was no different—smiling only with his mouth while his eyes dissected her from head to toe, weighing and judging.
He was likely trying to gauge what sort of woman the next duchess would be.
Snorting once more, Thalia drew the curtains and sank deep into her seat.
She could not afford a single moment of carelessness. The Sieorkan clan surely regarded her with displeasure. Former Empress Bernadette and the Duke of Sieorkan had been cousins, quite close. The Khan people must resent that the daughter of the current Empress—their political rival—had become the next duchess instead of their own blood, Aila.
Thalia pressed a hand to her throbbing head. She might receive treatment far more unpleasant than she had imagined. Had she not already endured every sort of filthy slight in the imperial palace where Senebier reigned supreme? Laedgo Castle would be worse, not better.
She scratched at her lips, scabbed from constant chewing, with her fingernails. Fever had dried her throat until it stung. Reaching into the drawer beside the seat, she pulled out a water bottle and moistened her parched mouth when a loud trumpet blast sounded outside.
Thalia parted the curtains again.
Before she realized it, the carriage had reached the fortress gates.
After a brief pause for what seemed an identity check, the carriage passed through the massive doors.
Peering out the window, Thalia let out an involuntary gasp.
Tairon’s words had not been empty. Despite its plain exterior, the castle’s interior overflowed with precisely calculated beauty.
She took in the remarkably clean roads, the spires soaring toward the sky, and the intricate architecture. Every structure looked as though a single master craftsman had shaped it with meticulous care.
The citadel, formed from gray stone and black marble, rose at varying heights in exquisite sculptural harmony, connected by arched stone bridges like arteries between the buildings.
As she gazed in admiration, a fountain in the center of the square came into view.
Thalia’s eyes widened. Far larger and more splendid than the one in the imperial palace, it hurled clear streams of water high into the air.
This fortress clearly possessed an abundant water source. Overflow from the fountain flowed along grooves carved beside the roads and into internal channels.
Overwhelmed by the seamless weave of stone, marble, steel, and water, her eyes darted ceaselessly.
Then the mounted soldiers marching in formation halted before what appeared to be the main keep.
Thalia turned her gaze forward.
Before the beautiful citadel—born from the fusion of Roem’s delicate architecture and the easterners’ unique aesthetic—stood a line of people in splendid attire.
Barcas reined in his horse, dismounted, and shouted something in the eastern tongue. Those waiting on the steps rushed down and surrounded him.
Barcas’s relatives, perhaps.
While she watched them with curious eyes, Barcas pushed through the noisy crowd and strode straight toward her carriage.
Thalia hurriedly drew the curtains. Just as she was about to lie down and feign sleep, the carriage door flew open without warning and Barcas stepped inside in a single bound.
Thalia looked up at him, tense.
Barcas wore the black iron armor he had always worn since leaving the Roem Knights, an eastern-style coat draped loosely over it. His large frame, thick with the scent of dried grass, instantly filled her vision.
“How is your body?”
Removing his gauntlet, Barcas placed a hand on her forehead. Sensing the heat, a faint crease appeared between his brows.
“The fever hasn’t broken yet.”
“……It’s fine. It’s not the first or second day.”
Thalia lowered her eyes, uncomfortable.
She had grown somewhat used to his touch and no longer startled at every contact, yet the awkwardness and unease remained.
As she idly tugged at her skirt hem, he removed the coat from his shoulders and draped it over her. Then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he slipped an arm beneath her knees to lift her.
Thalia immediately twisted aside and pulled her knees to her chest.
“Don’t! Are you trying to humiliate me in front of your family as well?”
Barcas’s eyes narrowed. He tilted his head, clearly unable to understand.
“Why would a husband caring for his wife be humiliating?”
Thalia stared at him, speechless.
She had long known this man was bound by duty. She simply had not expected him to fulfill those duties even in a marriage forced by the Emperor’s hand.
She glared at him fiercely.
“Did Aila teach you that? That a husband must look after his wife?”
At her sharp tone, his brow furrowed.
After a brief pause, as though considering something, Barcas spoke dryly.
“Did we not swear it at the altar? That I would cherish my wife as I cherish my own body.”
“Ridiculous. You don’t even cherish your own body.”
“……”
“And I have no intention of playing the ‘submissive wife’ the priest prattled about. So stop pretending to be a devoted husband.”
After her sharp retort, she staggered to her feet to leave, but Barcas, stepping up behind her, scooped her into his arms as though snatching her away.
Thalia glared at him, indignant. Before she could speak, however, Barcas opened his mouth first.
“Do I look foolish enough to expect anything ‘submissive’ from you?”
“What do you mean by that……!”
“It means I expect nothing from you, so do as you please.”
He spoke evenly and adjusted her struggling form with one arm.
“I also intend to do as I please.”
Then he pulled the cloak’s hood over her head and leaped from the carriage.
The strong sunlight stung her eyes. Thalia squinted.
When her vision cleared from its momentary whiteness, she saw unfamiliar faces watching her with expressions mingled of wariness and curiosity.
Shame flooded her cheeks. Far from displaying imperial dignity, she was being carried like a helpless child. Humiliation washed over her.
“Is this the woman who pushed out the First Princess and took my brother’s place as wife?”
As she instinctively hid her face against his shoulder, a clear, androgynous voice reached her ears.
Thalia turned.
A boy with shaggy black hair and large golden-brown eyes stood with his hands clasped behind his head, studying her. He looked about fifteen; his youthful face, still soft with down, drew close.
The boy peered intently at her, eyes barely peeking from beneath the hood.
“Her eyes are just like lapis lazuli.”
Without warning, he reached out to pull the hood down.
Startled and frozen by the unprecedented rudeness, Barcas snatched the boy’s wrist.
“Lucas.”
A voice startlingly cool rang out above her head.