"You truly don't understand there are lines one must never cross."
Varkas spoke in his usual level, toneless voice. Yet his handsome face, scraped raw of patience, had hardened into something savage.
Talia twisted, trying to wrench free of his grip. But the iron hand of a seasoned knight was like a shackle. Acting as a loyal shield, Varkas blocked the way before the Crown Prince and Aila, dragging Talia closer as he spat his words in her face.
"How far must you fall before you're satisfied? Was showing us the bottom of your soul not enough?"
"You think you've seen the bottom of me?"
Talia lifted her chin high, a sharp laugh spilling from her lips.
"Pompous young lord of Siorcan, do you imagine you know anything of what the bottom truly is? Don't delude yourself."
She leaned closer, smiling with a languid, dangerous allure. Where other men would have melted beneath her eyes and perfume, Varkas remained unshaken—his gaze only full of weary loathing.
Talia felt the urge to drive her carefully sharpened nails into those icy eyes.
"Perhaps, from where you stand, I look low indeed. But I'm still far from the worst I can be."
Her words were steady, her gaze locked directly into his. In his eyes, she saw a yawning abyss waiting. One day, he would surely hurl her into it.
If she must fall, then before she was dragged down, she would at least leave long claw marks on their future. That would be fair.
Her dark blue eyes blazed with venom. His pale gaze met hers with equal danger. The tension between them was so sharp it could have cut flesh, when suddenly, a voice like a wounded bird broke through.
"Varkas."
At once, the man glaring at her turned toward his fiancée.
Aila's face was unbearably pitiful, enough to stir any heart. She tugged lightly at the edge of his coat, her voice trembling with appeal.
"I… I want to change clothes. Will you take me away from here?"
"…As you command."
Varkas wrapped an arm around Aila's shoulders and turned. Without a backward glance, he led her out of the hall. To him, Talia was already erased.
The madness that had consumed Talia drained from her in an instant, leaving only despair, pain, and jealousy. But even through the gut-wrenching ache, she held herself with false dignity.
With a smile as though she were the victor, she strode toward the terrace where food and wine were set. People shrank away as if from a plague.
She paid no mind, taking up a new glass of wine with graceful poise. But before she could drink more than two sips, Count Serian—who had been watching from afar—hurried over and snatched the glass from her hand.
"You should leave the hall at once."
"And why is that?"
She reached calmly for a plate of pomegranates.
"Did you not hear the First Princess herself bid me enjoy the banquet as I please? I've yet to enjoy myself enough."
"I admire Your Highness's boldness," Serian said with urgency, "but the beast behind you looks ready to strike."
He flicked his eyes toward the Crown Prince.
As he said, Gares's face was murderous, as if he might draw his sword any second. The sun-darkened nape of his neck pulsed with swollen veins, his jaw twitching with suppressed rage. He was clearly restraining himself from exploding.
On another day, Talia might have provoked him further, driving him into some unspeakable act. But not now. Her strength was gone.
Dropping her pretense, she laid a hand on Serian's arm. Together, at a pace swift but not shameful, they left the hall.
Outside the garden, a carriage already waited. A guard opened the door as if expecting her. Talia stepped up onto the footboard, but before she could settle into the cushioned seat, someone shoved her violently.
She fell onto the floor of the carriage, looking up. Gares had shoved past her guard and now loomed over her, eyes gleaming with savage fury.
"We endure your existence only by sheer restraint."
He growled, his calloused hand clamping around her throat. The guard, horrified, dared not lay hands on the Crown Prince and only shouted in protest.
Ignoring him, Gares tightened his grip with both hands. Talia thrashed, nails digging into the taut cords of his hands, but rage made him insensible to pain.
Grinding the words into her ear, he spat:
"And for a long time, I endured. Again and again, I held back."
His bright green eyes blazed like fire.
"So you need not claw us further, little sister. We already hate you enough."
At last, he released her, standing upright.
Talia clutched her throat, gasping violently, coughing so hard she could barely breathe. Her face flushed scarlet as his venomous voice seared her ears.
"Remember this. Your mother's meddling, and you—a filthy bastard—running wild through the palace… it's only for a time."
Then, almost mockingly, he shut the carriage door for her and walked away.
Talia struggled upright, noticing two of her carefully sharpened nails broken, sticky with blood. She touched them fondly, murmuring in a rasping voice:
"…I'll grow them again."
Sharper this time. Sharp enough to drive into bone.
A broken laugh hissed from her lips like escaping air.
She didn't even know why she laughed.
Her useless guard flung open the door in panic, staring down at her as though she had gone mad. Perhaps he was right. She had gone mad long ago.
She sprawled across the dark floor of the carriage, giggling for a long while.
The entire palace buzzed with commotion. In only a few days, the First Princess and the Crown Prince would depart on their pilgrimage.
It was the tradition of the descendants of Darian, the great emperor who had unified the nations, to make this holy journey once grown. Women usually departed before marriage, men at the age of twenty. Since Aila and Gares were born on the same day, it was deemed only proper that they should receive the blessing together.
Thus their luggage was prepared side by side. And to guard the two highest after Emperor and Empress, the elite of the Imperial Guard were mobilized. Of course, the overall command fell to none other than Varkas, the Commander of the Guard.
Because of this, Talia often glimpsed him through her villa windows, striding across the palace yard.
Even today, in the steady drizzle, he inspected weapons, horses, and traveling gear.
Talia lay across her window ledge, staring without blinking.
Varkas tilted his head upward, as though gauging time by the sky. Silver rain veiled his face in a soft sheen, filling her vision.
It had been raining, too, on the day she fell in love with him.
Talia closed her eyes, remembering that day.
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