The air grew even more suffocating than before. Yeara's brow lifted in confusion as her gaze locked onto his, still slightly clueless to the sharp displeasure that had crossed his features.
Her hair refused to stay in place due to the wind, blowing to the side of her face—white strands falling forward as though attempting to hide her from him, loose strands gently slapping against her cheeks.
She slowly raised her hand to push them aside, her breathing still uneven; that brief run earlier had nearly stolen the breath from her lungs.
"Mr. Teusday is our oldest goat," she spoke, as Zalthor's jaw ticked slightly before his face returned to its calmness, aware of how he had misinterpreted that for a second.
But it was not his fault, anybody would have misunderstood that. Like who gives a goat a name, and of all names, Tuesday?
"Mister Tuesday had taught me how to chase, because I chase him a lot. Anytime he escapes, every Tuesday he sneaks out to go see Lady Lydia's goat, and sometimes he even goes to see Lady Blue's goat too. What a cheat."
Yeara spoke as she smacked her lips together in disbelief, remembering how out of breath she was last time because of that goat, and how it had almost earned her a punishment if luck had not been on her side. Her eyes moved up as she looked at the high zinc of the castle.
Though she still wondered why he had left on a day that was not Tuesday—very unlike him, for he only ever departed on Tuesdays.
"And cheat you mean?" Zalthor asked, his dark gaze now looking far too intrigued in this goat discussion. If anybody saw them, they would never believe that this serious discussion between the King and Queen was about a goat.
Yeara turned to him, her gaze almost surprised. He stood tall, his hair drifting across his face, yet not once did he bother to move it aside. If anything, it seemed to intensify his handsomeness, as though he were a painting brought to life. It felt as if even the wind bowed before him.
"Well, what I mean is this, if Mr. Tuesday is sneaking off to see another, then it willingly takes the risk upon itself, despite knowing it might be caught. Still, it would be far better if it remained loyal to one, would it not? After all, why choose two when one should suffice?"
She spoke with a small shrug, her gaze drifting toward the red rose at the far end before returning to Zalthor, who responded with a curt nod, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
"Do not tell me you side with the goat, Your Majesty. Or perhaps… do you favor the marriage of two wives?" Yeara asked, her gaze deepening as it fixed upon him.
Zalthor's lips curled slightly upward.
"Is this why you chose to remain a maiden?" he asked, as Yeara bit her lips.
"Why do you answer my question with a question, Your Majesty?" Her voice had a slight annoyance at the edge.
"You did the same just now, my dearest Koala." His deep voice wrapped around her, followed by the thinly veiled insult that could not be missed. Yeara's hands tightened into fists as she gritted her teeth.
"Well, yes, I do not wish to marry. It is better I become a leader, because what is the need for marriage when a man marries a woman, and one day he will tire of her, and his eyes wander elsewhere?
Whatever he does pleases society, even when he takes another wife. And what of the woman's feelings? Perhaps because of her age, her beauty fades, and that… man—"
She paused, her voice cracking slightly, seizing a few deep breaths, remembering she was speaking too much.
"All in all, what I am saying is that love dies. No matter how deeply you love someone in the beginning, as time passes it fades and will never remain the same, Your Majesty. So I strongly believe that marriage is a waste of time."
She finally released her breath, not even realizing how much she had spoken.
There was a brief silence, their gazes locking together as if speaking in a silent language. Zalthor took a step towards her as he leaned in; Yeara's heart skipped.
"I see. Hopefully you stick to this word in the years to come," he spoke, his eyes glinting faintly, his lips settling into a restrained, unreadable tilt before standing upright.
'What does he mean by that?' Yeara wondered.
"You are going to be my only wife—that would be the promise I keep," he spoke, answering her earlier question.
"And for mistresses?" Yeara asked.
Zalthor went rigid.
"I mean, anyone could promise to have one wife and remain bound to that, yet still step outside and take mistresses. So I see no difference. Tell me, Your Majesty… w-what of mistresses?"
Yeara asked, searching his face for something—anything—yet she found nothing. She had no idea what compelled her to voice such a question, but she felt she might not have the chance to ask again; after all, it was better to seize the opportunity when it presented itself.
Zalthor's face revealed nothing, yet the piercing look he fixed upon her spoke volumes, perhaps because he was unaccustomed to being addressed in such a manner.
He had never encountered anyone like her; not in how she spoke, but in the way she voiced her mind. Many feared him, their voices faltering, their thoughts turning blank in his presence—yet what he witnessed just now unsettled him slightly.
Not to mention the defiance in her eyes, which told him plainly that she would not back down.
"You are far more sensible than you look. As for mistresses…" Zalthor's words trailed off as his eyes stared almost coldly at the figure standing not far from them, clearly displeased by the sudden interruption.
Yeara noticed the air turning even more intimidating as she turned her gaze to meet a guard, he stood straight, brown hair, warm and gentle expression.
"Raymond, what is it?" Zalthor spoke.
Raymond smiled nervously as he bowed. He did not like this expression from the king at all. He finally straightened his face as he bowed at Yeara before speaking to Zalthor.
"Your Majesty, you have a meeting with Regent James," he said with a bow.
Yeara raised her brow slightly as that name sounded a little familiar. She knew she had heard that name recently, but where? It finally clicked.
'Ella's husband,' she said to herself.
"Cancel it," Zalthor calmly ordered.
Yeara's head snapped to him as his gaze moved back to Yeara, but she shook her head.
"Your Majesty, please go for your meeting. Guilt would marry me if you stay," she spoke with a curtsy.
But..
Her body froze as Zalthor's laughter echoed through the garden. Even though it was dry, there was a slight dark intrigue to it.
Raymond, whose head had been bowed, regretting why he had not just told his majesty privately, raised his head, risking it all—his eyes slightly wide, surprised by the laughter coming from his majesty. That was rare. Even though it was cold..whoa, that was unexpected.
"Marry, huh?" Zalthor tilted his head slightly, his hands moving to his chin.
Yeara smiled, nodding, her eyes glinting. She had earlier thought he was mocking her, but now realized he was laughing because of her choice of words, she smiled softly, she had just realized how funny that really was.
"Very well. I will listen to my queen."
Yeara's stomach flipped as butterflies stirred within her. For some inexplicable reason, the way he said my queen felt intimately alluring—unimaginably sweet, yet edged with a coldness that made her body tingle, craving more.
Zalthor's lips curled up before he shifted his gaze to Raymond, who immediately snapped his gaze down into a bow in a flash second. He thanked the stars that he was a millisecond away from getting caught.
Zalthor finally glanced at Yeara once more before he began to walk away.
Yeara turned as she watched him leave. Just as he disappeared from her view, she finally shifted her gaze, catching herself. The winds blew harder, as if reminding her of reality.
She turned around as she stared at the field area. This garden area was really big.
"What a waste of land. I am pretty sure at the manor this place could be a farm," she said with a smile. The chicken incident flashed through her head once more.
It was then she realized she had saved that chicken from being cooked—not to mention that was how she saved Mr. Tuesday from being cooked as well.
Her gaze drifted to the long tree area that looked like a forest. There was a rock demarcation, a long one that separated the forest from the garden path.
Yeara began to walk towards it. The rocks were small; her legs padded softly against the grass as she reached the forest area. She looked inside, but it looked endless.
"It would not hurt to do a little hunting," Yeara muttered to herself as she came to a halt. She finally took a few deep breaths, her hands moving to her gown as she raised it a bit so it would not stain at all.
She finally entered…failing to see the sign at the edge written boldly:
WARNING: DO NOT ENTER—WILD ANIMALS