The woman's eyes blazed with fury as she spat out each word through clenched teeth.
"Do I sound ridiculous to you too?"
The ferocity radiating from her made him instinctively take another step back.
The princess, trembling in her slender frame, suddenly burst into a sharp shout.
"How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone? Are my words that amusing to you?"
"I only brought food because I was worried Your Highness might collapse," Edric protested, his tone rising as words tumbled out of him in a rush.
The princess scoffed right in his face, a cruel smirk twisting her lips.
"And who are you to worry about me?"
"I am Your Highness's royal guard! It is my duty to assist and protect you—"
The woman abruptly let out a short, bitter laugh.
His face flushed. Never in his life had he been mocked so openly; he didn't even know how to respond.
Still sneering, she spoke in a slow, cutting voice.
"You must think I'm some kind of fool… Do you think I don't know that the Royal Knights of Roem are nothing more than the Crown Prince's lapdogs?"
His face went rigid.
She cast a cold glance at the basket in his hands, her tone dripping with disdain.
"And how do I know what's in there? What disgusting thing are you trying to make me eat?"
"I am a knight!" Edric finally shouted, unable to contain himself any longer. The humiliation burned through him until even his ears felt hot.
"Your Highness's words insult not only me, but the entire Royal Order! We are sworn before God to protect the royal family. I would never—"
"And you think I'd believe that?"
He froze, at a loss for words, staring at the princess's face — cold and hard as sculpted ice.
Wiping the faint smirk from her lips, she spoke icily,
"If you're that desperate to flatter someone, go to my half-brothers. I have no use for it."
Then, with a loud slam, she shut the door in his face, cutting the conversation short.
Edric's grip tightened around the basket. He had to, or else he'd have burst the door open and shouted for her to stop being so obstinate.
Glaring furiously at the carriage door, he finally turned away.
He'd done his part. There was no reason to keep trying to appease a woman who went out of her way to insult him.
Tossing the basket onto a shelf outside the shared tent, Edric strode toward the mess area.
The other knights were already sitting in groups across the field, eating.
Edric joined them, filled his plate generously, and began to devour his food.
Let that wretched woman starve for all he cared, he told himself.
Talia, who had been tossing and turning restlessly in the dark, slowly sat up.
She drew back the curtain by the window — a few faint lanterns glimmered where sentries stood guard, but beyond that, all was swallowed by night.
Lifting her gaze to the black sky where no moon hung, Talia quietly stepped out of the carriage.
Her limbs trembled with weakness; days of surviving on nothing but a few scraps of bread and honeyed fruit had left her drained.
Perhaps it would have been wiser to eat the food that fool of a knight brought.
He didn't seem clever enough to plot anything sinister — maybe she'd been too suspicious.
But the thought of his guileless face only made her scoff.
Had she not learned the hard way that those with harmless smiles were the most dangerous?
Such people would lull you into trust before committing unspeakable acts.
Casting a wary glance toward the patrolling guards near the perimeter, Talia moved carefully between the tents.
Her eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness that she could make out the faint outlines of triangular tent roofs, the long silhouettes of wagons, and the shapes of horses tethered in a row.
She stepped cautiously, mindful not to trip over any stones, while a cool breeze from the hill brushed through her clothes.
The scent of damp grass and half-burned wood mingled in the air. Guided only by her senses, Talia crept onward through the dark.
At last, she located her attendants' quarters. Narrowing her eyes, she double-checked that she was in the right place before clambering onto the nearest supply wagon.
Curling herself between the piled bundles, she kept her gaze fixed on the tent's entrance.
She was waiting — to see whether the spy her mother had planted would act tonight.
Hugging her knees to her chest, Talia stared unblinking into the darkness.
Around her, she could hear soldiers snoring, teeth grinding, horses snorting, and insects chirping. She hadn't realized nights could be so noisy.
She forced herself to stay calm, counting each painful minute and second that crawled by.
After what felt like hours, the black sky began to fade into a faint bluish hue.
It seemed the night would pass quietly after all.
Talia moved stiffly, trying to stretch out her aching joints. Her bones cracked audibly with each motion.
Rubbing her numb limbs, she swallowed back a groan—then froze.
From within one of the tents, a dark figure emerged.
Talia narrowed her eyes.
It was too dim to see the face clearly, but she could tell by the silhouette that it was a woman — slender, graceful.
Quietly, she got to her feet and followed.
After walking some distance past the line of wagons, she saw Ayla's carriage come into view.
Her palms were slick with cold sweat as she wiped them against her skirt.
If that woman went into Ayla's carriage…
If she would only do what Talia could not…
She fixed her gaze on the woman's back, silently willing her to go inside.
But instead, the woman passed by Ayla's carriage entirely, moving toward the far end of the encampment.
When Talia followed her gaze, her face hardened.
The flag of the House of Siorcan, embroidered with a black stallion, fluttered in the wind before a tent.
Her breath caught. She hurried toward it.
But by the time she reached the spot, the mysterious woman had already vanished.
Frantically, Talia searched between the tents, then stared at the entrance of the command tent.
Could she have gone inside…?
Her heart plummeted.
If Ayla and Varkas were to unite, Gareth's position would grow even stronger.
The House of Siorcan wielded enormous influence — not only in the east but across the northern territories as well.
If Ayla became Duchess of Siorcan, Gareth would gain the full support of the noble coalition.
It was entirely possible he had decided to eliminate Varkas to prevent that outcome.
Driven by panic, Talia rushed toward Varkas's tent, thoughtlessly pushing aside the flap and stepping in.
There was no room for reason.
She hastily searched the darkened space, pulling back the curtain that divided the room.
The bed was empty.
He always began his days before dawn — perhaps he was inspecting the camp or checking on Tork's condition.
Still, the unease gnawed at her.
Running her hands over the bedding, she looked for any trace of blood.
Then she froze at the sound of heavy footsteps.
Her head snapped up.
A tall man stood framed in the entrance.
Talia's heart leapt — she thought it was Varkas. She started forward—then stopped abruptly.
It wasn't him.
It was Gareth, dressed lightly, his sharp eyes widening in surprise as he looked her over.
"What," he said, his voice low and cold, "are you doing here?"
He lifted the corners of his eyes sharply and swept his gaze up and down her figure.
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