She fixed Senebier with a gaze full of suspicion.
What scheme was behind sending Talia along with her? The girl was capable of little more than tiresome pranks meant to annoy her.
But Senebier was not the sort of woman to involve even the Emperor in something so trivial. There had to be another motive.
Ayla's tone grew stiff as she countered.
"Isn't it customary for a lady of the imperial family to undertake a pilgrimage only when she's on the verge of marriage? Why send that child now of all times?"
"Talia may soon be married," Senebier replied lightly.
Ayla frowned. She had never once heard a whisper of a marriage proposal concerning Talia.
No matter if she was born illegitimate, Talia was still an imperial princess listed in the family registry. Such a match could not possibly be arranged without word spreading. Clearly, this talk was a flimsy pretext, invented just to drag Talia along.
Her doubt sharpened into a glare, but before she could speak further, Barcas's cold voice cut through the air.
"A rather convenient time for such a match to materialize, wouldn't you say?"
Even at his open sarcasm, Senebier remained serenely composed.
"The imperial house is blessed with one happy occasion after another—how could it not be a good thing? The proposal only came recently, so no formal engagement has been made. Still, His Majesty and I are inclined to view it favorably."
A sneer tugged at Barcas's lips.
"And might we know the name of this fortunate suitor?"
"You must have heard of him at least once," Senebier answered with a kindly smile. "Count Serian's head of house—Verdein Serian. His formal letter of proposal arrived just days ago."
She went on, "The girl is well past her coming-of-age ceremony, after all. It is high time she wed. By my judgment, this is a suitable match."
Ayla nearly laughed out loud. Verdein Serian was one of the Empress's most ardent followers.
Rumor had it he once held the longest-standing record as Lady Taren's lover. And now this woman meant to wed her daughter to such a man?
The thought of Talia at Serian's side was nauseating. A mother willing to offer her child to her old paramour, and a daughter compliant enough to obey—it was madness.
"Now then, see that preparations for the journey are made swiftly," the Emperor ordered in a clipped tone, clearly signaling the end of the discussion.
Barcas, his expression unreadable, gazed up at his sovereign in silence before bowing deeply. He then turned without a word and strode from the audience chamber.
Ayla, startled by how meekly he had acquiesced, hurried to follow after performing a perfunctory bow to her father.
"Do you truly mean to take Talia with us?" she pressed once they were beyond the hall. "Her supposed marriage is nothing but a pretext. Senebier must be plotting some dreadful scheme!"
"No doubt," he replied coolly, descending the stairs with measured steps.
For a moment Ayla stood dazed, then gathered her skirts and ran to catch up, seizing his arm in agitation.
"And that's all? Even knowing the Empress might use that girl for some vile purpose, you'll simply allow it?"
"What exactly would you have me do?"
He halted, turning to her with a wintry gaze. Ayla flinched, realizing too late that his temper had sunk to its depths.
Only an hour ago he had smiled at her. Now, once again, he was the distant stranger, looking down on her with eyes full of ice.
He gave a bitter, mocking smile.
"Would you have me defy His Majesty's command?"
"I only meant—"
"His Majesty is sovereign of this Empire. I am sworn to serve him. From the beginning, obedience has been my sole path. Is that not precisely what your royal house has always demanded of men like me?"
The unexpected sharpness of his words left her frozen in place. He regarded her blankly for a moment longer, then turned away and walked on.
Watching his back recede without hesitation, dread suddenly welled up inside her. Just as in her girlhood, she rushed forward and threw her arms around his solid waist.
"I'm sorry! I only spoke out of fear. Please—don't turn so coldly away from me."
His body, rigid at first, gradually slackened. With a faint sigh, he turned and gathered her gently into his embrace. Like in their childhood, his hand moved to stroke her hair.
"There is nothing for you to fear. Whatever scheme the Empress may contrive, no harm shall come to you," he murmured.
Ayla lifted her gaze to his face. The stranger's mask had fallen away again, and once more he was her loyal knight. The scattered storm of her emotions eased, falling back into order.
A man who could shake her so easily, then soothe her with but a few words… Before him, her pride as a princess, her dignity, even her authority meant nothing.
Clinging to the cold embrace that had never warmed in all the years they'd shared, Ayla searched desperately into the pale blue eyes that never seemed to rest.
What was it he was seeing? His gaze was bottomless, wandering always as if lost in some faraway place.
"I swore to the late Empress that I would protect both of you with all the strength I have," he said softly, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear.
"Whatever happens, I will keep that vow. You need not fear anything."
She studied his face for a long while before finally nodding. Yes—so long as this man stood on their side, there was nothing to fear. Nothing at all.
The broken nail left her fingers feeling strangely bare.
How long would it take to grow them back to a length sharp enough to dig deep into flesh? Several weeks, at least. Talia stared anxiously at the faint pink edge of her regrowing nail.
The satisfaction of wounding the Crown Prince had not lasted long. No doubt her esteemed brother had hurried straight to the chaplain and had his hand healed until not a mark remained.
While she, on the other hand, had lost the secret weapon she had so carefully tended for weeks.
"If only I'd saved it for Ayla…"
How many times had she imagined burying her nail into those verdant eyes whenever the woman gazed upon Barcas?
She scratched at the wound where her nail had snapped. The scab peeled away, and fresh beads of blood welled up. Her nerves grew taut. Watching the red stain her fingertip, she raised it to her lips and sucked lightly before pushing away from the window.
Barcas had been elusive all day. With no hope of glimpsing him, there was no reason to endure the burning sun at the glass any longer.
She crossed the room and splashed cool water from a basin onto her sweat-damp face. Just then, a knock sounded at the door. Likely her nursemaid again, bringing some treat.
Drying her face with a linen cloth, she called out indifferently,
"Come in."
But the one who entered was not the squat, plump-limbed quarter-dwarf.
Instead, it was a small boy with a mop of reddish-brown curls and eyes that gleamed bright green.
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