Talia could no longer contain the surge of fury that welled up inside her and raised her hand once more.
A sharp smack resounded, followed by a sting that spread through her palm.
She had been certain he would stop her again—so certain that she flinched instinctively.
But the man who had taken the blow showed no emotion at all.
"Let's consider the debt for daring to lay hands on Your Highness's body settled with this,"
he said evenly, tapping his unmarked cheek with the tips of his gloved fingers.
"But I will tolerate no more of your childish tantrums. Remember this well—I am no longer your personal knight."
Then, without another word, he stepped out of the carriage and shut the door behind him.
Talia sat motionless, pressed against the backrest, staring blankly for a long time.
Finally, she turned toward the window.
Barcas was nowhere to be seen—he must have already left.
Instead, she saw servants unloading crates from the supply wagon, and a few dim-witted guards urging them to hurry.
Her whole body trembled with the urge to storm out and punish those who had dared to ignore her orders.
But she knew Barcas would never allow that.
He had never tolerated cruelty toward those beneath her.
Her fingers curled involuntarily as she recalled the icy look in his eyes the day she had taken a whip to a maid who'd buried her face in his discarded coat.
Talia yanked the curtains closed with a nervous motion.
She clenched her burning palm, curling up tightly on the seat.
How long she remained that way, she couldn't tell.
Then—
The sound of a horn signaled the start of the journey, and the carriage slowly began to move.
So this was it—the beginning of the voyage that would no doubt become the nightmare of her life.
A single sliver of sunlight slipped through the gap in the curtain, drawing her gaze for a fleeting moment.
Then she closed the fabric tightly, shutting it out.
In the dimness that followed, her thoughts wandered.
If only this procession were headed straight into hell itself…
If only we could all be buried together, and it could all just end… there would be no greater joy than that.
The royal pilgrimage procession was to follow the path of the first emperor, Darian Roem Guirta, founder of the Roem Empire—
from north to west, and from west once more back north, tracing the winding course of the Silvisca River.
Back when the continent was divided into ten kingdoms—Weddon, Dristan, Balto, Gwyn, Osiria, Ribadon, Arex, Vallis, Dumnos, and Sierkan—
Darian, a prince of Gwyn, had fled the invasion of Balto and migrated toward the central lands.
There, he became the adopted son of Duke Valender, the chieftain of the Osirian tribes and his maternal uncle.
Later, Darian united the various Osirian clans under one banner and began a campaign to unify the ten kingdoms.
Over twenty long years and dozens of brutal wars, he achieved the impossible—
forging a single vast empire from the shattered remnants of ten nations.
Thus, the massive procession that began at the Imperial Palace was not only a sacred ritual retracing the steps of the First Emperor,
but also a grand spectacle meant to display the majesty of the Imperial bloodline to all the citizens of the realm.
The scale of the march was nothing short of breathtaking.
At the forefront rode the Crown Prince upon a magnificent golden stallion,
followed by a hundred imperial guards bearing banners embroidered with the Imperial Crest,
their ranks cutting a bold path through the heart of the capital.
Behind them came the carriage of the First Princess, Aila Roem Guirta, flanked by her escorting knights.
The citizens who had gathered along the streets erupted into cheers at the sight of Darian's descendants.
The Knights of Roem, heirs to centuries of honor and tradition, led the way—
their gleaming orichalcum armor, called the metal of the gods, adorned with the Imperial insignia upon pure white surcoats.
To their right marched the infantry, silver shields upon their backs bearing the sigil of the royal guard,
their synchronized steps resounding through the avenues.
The disciplined rhythm of the soldiers only heightened the crowd's excitement.
Women along the streets showered the knights with handfuls of colored petals,
while minstrels sang songs of blessing for the Emperor's descendants.
Then, as if to return the favor, the First Princess opened her carriage window and revealed herself.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd.
Could there truly be anyone in the world more befitting of the title Princess than Aila Roem Guirta?
Graceful and upright like a lily, with fair, pink-tinted skin,
shining dark-brown hair, and large eyes of deep emerald—
her beauty was nothing short of divine.
People craned their necks for a better view; some even followed the moving carriage as though entranced.
Had it not been for the ring of guards surrounding her, Aila's carriage would have been completely engulfed by the adoring masses.
The crowd, swept up in fervent admiration, showered her with blessings.
But then—
when the next carriage appeared, dazzlingly ornate to the point of gaudiness,
the festive atmosphere was smothered in an instant, like a flame doused in cold water.
The knights' expressions hardened, their eyes scanning the surroundings with tension.
Just moments ago, the same citizens who had shouted themselves hoarse were now whispering among themselves,
quietly, cautiously, leaning close to one another.
They had realized who was in the next carriage—
the infamous Second Princess.
Those crowding the boulevard slowly stepped back,
their eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and hostility.
Some made the sign of the cross; others spat on the ground.
The guards could only sigh bitterly.
Their reaction, of course, was not without reason.
There wasn't a soul in the capital who hadn't heard of Talia Roem Guirta's vicious temper.
From the moment of her birth—the Emperor's illegitimate daughter—
her existence had been a scandal that shook the empire.
And even after she was officially recognized as a princess,
she continued to cause one disturbance after another.
Servants who worked in her residence rarely left unharmed.
Many had been dismissed in disgrace, and some had even died under mysterious circumstances.
Naturally, the people's gaze upon the Second Princess was nothing but cold.
"Your Highness, perhaps you might open the curtains and greet the people?"
The guard Edric Rubon, unable to watch any longer, approached the carriage and spoke cautiously.
No reply came from within.
He frowned at the thick curtains that stayed tightly drawn.
Since the beginning of the procession, the Second Princess had not shown her face even once.
She was clearly still sulking after her quarrel with Sir Barcas Sierkan.
Edric swallowed a sigh that rose to his throat.
If she'd just show that pretty face of hers, the people's reaction might change a little…
In some ways, she really was a hopelessly unskilled woman.
If she acted the least bit sweet, men would fall over themselves to give her anything she wanted.
But Talia Roem Guirta seemed almost determined to be hated—
so sharp and irritable that even her beauty, inherited from her late mother, seemed to lose its luster.
How many knights had been driven away by that temper of hers?
Even the man who had endured by her side for seven long years, Sir Barcas Sierkan, now seemed like a saint in comparison.
Though, to be fair, I doubt he's suffered her quietly all these years…
As Edric recalled the moment his superior had practically thrown the Second Princess into the carriage,
he turned his gaze toward the front of the formation.
Through the orderly ranks of marching knights,
he caught a glimpse of Barcas, his hood pulled deep over his head.
Yes—he too must have reached his limit with Talia Roem Guirta.
It was almost impressive, really.
What kind of woman could drive such a rigid, dutiful man—so steadfast in his loyalty to the crown—to such extremes?
Had Edric not witnessed it with his own eyes, he never would have believed it.
Perhaps the Second Princess truly possessed a gift for provoking the hostility of others.
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