SPB 5

chapter 5

A faint yet distinct smile of victory appeared on the lips of the Marchioness Fiddler as she finished speaking. It was the kind of smile born from satisfaction at having said everything she wanted to say, and from the confident awareness that even this “mad dragon”—as she had heard war zones called such princesses—must have realized just how different her status in the Empire and her position in Betor had become.

However, Erdene’s reaction was far from what the Marchioness had imagined—or hoped for. Far from it.

“Ahahaha!”

The laugh was so loud it rang in their ears. Even the timid Viscountess Wikis flinched, and Fiddler herself could not help but be startled.

The two noblewomen, raised under strict traditions in distinguished families, were utterly shocked to see Erdene laughing so heartily that her throat and chest were exposed, clutching her stomach and wiping tears from her eyes.

“Your Highness! A proper lady does not laugh so vulgarly.”

The Marchioness, her face red, could not contain herself and raised her voice.

But Erdene barely stopped laughing, still clutching her stomach, snickering and wiping her eyes as she said:

“My goodness, Marchioness. In over twenty years of living, I’ve seen all sorts of sights and heard all sorts of absurd things, but I’ve never heard something so ridiculous as this.”

“What on earth is so funny?”

Erdene, still grinning, stared intently at the Marchioness. The sight reminded her of street troublemakers—kids throwing stones at walls or spitting on carriage wheels. For a moment, the Marchioness even felt the urge to slap Erdene across the face.

Then Erdene said:

“Do you not find your own words amusing? I thought the king of Betor would have something to boast about, like grain and rich meat that could rival the Emperor of the Empire. But apparently, being tall is something to be proud of? Yet if you feel reassured comparing yourself to me, that height doesn’t seem like much to boast about. Worrying too much is your true flaw.”

Erdene glanced at the two noblewomen, as if mocking the ever-changing expressions on their faces, and drove the point home:

“After all, one should live according to how one was made.”

The mouths of the Marchioness Fiddler and Viscountess Wikis dropped open—wide enough to see down their throats, just like when Erdene had laughed moments ago. Erdene briefly wondered if their jaws had actually dropped.

That would be perfect! She could laugh until her stomach burst.

“Your Highness, no matter that you are a princess, your words go too far!”

“The Marchioness seems far too impatient for her rank. Traditionally, those in high positions speak less and look deeper, but you are the opposite.”

“What do you mean…!”

Erdene chuckled.

“Indeed, I lack patience just as much as you do, so we’re evenly matched. Seeing you try to shield a king like this, it seems your skirts have quite a wide reach. I’ll keep that in mind going forward.”

The Marchioness knew full well that Erdene’s words were less a polite comment than mockery bordering on a blatant lie.

As she prepared to respond, Erdene had already lifted the opposite side of the tent and was heading outside the barracks, letting out a small “Ah” before stopping.

“You should remember one thing too, Marchioness Fiddler.”

The corner of the Marchioness’s mouth twitched. Should she remain silent, or answer? Of course, the answer was clear.

“Speak, Your Highness.”

Suppressing her rising anger, the Marchioness replied with composed dignity.

Erdene watched this with interest, her eyes sparkling, a smile playing on her lips.

“Raise your voice disrespectfully in front of me once more, and I will not forgive you.”

Her low voice made their bodies instinctively tremble. Though spoken with a smile, each word carried an edge of lethal intent.

The Marchioness realized with a start that even Viscountess Wikis, who had remained silent like a ghost, had whimpered softly, clearly intimidated by Erdene’s threat. Even someone seasoned in political scheming was left stunned.

Erdene glanced at the prepared new carriage as the Marchioness muttered angrily—poor Viscountess Wikis would certainly endure some torment—and thought:

“A sigh is inevitable.”

The carriage she had been traveling in until now was large and sturdy, suitable for long journeys, offering comfort and stability superior to a small carriage. But the carriage she was about to take was small and dainty, adorned at every corner with flowers made of silver and jewels.

Erdene recalled a thought she had mulled over repeatedly since leaving the Hirschsten Empire:

“Should I just tip it over now?”

Judging by the Marchioness’s attitude, her position in the Betor royal court did not seem secure from the start. The soft-hearted inlanders, seeing the Hirschsten flag, would continuously trample and dismiss her as if she were just another commodity to trade for food. She could fight with sword, shield, spear, or bow, but she was unarmed. None of her loyal knights or military aides could come with her.

[Anyway, Betor probably has knights to guard you, right? But they are loyal to the Empire, not just to you.]

The image of Tenek grinning as if commanding respect made her grit her teeth. The Empire had now become her past…

Could she not just behead the coachman and go wherever she pleased? Tenek the fool would handle the aftermath anyway.

Yet Erdene shook her head and changed her mind.

“That’s impossible.”

Yes, she could not do that. If the imperial heirs were to enjoy satisfaction and comfort, if that were their happiness, then she had a duty to fulfill.

With her decision made, Erdene boarded the absurdly small carriage. Fortunately, the two noblewomen and the young attendant who had served her thus far followed in a separate carriage.

As she looked out the window along the forest path with a bored expression, she bit her lip upon seeing the thick, high-quality trees around her. These trees were easily over a hundred years old. All the lush, fertile land capable of sustaining them belonged to the inland kingdoms.

As Tenek had said, the Empire’s territory was vast but mostly barren and rocky.

“If only I had taken these lands…” she thought, grinding her teeth at the memory of Tenek’s smirk. She would make sure he remembered this lesson before leaving.

Soon, the view of the capital of the Betor Kingdom unfolded. Unlike the Empire’s homes, which were made of trees, stones, or dry grass except for royal residences, the capital’s roofs were colorful, the bricks clean, the roads well-paved, and the people’s clothing diverse. The shops were lively.

“All of this should have been Hirschsten’s. That fool destroyed the sacks of rice just to get a handful of barley.”

The top of the Betor palace came into view as the carriage neared the city center. Unlike the Empire’s low, heavy structures, the Betor buildings were thin, delicate, and beautifully decorated.

“Not my taste,” was Erdene’s only impression of the elegant, refined castle, even one praised by foreign envoys.

As the carriage slowed enough to see the brickwork of the white walls, Erdene felt a sudden sinking in her chest. It was a similar feeling to being on the battlefield, yet entirely different.

It felt like being trapped. Not surrounded by enemies—she could have escaped in such a situation—but encircled by impenetrable iron bars, forming a dense cage around her.

Seeing people outside the half-circle, tiny windows heightened the feeling of confinement. She almost wished she could step out of the small, ridiculous carriage, but her wish was unheard.

Soon the carriage doors opened, and a foot cushion was laid out by attendants.

“Your Highness, please step down carefully.”

Ridiculous. Erdene barely lifted her cumbersome dress, stepped on the cushion, and jumped down.

“Is this not exactly what being a clown looks like?” she thought.

Looking up, a tall man approached her. His steps were slow and elegant. The tip of his black cloak, fluttering near his shoulders, was embroidered with peonies in faint silver thread. His hair was warm brown, evoking autumn, curly like a young boy’s, seemingly scented with the fragrance of wood if touched. On his head rested the crown of Betor.

“You must have had a long journey, Princess Erdene Bad of Hirschsten. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am the King of Betor, Arkan Kiprosmaine.”

Arkan Kiprosmaine. Seeing his awkward yet gentle smile, a single thought flashed through Erdene’s mind:

“Damn, he’s handsome. No wonder everyone loses their minds over him.”