SPB 7

chapter 7

Lady Lacey Fiddler had three peculiar habits.

The first was that whenever she saw something she deeply desired but could not have—especially if it belonged to someone she could never dare covet—she would pinch her own side without realizing it. Amusingly, she didn’t even notice that she was causing herself pain at the time. Her desire for that “something” was so overwhelming that only later, when she felt the ache, would she notice a dark bruise had already formed.

The second was that whenever she heard words that greatly pleased or greatly displeased her, she would wiggle her small nostrils in a ridiculous manner. She had discovered this when her second daughter once burst into laughter at the sight. On that day, Lady Lacey had been so furious that she spent half a day lying in her room. She had been shocked that no one had ever mentioned this habit to her before! Thinking of all the people who might have laughed behind her back made her feel as if her blood had frozen in an icy river.

These two habits were unknown to Arkan—he had no reason to take interest in the Marchioness—but there was a third, which he did know.

When she lied, she would unconsciously purse her lips…

Like a tiny pastry bag…

Arkan imagined pinching the Marchioness’ pursed lips to squeeze out whipped cream and felt a flicker of disgust at his own thought, coughing lightly.

“I see,” he said in an exaggeratedly solemn tone, causing the Marchioness’ lips to purse even tighter. They were almost gone entirely. Had they disappeared, Arkan thought he might have enjoyed a more refreshing morning from the very next day. Unfortunately, that did not happen.

“It is true, Your Majesty. Every word is the absolute truth. How could you take such a frivolous person as your queen? Your Majesty, you must reconsider. Absolutely—”

“Surely this sensitivity is due to being in an unfamiliar environment,” Arkan interrupted.

The Marchioness’ words abruptly stopped. She hated being cut off mid-sentence more than anything, yet with the king—Arkan—there, she could not even show displeasure. All she could do was stamp her feet helplessly.

“Your Majesty, I speak to you with the utmost loyalty—”

“I am well aware of your loyalty. But you are older than the princess, are you not? So be generous this once and let it pass. I shall see to it that she understands your concerns in due course.”

Of course, Arkan would never actually convey her words to Erdene. And it was equally certain that the Marchioness would never exercise such magnanimity on her own. He felt no guilt at all.

“Your Majesty…”

“That is enough. Go now. You look tired. Return to your estate and rest. If there is business to discuss, you may send a letter and need not come to the palace for several days.”

With the conversation at an end, even the obstinate, rigid Marchioness had no choice but to withdraw. She bowed to Arkan with a posture so perfect it sent chills down the spine, then left his chambers with her shoulders slightly slumped.

“My goodness… Why must I face the Marchioness Fiddler immediately upon arrival? Don’t you agree, Platt?”

While Arkan spoke, Platt—who had been standing nearby, expertly concealed and silent—glanced toward the direction the Marchioness had gone and shrugged both shoulders.

“Was it not somewhat expected, Your Majesty?”

“If it was expected, you could at least have warned me. I would have liked to prepare myself,” Arkan said, placing a palm against his forehead with a loud thunk.

As soon as the Marchioness departed, he flopped onto the sofa and exhaled a long sigh with his eyes closed.

Expected, indeed.

Arkan chuckled at Platt’s matter-of-fact reply. True enough, he had never expected that the infamous princess would arrive crestfallen and mournful.

I even disguised Vellen to prevent her from harming the coachman along the way. Surprisingly, she didn’t try anything.

Unbeknownst to Erdene, the coachman who had escorted her to the Betor border was none other than Vellen Wysheard, the captain of the elite royal guard and one of Arkan’s closest aides.

In the inland allied kingdoms, which were constantly pressured by Hirschsten, Vellen was revered almost as a god of war for their pride. His martial skill alone was more than enough to subdue Princess Erdene, yet Vellen himself felt otherwise.

[Excuse me? You want me to bring Princess Erdene along? She might kill the coachman and flee. Am I supposed to do this? My neck isn’t made of iron, you know.]

Arkan had no choice but to play his final card to persuade him.

[Very well, Vellen. If you refuse, then I will assign this task to Bert, who can barely wield a knife to slaughter a chicken. Do not worry—he has no family. Should he die, I will ensure a grand funeral.]

[Ah! Then I shall go! But… you will still hold a funeral for me, correct?]

Bert was the oldest of all the coachmen employed at Betor Palace. Facing a princess who might draw a blade at any moment, he could hardly handle even a passing deer.

Lost in these trivial thoughts, Arkan sighed again.

“Platt, have you confirmed the food and support policies for the Empire?”

Platt, hands behind his back, nodded once.

“Fully confirmed, Your Majesty.”

“I worry whether they will honor their promises.”

By “they,” Arkan referred to the Hirschsten Empire, and specifically the newly enthroned Emperor Tennek. The previous emperor had been warlike yet politically shrewd, knowing when to strike and retreat.

But his son… seems quite incompetent…

Platt casually remarked, noticing Arkan’s concern:

“Even if the worst happens, we have the princess here.”

Arkan frowned slightly.

We did not bring her as a hostage.

“That may be so, Your Majesty, but I speak hypothetically to ease your concern,” Platt replied. He had no idea that, if push came to shove, he would be adding to the worry, not alleviating it. Arkan reflected that no law prevented that from happening. If Emperor Tennek failed to honor his promises, Betor’s officials might use Erdene as leverage to press the Empire. Though whether she would comply as a hostage was another matter entirely.

Arkan set his cooling teacup before him and pictured Erdene’s face in his mind. He had received her portrait from the Empire beforehand, but portraits are always glorified representations.

The painting had made Erdene look terrifyingly fierce. Beautiful, perhaps, yet her piercingly blue eyes were enough to send a shiver down the spine. One could only wonder if the artist survived completing it.

[This is the first portrait I’ve seen that seems to have devoured its painter.]

When Arkan and his officials first saw it, one of them had clicked his tongue in disgust. Naturally, Arkan let go of any expectations or fantasies about her.

But meeting her in person, Erdene was nothing like he had imagined. Her startlingly pale blue eyes, unique to the northern bloodline with the deepest ancestral heritage among Hirschsten royalty, and her jet-black hair flowing in the wind, left him momentarily speechless.

Of course, her first words and the murderous glare she gave him left him at a loss in an entirely different way. The look was so fierce that even a dagger thrust might not have surprised him.

Hmm, the artist must be dead.

At that moment, Platt asked:

“Pardon me, Your Majesty, but what is your impression of the princess? Does she… approach your ideal type? Even before ascending the throne, you showed little interest in such matters.”

Ideal type… Arkan recalled Erdene’s face carefully. Meeting someone capable of such a ferocious expression had been a lesson in itself.

But ideal type…

“I do not fall in love with women crafted from fantasy, Platt. I thought you knew that. Disappointing, isn’t it?”