SPB 8

chapter 8

Platt spoke.

“That wasn’t quite such a poetic question, Your Majesty. Did you fall asleep last night reading The Cold Lover again?”

Arkan narrowed his eyes and looked at him.

“I already told you to stop worrying about my reading list, Platt.”

“I was not so much worried as—”

Platt trailed off tactfully when Arkan waved his hand dismissively.

Arkan Kiprosmaine, King of Betor, was famous not only for his youthful and striking appearance but also as a lover of books of all kinds. If he had a personal heaven, it would surely be a vast, cozy library filled with fine books he had not yet read.

His taste was extraordinarily broad, spanning grand historical tomes, philosophical works, biographies, street-peddled novels, and even children’s stories—so extensive that his nickname “Bookworm King” was entirely justified.

He also enjoyed sharing thoughts on books with fellow bibliophile officials. One small quirk, however, was that his wide-ranging taste meant his library contained a fair amount of romantic fiction with somewhat erotic undertones.

In particular, The Cold Lover, recently mentioned by Platt, was a series by an anonymous author that had captivated Arkan. Its writing was known for being exquisitely detailed and sensually evocative. Arkan had long wanted to meet the author, even using his royal authority if necessary, but the author never appeared, carefully concealing their identity.

Arkan said:

“I’ve always found the question ‘Who would you like to marry?’ the most troublesome. How could I answer when I do not know their face, their voice, or even if they truly exist?”

“Your Majesty enjoys books, yet you do not seem overly inclined toward imagination,” Platt observed.

“I read to see reality more clearly, not to get lost in fantasy. So the matter at hand is not whether Princess Erdene pleases me or not.”

Platt remained silent, waiting for Arkan to continue.

After a moment of thought, Arkan pressed his brow.

“The purpose of this marriage is to maintain peace with the inland allied kingdoms. If it achieves that, the goal is fulfilled. Correct? My one concern is whether Princess Erdene will behave acceptably as Queen of Betor, or not.”

His voice was deep and authoritative, as if he had never exchanged jokes at all. His golden eyes, shadowed like sugar-dusted black velvet, bore an intensity that, had Lady Fiddler seen it, she might have praised as the gaze of a sage confronting a profound dilemma.

“Platt.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Go and observe the princess. Ask her what she would like for dinner and instruct the chefs to prepare it.”

Platt, ever the loyal servant, bowed politely.

“Understood, Your Majesty.”

Meanwhile, while Arkan amused himself imagining whipped cream and pastry bags on Lady Fiddler, the Marchioness Wikis—tasked with guiding the princess through the palace in Lady Fiddler’s stead—was on the verge of tears.

Her pride, born of the king’s trust in her relatively lower-status family, kept her from bolting immediately. It was understandable: throughout the tour of the expansive queen’s quarters, Erdene had hardly spoken a word!

God, why must You put me through such a cruel trial? Is this woman made of stone and steel?

The queen’s quarters featured a massive tapestry running along one wall, depicting the important events in Betor’s founding, stitch by meticulous stitch. Foreign envoys visiting the palace would always be shown this masterpiece.

Yet Erdene regarded it with a bored expression and only finally remarked:

“Wasn’t it Orteller, the General of Hirschsten, rather than the second King of Betor, who killed Hayden’s Beast?”

She laughed softly and stepped back from the tapestry.

“Better to have that section embroidered again,” she said.

The remark made no sense, but the Marchioness Wikis could not protest. Whether Betor’s king, Hirschsten’s general, or some shepherd killed the beast made no difference—the problem was that Erdene’s comment had further twisted her mood.

“Princess, this way, please. This is your chamber,” the Marchioness hurriedly called, stopping Erdene from heading the other direction.

Expecting resistance, she was surprised when Erdene complied without argument, though she did speak:

“I wish you had told me sooner.”

“Of course, I was careless,” the Marchioness replied promptly.

The queen’s chambers were separate from the central palace and the king’s personal quarters. Everything displeased Erdene, but she appreciated that one fact—she did not have to share a room and face that twitchy man every day.

No. The opponent is a living human, not a piece of silk to tear. Tearing him would create serious problems…

“This is your bedroom, Princess,” the Marchioness said.

The double doors opened to reveal a large, luxurious bed. The furniture was a harmonious blend of antique and opulent, perhaps reflecting the tastes of a previous queen or tradition. The room smelled of fresh flowers, not artificial perfume. Erdene felt her nerves, taut like a needle, finally ease slightly.

“There is a scent,” she remarked.

The Marchioness paled.

“I-I apologize! It seems the palace staff prepared it for you, Princess. I will have it removed immediately—wait!”

As the flustered staff scrambled, Erdene reassured them:

“No… I meant that I liked the scent.”

“I apologize, Princess. Perhaps you prefer the harsh scents of the battlefield…?”

Erdene narrowed her eyes and stared at the Marchioness.

“Do you mean to say, Marchioness, that I would like the smell of blood, dust, and filth more than flowers?”

At that moment, the Marchioness felt her heart drop to her toes. She could hardly faint in a dainty swoon—fortunately, her nerves were sturdy.

“Th-That is not… the case…”

Erdene’s sullen expression—seen by the Marchioness as a deadly glare—remained fixed.

“Such smells are familiar, but I do not like them. And even if I did, what would it matter? Would I cover this room in blood? Spread cow dung here and there? Scatter ashes with a shovel?”

“N-No, Princess! Please forgive me!”

The Marchioness nearly kneeled as she bent low, and the startled staff bowed deeply in imitation.

So much fuss… Erdene thought. She could not tell whether all Betor people were this dramatic or if it was just this Marchioness Wikis. If it were the former, her unseen future seemed even more pitiable.

“Raise your heads. You may leave,” Erdene said. The staff quickly exited.

“What flower is this scent from?” she asked.

The Marchioness, wiping cold sweat from her brow, finally managed a weak smile.

“Ah, peonies, Princess. The flower of Betos. Though not fully in season, some impatient ones bloom early. Newly bloomed flowers are always placed first in the King’s and Queen’s chambers.”

“Peonies, huh.”

Erdene recognized the flower—they were embroidered on Arkan’s cloak—but she had never seen fresh peonies in person.

While the Marchioness fussed, Erdene stepped further into the chamber, inspecting its interior. On the surface, she seemed to examine the furniture and fabrics carefully, but her mind was elsewhere.

This is the queen’s bedroom, yet the layout… an assassin could hide anywhere. That window looks loose, and the second-floor location makes a perfect escape route. Whoever designed this was clearly incompetent.

She surveyed the room, anticipating possible attacks—daggers, morning stars, anyone coming to strike her. While there were many places to hide, how sensitive she could be to noises outside would only be revealed at night.

Her eyes fell on a small, flat table engraved with delicate shell patterns. In the center, a vase held multiple flowers she had never seen before. Each bloom was massive—some nearly the size of an infant’s head.

“What is this?”