TPWSM 03

Chapter 3

“Haa… Sir Davit, let’s wear helmets for the next sparring match. When I look at your face, even the burning will to fight dies down right away.”

The knight slumped onto the dirt floor, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he grumbled.

The sword he had been holding just moments ago now lay helplessly rolling across the ground.

The victor of the duel, Sir Davit, bent down and extended a hand to him.

“Why blame my face? It’s your own lack of training, Sir Kirill.”

At the pointed remark, Kirill’s temper flared for a moment, but he soon took hold of the hand offered to him and stood up.

With an impassive expression, Sir Davit raked back his sweat-dampened bangs with clawed fingers. The beads of sweat scattered into the air in tiny droplets.

In Kirill’s eyes, that movement seemed to flow as slowly as an adagio dance.

He couldn’t help but stare, entranced.

All the man had done was flick away a few drops of sweat—so why did it feel like fairies were fluttering around, sprinkling stardust?

There’s the saying, you can’t spit on a smiling face, and maybe also, you swallow your spit when you see a handsome one. The bitter humiliation from his loss moments ago was wiped away so cleanly, it almost felt meaningless.

“…Phew.”

Kirill let out a quiet sigh and studied Sir Davit’s face intently.

Each strand of his silver hair—pale as though it had captured moonlight—gleamed brilliantly even in the haze of dust.

Eyes the rare violet shade said to appear once in a thousand years were as pure and delicate as irises. The long, thick lashes casting shadows over them carried a mournful beauty.

His nose was sharp as a blade, his lips neat and well-shaped, and his jawline formed a graceful symmetry without flaw.

To call such a face merely “handsome” or “fine” felt like an insult—it was elegance itself.

If his body were frail, at least there’d be some comfort. But no—his physique was also exceptional. He stood a full hand’s span taller than Kirill himself, his broad shoulders dense and unyielding, his ribcage thick and solid.

The best part was below that—his waist down to his feet was lined with lean muscle, smooth and finely toned, so that despite his large upper body, he gave no impression of clumsiness. During swordplay, his swift footwork was reminiscent of an agile dancer.

Kirill thought back to when Sir Davit had first taken refuge on Pardon Island.

He must’ve been around sixteen then. Just an astonishingly pretty boy… but after joining the knights and going through training, he became a strong man.

Kirill had once consoled himself thinking, Surely he’s not perfect in every way. But then, by chance, he had seen him emerging from the bath not long ago.

…And he was. One of the finest he’d ever seen, in fact.

Kirill thought with his mouth hanging open before he realized it:

Damn it… Can a person really be born looking like that? There’s just no flaw. His looks are beyond human standards.

Perhaps he was an angel descended to earth… or no, a devil that tempts and lures people by instinct. Just meeting his gaze once felt like it could melt the very bottom of one’s heart.

If even a fellow man felt this way, how much worse must it be for women?

It was a real mystery—how could they have rolled together on the same dirt ground thousands of times, yet Kirill looked like some grimy bandit while this man shone like a pure white holy knight?

At times, he did feel a little envious, but Kirill quietly accepted the fundamental difference between them.

The root of it lay, more than anything, in birth.

Right… His blood is different from mine from the start. He’s royalty, after all. And he’s the son of a seductress said to be beautiful enough to bring down a kingdom.

Before him stood none other than the youngest son of King Madilov. For some reason, Sir Davit had joined the knights under the Lord of Pardon Island as soon as he became an adult, and he had always refused to be called “prince.”

Unlike the five other princes who occupied the guest rooms in the lord’s castle and lived in idle luxury, Sir Davit chose to stay in the cramped, smelly barracks of the knights.

The reason was unknown—this taciturn prince seldom answered nosy questions.

Kirill picked up his sword from the ground, steeling himself.

In any case, he absolutely had to win the next match against Sir Davit. Losing again to a junior who’d joined the order three months later than he had was something his pride couldn’t bear.

“…Anyway, Sir Davit, being that handsome is basically cheating. So let’s do this.”

Muttering, Kirill rummaged through a pile of training gear in the corner of the yard and pulled out a battered steel helmet. He held it out to Davit.

The dented helmet had a tin mask with two eyeholes.

But Sir Davit didn’t seem too keen to put it on.

“This would block my vision quite a bit. And it’s hot today—can’t we just go without it?”

Damn it. Even the faint irritation in his voice was a smooth, mellow baritone.

Kirill, vowing not to be swayed again, shoved the helmet into his arms.

“Please put it on, Sir Davit. That way I might be able to light my fighting spirit again.”

Davit reluctantly pulled the helmet over his head, covering his face. What else could he do when his senior insisted?

Soon after, the two men distanced themselves, saluted each other, and drew their swords.

Shhhk—Kang!

The sharp clash of steel rang harshly in the air.

The sour scent of men’s sweat.

Loud shouts of exertion.

The clanging of blades and the haze of gray dust filled this outdoor training yard of the Lord’s castle on Pardon Island.

Once, Pardon Island—set in the middle of the northwestern sea—had been a warm resort where oranges ripened round and sweet.

Even the breeze carried a faint tang of fruit, but now it was the only land left to Dvorka after their crushing defeat five years ago, when they lost all their continental territory.

Here, the knights serving Count Yorik Bogdan, Lord of Pardon Island, honed their martial skills each afternoon in sparring matches.

Though their country had fallen, they had not lost their pride as Dvorkans.

Before each training session, the knights reminded themselves:

Dvorka still stands. King Madilov may have gone a little mad after the death of his concubine, but he still lives safely on this island. The queen and the five—no, six—princes escaped unharmed.

The dignity and authority of the royal family still held weight on this small island—though before the magnanimous Lord Bogdan, who had permanently given them the guest suites of his castle, they sometimes bowed a bit too low.

Cheng. Chencheng.

Under the hot late-spring sun, Davit and Kirill’s sword fight reached its peak.

Neither yielded an inch, their thrusts and slashes narrowly grazing past the other’s threatening offense.

Their breathing climbed to their throats, their faces flushed red with heat. Sweat from their brows now hung like drops under their chins.

Then, all of a sudden, the fierce duel was interrupted.

“Prince Davit! Where are you, Prince Davit?!”

It was the urgent cry of a young woman somewhere nearby.

Dressed as a maid, she called his name at the top of her lungs as she ran straight into the training yard.

Taken aback by the sudden intrusion, the knights froze awkwardly, swords still in hand.

Ignoring the stares she drew, the maid looked about frantically.

“Prince Davit!” she shouted again.

Now all the knights simply stood still, watching her.

It was only several seconds later that Davit—deep in concentration and wearing the steel helmet—realized the call was for him.

Kirill seized that moment, finding the opening Davit had left, and pressed the tip of his sword to his neck.

“Haha, Sir Davit. This time I win.”

“…Yes, Sir Kirill. I learned much thanks to you.”

Davit calmly acknowledged his defeat.

Sheathing his sword, he extended his hand for a shake. Kirill clasped it with relish, savoring his victory.

When the handshake ended, Davit removed his helmet and looked toward the maid.

Her face was familiar—Polina, the youngest maid in the service of Queen Elizaveta.

The moment he removed his helmet, his silver hair caught the sunlight and gleamed. Spotting him by that glow, Polina sighed in relief and hurried toward him.

“Oh, Your Highness, so you were wearing a helmet. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Holding up her skirts, Polina came running, out of breath.

Seeing her approach, Davit stiffened. Every time he heard the title Your Highness, it made him feel uncomfortably queasy.

Among the knights, his comrades addressed him casually as “Sir Davit,” but the castle staff always used the princely honorific—perhaps under someone’s strict orders.

“Miss Polina, what is it?”

“Hah… hah… Her Majesty the Queen wishes to see you.”

Polina was so breathless she forgot even to bow, clutching at her chest as she steadied her breathing.

“…Me? Her Majesty the Queen?”

Davit repeated the words, hardly believing them.

He was not one for visible emotion, but this time he could not hide his surprise.

The noble Queen Elizaveta had never shown even the slightest interest in the son of the lowly dancer, Nadia.

Would anyone believe that she had never once called his name properly since the day he was born?

To the queen, Davit was a child who did not exist.

She had never hurled abuse or struck him—she simply ignored him completely, a silent contempt.

When Nadia died, leaving Davit alone, the queen had him shut away and raised in the harem, out of sight.

The harem was allocated only enough budget to keep from starving; the only attendants he could have were a single wet nurse and two or three maids.

Naturally, Davit had never once shared a meal or a cup of tea with the queen, nor even sat across a table from her.

She had never summoned him directly before—if she had business, it was passed down through subordinates.

Even after they fled the mainland and crossed the sea to this island five years ago, their meetings were few.

Though they lived under the same roof in the lord’s castle, its small size compared to the palace made chance encounters more frequent.

Whenever they crossed paths in a hall or gallery, Davit would greet her with proper courtesy. The queen never once spared him a glance.

At some point, she even had her maids instruct him to keep their routes from overlapping as much as possible.

…That was the sort of person she was.

Davit tilted his head slightly.

Why would the queen, who despised him so thoroughly, suddenly summon him?