Chapter 16
“David, isn’t the woman who’s going to be your wife named Alisa Rasantia? I know her. About ten years ago, she officially visited the royal palace of Yorca.”
Prince Vitali, the second prince of Dvorka, swaggered as he brought up the topic.
“You’re right, Vitali. The Duke of Rasantia was the head of the Levanteia delegation at that time, and he brought along some red-haired girl as his successor. If I remember correctly, she was just turning eighteen, just come of age. Now she must be close to thirty. Time really does fly.”
Georgi, the crown prince of Dvorka and the eldest son of King Madilov, added.
“Ah, brother! I remember too. Because of that woman, the entire palace was in an uproar, wasn’t it? She went hunting in the northern forest, got separated, and went missing for about a week?”
The fourth prince, Pyotr, glanced at David and shared another tale.
“Wow, that was intense. The royal troops searched day and night, mobilizing everything, and then a week later, she suddenly staggered back on her own. That was when the king of Levanteia started nitpicking us, saying we failed to protect his granddaughter properly.”
The third prince, Miroslav, propped his chin on his hand and grumbled, as if that woman had been the very root of the war.
“I still remember how Father felt so wronged back then. How could he stop some foreign noblewoman from running wild, claiming to hunt in the forest? Still, in my memory, she was stunningly beautiful. Even in her thirties, that kind of beauty won’t fade. And the House of Rasantia made a fortune selling explosives, didn’t they? For David, it’s basically like winning a prize!”
The fifth prince, Bruno, joked with exaggerated humor.
Behind his tone, however, was relief. After all, it could easily have been him being “sold off.”
The Levanteia delegation had hinted that they preferred the legitimate prince, Bruno, as their son-in-law, but thanks to a forged document proving he already had a fiancée, he managed to escape.
David, the center of all this chatter, said nothing.
He had been dragged here to the guest hall of the lord’s manor annex, unable to refuse his half-brothers’ summons.
Around the round reception table, the queen’s five sons gossiped endlessly about him.
David quietly pieced their words together, trying to form an image of this Alisa Rasantia.
But he did not fully trust them—when it came to women, the princes always took a frivolous tone.
“She’s pretty enough, at least. Not ugly like Countess Bogdan, right? And eight years isn’t such a terrible age gap. At least she’s not old enough to be your aunt.”
Pyotr pounded David’s back in fake concern, making a crude joke.
The princes chuckled like mischievous teenagers, shoulders shaking. They seemed well aware of the indecent proposition David had once received from the countess.
Crown Prince Georgi, who had been laughing, suddenly grew serious. He had led the vanguard against Dvorka’s enemies in the southwest and lost his left arm to a gunshot wound.
Unlike his younger brothers, who had served from the rear, he had witnessed the horrors of war up close, and his hatred for Levanteia ran deeper.
“Just hearing the name Rasantia still makes my skin crawl. Still, David, since it’s already decided, clear your mind of distractions. Be grateful you were too young to see the war with your own eyes.”
“…”
“Hating people drains your strength. Even more so if it’s your wife. Hate the Rasantia family if you must—they’re war criminals—but don’t project that hatred onto her face. The only one who will suffer then is you.”
The bearded crown prince gave his advice in a low, rumbling voice.
David gazed at his eldest brother’s face. There was genuine concern in his eyes. For someone who had always treated David like he was invisible, this sudden show of care felt almost unreal.
“…I’ll keep that in mind, Your Highness.”
David nodded meekly and slowly rose to his feet.
There wasn’t much time left. He had to prepare himself now.
“I’ll take my leave first.”
He bowed politely. Georgi and the others waved him off.
As David walked down the corridor, the door behind him opened again, and quick footsteps followed.
It was the fifth prince, Bruno.
“Hey, David.”
“Did you have more to say?”
“I’m sorry. And… thank you.”
“…For what, Your Highness?”
“The fishing boat to escape to Pardon Island. You let me board it, remember? Back then, I owed you my life. So now, think of this as you saving mine in return.”
Bruno was recalling the past.
When the royal family abandoned the Yorca palace during the war, David had fallen behind, burdened with caring for Melania and her nurse. It seemed impossible for him to board the same ship as the other royals.
Just before leaving, Bruno had secretly told him of one last escape route: a fishing boat departing from a coastal village two days later.
“Yes, Your Highness. I owe you greatly for that time.”
“You’re calm by nature. You’ll manage quietly, blending in. Living a long, steady life isn’t so bad.”
Bruno was advising him on how to survive in enemy territory. Though born of different mothers, David was a younger brother he felt some affection for.
“Thank you, brother.”
David bowed respectfully. Bruno was startled at being addressed as “brother” for the first time, but then broke into a broad grin.
When David returned to the knights’ quarters, he began to pack.
Even though he tried to be thorough, he owned so little that he couldn’t even fill a medium-sized bag.
“Hah…”
This time, there was no escape. He would be sent away, no matter what.
He had long since abandoned the idea of fleeing Pardon Island. The escape routes were completely blocked.
The cunning Levanteia envoys had written it clearly in the treaty documents:
If the marriage alliance failed, all blame would fall on the royal house of Dvorka. The deputy minister even warned that the peace treaty signed at the war’s end could collapse.
It was a threat. If the prince wasn’t handed over, Levanteia might even invade Pardon Island.
David shook his head, dizzy at the thought.
As long as Melania lived here, Pardon Island had to remain a sanctuary. He could not give the enemy even the smallest excuse to attack.
Therefore, he had to accept the marriage with Alisa Rasantia—obediently, powerlessly.
It was a treaty no one could call fair, but Queen Elizaveta had signed without hesitation.
As the queen, she understood better than anyone how narrow the options of a defeated nation truly were.
“Sir David, you look troubled. Is there anything I can do?”
Sir Kirill, who had been watching from the corner of the room, approached with concern.
“I’m fine. Thank you for your kindness.”
David gave him a faint smile.
There was nothing else to pack. Three tunics, two pairs of trousers, one pair of worn leather boots. He wouldn’t need the knight’s uniform, and since he couldn’t take weapons, it was better to give them away.
“So in the end, I’m leaving with nothing but my body.”
David smirked bitterly. A huge dowry of 500,000 rebels had been paid for him, yet he was departing with nothing but his life.
The blood of royalty was certainly no cheap commodity, he thought.
Suddenly, a face flashed across his mind—the one who had given him the name of a prince.
…Father.
David set his bag down by the bed and left the quarters.
King Madilov. A tragic monarch who had obsessed over a beautiful concubine, and gone mad with her death.
David could not define his feelings toward him in a single word.
Climbing to the top floor of the manor annex, David reached the cell where the king was confined. Two knights guarded the door, uncertain whether to let him in. They knew the state inside was dreadful.
“…I’d like to see him once before I leave.”
“Well, the thing is… His Majesty isn’t in the best condition right now.”
As if his condition had ever been good. The mad king’s illness only worsened with time.
“If you just open the door, I’ll look from a distance.”
“In that case… please don’t tell Her Majesty the Queen.”
“Of course.”
Click.
Creak.
The knight turned the key, and the thick, heavy door groaned open.
Inside, King Madilov staggered around amid a wreck of shattered furniture. He stretched out his arms as if groping for something unseen, waving them in the air. His blue eyes were unfocused, pupils loose, as though he had lost his sight.
Once, his hair had flowed down to his shoulders, but now it was cut harshly short, to stop him from tearing it out by the roots.
When his mother lived, it had shone golden. After her death, it had turned silver-gray.
His skeletal wrists flailed through the air, his bark-like skin covered in scratches and sores.
He was a ruin of a man, abandoned even by the queen and their five sons.
“…Nadia.”
The mad king still wandered, calling for the ghost of the dead concubine.
Unaware that her son, their youngest, was about to be dragged away tomorrow.
In David’s eyes, hatred, rage, and a trace of pity swirled together.
“Farewell, Your Majesty.”
His final goodbye dissolved into the air, never reaching its intended recipient.
