Chapter 22
“I want to be your lover.”
At last, the man’s true intentions were revealed.
Don’t listen any further, Davit repeated to himself once more.
His shoes struck hard against the cold marble floor with a sharp sound. With heavy steps, he left the restricted area and made his way back to the banquet hall.
The woman he had married just yesterday was receiving a confession from another man today.
His mouth tasted bitter.
As he entered the brightly lit hall, the chandeliers blazed overhead like the midday sun. Suddenly, a dry, burning thirst gripped his throat.
Davit grabbed the glass of water in his hand and lifted it to his lips.
He gulped it down in big swallows. The cold water ran down his parched throat and poured into him.
He even bit into an ice cube with a loud crack and swallowed it. The back of his neck chilled as a sharp, fleeting headache struck him.
As he emptied the entire glass, hundreds of eyes followed him.
Setting the glass down on a side table, Davit looked back at them. Most quickly shifted their gaze away, pretending they hadn’t been staring at all.
When the Grand Duchess had been by his side, the guests had approached freely. Now, with him standing alone, they acted as if he were invisible.
Of course, some eyes still lingered—mostly women’s.
Davit gave them a polite bow. They responded with gentle smiles and small curtsies.
As he made his way back to his place, his thoughts drifted outside once again—back to that terrace from earlier.
Cuckoo bird. A bird that lays its eggs in another’s nest. That expression the Queen had used in the waiting room echoed in his ears.
Perhaps it was for the better, Grand Duchess.
That the one to hold you in the night might not be me.
But if that truly became reality…
Davit lowered his gaze to the two rings on his left hand.
On his ring finger, a wedding band with a large diamond. On his middle finger, the amethyst ring gifted by the Grand Duchess in the waiting room.
As he brushed the violet stone with his fingertips, he thought of his sister.
Melania. In this barren palace turned into a colonial governor’s office—can I put down roots here?
If I manage to hold my place without real power, could I then bring you close to me?
One of my few “uses” is to fulfill a husband’s duty so that the Grand Duchess might bear an heir.
Is refusing outright just because my heart resists even an option?
Her words from last night returned to him.
“As for the second clause, I will protect Your Grace. As long as I am here, you will never be removed from this palace.”
Melania. To see you again, I must survive first.
My position. My survival. I must cling to someone, endure to the very end…
Only then will I see you again.
“What are you brooding over?”
A voice came from close by. Davit quickly raised his head. A man with dull blond hair and gray eyes stood before him in splendid attire, a golden crown upon his head.
Crown Prince Daimon of Levanteia. Governor of conquered Dvorca.
Davit placed his clenched fist over his chest and bowed.
“I greet Your Highness.”
“Tsk, tsk. Look at that dark face. Such a pity for a young man. Seems my niece gave you quite a hard time in bed last night.”
“…”
“You look sturdy enough, but fainting so suddenly? Did you build those muscles just for display?”
The crown prince laughed boisterously.
Davit only looked at him in silence, calm and steady.
It was obvious the man wanted to provoke him, but showing temper here would do no good. This was a conversation between the crown prince of the victors and the prince of the defeated. Even if no one seemed to be watching, every eye and ear in the hall was open.
The murmur of guests filled the lofty ceiling of Barbica Hall.
Between the two men, silence piled up.
The crown prince, seeing Davit’s composure, twisted his lips into a crooked smile. His expression clearly said, Oh? Is that how it is?
He had insulted him so openly, and yet Davit’s calm would only make him feel more insulted.
“Ha! Weren’t you said to speak Levanteian well? Perhaps your skills aren’t that good after all. It’s hard to catch a joke in a foreign tongue, isn’t it?”
“I speak only moderately.”
Davit answered briefly. Better to pretend he hadn’t understood the insult.
“…Well, fine.”
The crown prince pulled off a glove and extended his hand.
It was a request for a handshake.
They had already been formally introduced at last night’s banquet after the wedding. This show of friendliness was likely for the watching dignitaries from across the world.
To display that the future ruler of the victors could magnanimously embrace the defeated prince taken as hostage.
There was no refusing, so Davit took his hand.
Immediately, a crushing grip pressed down. A test. Davit responded with steady strength of his own. The prince’s face flickered faintly.
“In any case, I hope, with your help, to bring peace to Dvorca.”
The prince smiled pleasantly, but his crescent-shaped eyes glinted with a sharp edge.
Just wordplay. If he truly desired peace, he would not have started the war.
“Yes. That is my hope as well.”
“I too would rather not see more blood spilled in this colony.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“By the way, I’ve always wondered… Are Dvorcans always this rebellious?”
A sudden question.
Davit answered only with his eyes, silent.
The prince chuckled and leaned in close, as if to whisper. Davit held still, thinking that might indeed be the case.
“I can see it written plain as day on your face. Rebel.”
“Is that so.”
“Well, you’re still young. But you ought to smooth those edges. You know how it is—rough stones, when struck… bang!”
The crown prince slammed his fists together before his chest like armored knights preparing to fight barehanded.
“They shatter.”
He curled his lips upward, his gray eyes flashing.
It was both threat and warning.
To others, it might look like playful jest.
But Davit concluded: the man before him was revealing true hostility.
The prince laughed low in his throat. A musty smell of dried herbs wafted from his slightly parted lips.
Davit recognized it. The scent was like the anesthetic herbs burned when treating severely injured knights.
Could he be out of his mind?
If King Madilof was a madman who consumed himself, this crown prince carried a bomb-like madness, ready to explode at any moment.
Whether intoxicated by the herbs or stone-cold sober, in either case it was better to stay far away.
“Oh, here comes your lady. I wish you good fortune tonight.”
The prince raised a hand toward the entrance. Davit followed his gaze.
The Grand Duchess entered swiftly, lifting her skirts, mindful that she had been gone too long.
The blond soldier who had courted her so fervently was nowhere in sight.
At the doorway, she looked about searchingly until she spotted Davit. She raised a hand, waving brightly, smiling warmly.
From afar she looked even more radiant. With her striking features and rich attire, how could she not? Davit raised his hand in return.
The crown prince patted Davit on the shoulder twice, then turned away toward his own wife.
Davit waited for the Grand Duchess to reach him. But her path was slow. Each step she took, nobles in tailcoats and officers in uniform stopped her.
“Please grant me a dance later, Your Grace.”
“Yes, Count.”
“I’ll ask for a waltz when the time comes.”
“Certainly.”
“Grand Duchess Alisa! Dance with me as well!”
“Yes, later.”
She answered everyone kindly. It took her three full minutes to cover the thirty meters. She gave Davit an apologetic smile.
“Somehow I’m late. You were fine without me?”
“Yes.”
Davit answered curtly, but noticed something different in her face.
Her complexion glowed more brightly. And her lips…
They were painted a deeper red. Glossy, moist.
She must have stopped by the waiting room to touch up her makeup.
Davit didn’t want to speculate further, but his thoughts inevitably drifted—
With that man, Mikel…
No, what did it matter what they had done on the terrace?
Yesterday, he had wed her. That fact remained.
On the western stage, the orchestra conductor turned, confirming the reunion of bride and groom. He lifted his baton. A light, fluttering dance tune began.
The first dance belonged to the newlyweds. Davit extended his hand. Surprised, the Grand Duchess widened her eyes and took it.
“Do you dance well, Grand Duke?”
“I was taught by the Knights’ Order, but I am not skilled.”
He had learned from Commander Pardonsem as part of basic etiquette.
Davit had not liked those lessons—having to hold sweaty men close, often made to play the female role by senior knights, their hands roaming his waist under the pretext of joking.
“You don’t need to be good. Just follow me. I’m good at everything when it comes to the body.”
She smiled with playful eyes.
Her words carried a faintly suggestive tone, but Davit’s mind was elsewhere.
Had that Mikel truly become her lover?
To him, Davit must seem nothing more than a tin soldier by her side—present or absent, it made no difference. Not even worth guarding against.
Davit found it hard to focus on the dance.
The Grand Duchess, however, moved fluidly, her arms and legs commanding the music.
Whenever Davit missed a step, she spread her gown wide to cover the mistake seamlessly, shielding him from notice.
Though his gaze often wandered, she held his eyes with a steady, gentle smile.
“You dance better than I expected. But what are you thinking about?”
She had clearly expected little of his skill. Her tone was friendly, relaxed—hard to believe she had just been alone with another man.
She spun away from him in circles, only to return gracefully into his arms.
Close, but not too close. Just the right balance of intimacy.
What could have been a sultry newlyweds’ dance, she carried out with simple elegance.
Following her lead, Davit gradually found his rhythm.
Her glossy red hair shimmered with each movement. The chandeliers seemed to pour their light upon her alone.
Though she stood below his eye level, it felt as though she gazed down from some unreachable height.
She didn’t match his dark, narrow self at all.
And yet, each time their eyes met, he felt…
As if stepping suddenly from shadow into blinding sunlight, lost and unprepared.
He missed another step. Again she spread her skirts wide to conceal it.
In the blink of an eye, the dance ended.
“See you tonight, then.”
She released his hand as she spoke.
The weight of the word night pressed heavily on his shoulders.
Davit looked at her.
Can I withstand the night to come with you?
Of course he must.
Last night he had resisted stiffly, but he had learned his will mattered little.
He would do anything. If it was duty. If it was his only purpose.
If he was to steady his hollow title, to root himself by her side, to protect his only family from afar.
Before another man could claim her as lover.
“Grand Duke, tonight—”
“Let’s do it.”
Before Alisa could finish, Davit answered at once.
