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Chapter 32
The white horse tore across Ostrava Square like a thing possessed.
People who had gathered to buy daily necessities all turned at once to stare at the rare sight of a horse galloping at full speed through the middle of town.
It was truly rider and horse as one.
The astonishing horsemanship—racing through the crowded streets with acrobatic precision—was more than enough to capture everyone’s attention.
“Somebody heeeelp meee!”
Or perhaps it was because the person riding behind him kept screaming nonstop.
“Could you stop shouting? My ears are starting to hurt.”
Instead of answering, Bellaxina tightened her grip around Abalkin’s waist and viciously twisted her fingers, intending to pinch him painfully. But Abalkin’s side was packed solid with hard muscle, leaving no room for Bellaxina’s delicate fingers to invade.
“It’s the Lord!”
“My Lord!”
“Huh? The woman riding behind him, could she be…?”
“That’s her! The lady who’s going to become our Lady!”
“Hello, My Lady!”
Meanwhile, the territory’s residents watched the pair with remarkable calm.
The Margrave of Yeshken was so well respected that even if he rode through town at full speed with a screaming woman on horseback, nobody would suspect him of wrongdoing.
‘This is insane. Seriously!’
The roaring wind against her ears, the fear that she might fall off and die at any moment, and on top of that, the innocent cheers of the townspeople who had no idea what was going on—
All of it combined into a perfect storm that was driving Bellaxina completely mad.
By the time Bellaxina had mentally vowed six separate times not to let Abalkin off easy once she got off the horse, the white horse finally slowed to a halt.
“There they are.”
Through the gaps between market stalls, Redek and Margareta came into view.
The two were bickering casually as if nothing were wrong.
Seeing them acting completely normal at last let Abalkin breathe easier, and just as he dismounted to approach them—
“…!”
Redek lifted a hair ornament and held it against Margareta’s hair, and Margareta smacked his hand away.
To anyone watching, it looked exactly like a flirtatious rogue making moves on an innocent young girl.
“Redek Ribodukan!”
Alarmed, Abalkin shouted and snatched up a broom leaning against a nearby stall like a throwing spear.
“Huh? Lord?”
“I’ll correct that disgraceful behavior myself!”
Fwoosh!
The broom Abalkin hurled like a spear flew like a spear—
—and embedded itself in the ground at Redek’s feet like a spear.
“Eek!”
Even though it had no blade, the broom sank effortlessly into the earth, making it obvious just how terrifying the force behind it had been.
A short while later.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“I almost died, you know.”
Abalkin quietly slid the glass in front of him toward Redek.
“Ghhh!”
Redek reluctantly accepted the apology. In other words, he downed the offered shot of vodka in one gulp.
“What in the world made you think something like that? Margareta, seriously? Sure, I’m a shameless flirt who gets excited whenever someone puts on a skirt, but she’s basically a kid!”
That was precisely because he was a shameless flirt who got excited whenever someone put on a skirt.
However, since Abalkin had thrown a broom-spear at him, he merely coughed awkwardly and chose not to press the issue.
“I cannot agree with that opinion.”
Margareta spoke in a tone more formal than usual, forcing a maturity that sounded slightly artificial considering her age.
“According to Imperial law, the minimum marriageable age is fifteen, and I’ll soon be twenty. Calling me a child is inappropriate.”
“That! Right there! That’s exactly what makes you a kid.”
“Wouldn’t it stop mattering once we’re married anyway? Whether it’s eighty or ninety!”
“You’re planning to live quite a long life, I see.”
Redek beat his chest in frustration.
At the moment, Margareta was desperately trying to convince Abalkin that she was “not a little girl anymore.”
“Hey! While you were growing up, do you think we stayed the same age? I’m already in my mid-twenties, and the Lord’s already in his thirties!”
“Wouldn’t twenty-six be late twenties rather than mid-twenties?”
“It’s mid-twenties.”
At that moment, Bellaxina suddenly cut in and glared at Abalkin.
Her eyes carried the unmistakable threat that if he dared challenge this logic, she would not let him live it down.
“If it ends with a six, it’s still mid-twenties.”
Abalkin counted on his fingers. Four, five, six… then nodded.
Come to think of it, Bellaxina was also twenty-six.
An age ending in six.
“That’s true. Mid-twenties.”
Overwhelmed by an indescribable pressure, Abalkin surrendered his opinion.
Watching this, Margareta could only stare in shock. The Abalkin she knew was not someone who changed his stance so easily.
“…You’ve changed.”
With resentment filling her heart, Margareta glared at Bellaxina.
“You’re letting yourself be swayed this much by a woman you’ve only just met?”
Bellaxina’s eyes narrowed at Margareta’s reaction.
Bellaxina was extremely sensitive to malice, and especially sharp when it came to female jealousy.
‘What is this now?’
As Bellaxina’s lips curved into a smile that practically reeked of bloodshed, Abalkin was seized by the ominous feeling that the god of death had just placed a sickle against Margareta’s throat.
‘This is dangerous.’
There was a very good reason Bellaxina was called the “villainess” in Kalhorn Imperial high society.
Whenever someone slandered her, schemed against her with ill intent, or dared pick a fight, Bellaxina descended like a beast and tore out their throat.
“So then, young lady, what was your name again…?”
And Bellaxina Outvayan never forgave her enemies.
“Enough. She’s the future Margravine. Show some respect.”
Abalkin intervened for Margareta’s safety, but having no way of knowing that, Margareta’s pent-up sorrow finally exploded.
“She isn’t yet!”
Margareta shot to her feet and pointed at Bellaxina.
“She’s an outsider who might not even survive a Yeshken winter! Do you really believe that woman can properly become the Margravine? You could still follow the original plan—marry a highborn widow on paper and take another woman as a mistress to bear your heir!”
“Are you crazy? People can hear you!”
“Everyone already knows anyway!”
After snapping at Redek, Margareta clasped her hands together pleadingly toward Abalkin.
“My Lord, please give me just one chance. I’ll finally be twenty next year! I’ve lived my entire life thinking only about this—I can’t suddenly give everything up now.”
“…Hah.”
Abalkin sighed and pressed a hand to his forehead.
It was an open secret that Margareta coveted the position of “mother of Yeshken’s heir.” After all, if someone had to do it eventually, it made sense for it to be someone willing.
“Margareta. Listen carefully.”
Abalkin spoke gently, but firmly.
“I have never once thought of you in that way.”
“…What?”
Margareta stared at him as if frozen solid.
“Because of the complicated situation I’m in, there may come a day when I need ‘the mother of an heir.’ I know that possibility exists. But even so, that person could never be you.”
“W-Why not?”
Despair spread across Margareta’s face, while Abalkin’s words illuminated the truth with cruel kindness.
“You are, in a way, like a younger sister to me. I’ve watched you grow up since you were very young. It’s difficult for me to see someone like that in any other light. I’m sorry I never clearly told you before now.”
“Hic!”
The moment he finished speaking, Margareta’s expression slowly crumpled before she finally burst into tears and ran away.
“Margareta!”
Redek understood why Abalkin had no choice but to do this, but he still worried for her and hurried after her.
That left only Abalkin and Bellaxina at the table.
And for a moment, an awkward silence settled between them.
“Sorry for dragging you into such an uncomfortable situation.”
“You really should be.”
Bellaxina realized that the fighting spirit she’d briefly felt had completely vanished.
Honestly, no matter how she attacked, she probably could never have left Margareta as devastated as Abalkin just had.
“Seems like the situation’s pretty complicated.”
In the end, Bellaxina finally spoke.
Abalkin nodded and muttered, “Something like that,” before lifting his glass.
It wasn’t the kind of story he could tell sober.
Especially not to Bellaxina.
“Pour me one too.”
“No. It’s strong.”
“So am I.”
A smile appeared at the corner of Abalkin’s mouth as he tilted his glass.
Bellaxina was the only person who could say something like that so casually—and make it impossible for him to deny it.
“…That much I know.”
Chuckling quietly, Abalkin poured Bellaxina a glass as well.
The vodka made from Yeshken potatoes—high-proof, transparent liquor thickened by freezing in bitter cold ice—sloshed heavily into the cup.
“This is an old story. No… I suppose it would be more accurate to call it an outdated one.”
And with that, Abalkin finally began his tale.
“Do you believe in curses?”
