“Since we’re on the subject,” Jacalen finally vented his grievance, “you threatened me that if I wasted your time one more time, you’d use me as kindling.”
So he hadn’t uttered even an ‘H’ for the princess or an ‘A’ for Aristine since then.
“But if you ask why I didn’t report it…”
He felt nothing but injustice—over and over.
Jacalen’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. Yet the sight of a man whose biceps and triceps were as solid as iron weeping did not move a single soul in the hall.
“…From now on, report everything about her to me without omission.”
Tarkan closed the matter with that one command.
“P–Your Highness?”
He was not the only one startled. Everyone present exchanged bewildered looks. Tarkan was not one to demand every trivial report—he preferred only the distilled essentials.
‘Could it be His Highness is… taken with the new bride?’
No one dared imagine such a thing.
“She is the key to peace with the Empire. It won’t harm us to know more.”
At that, the warriors nodded in reluctant understanding. After all, their lord was not one to yield his heart lightly.
But Jacalen seethed inwardly.
‘If you already cared so much, why lash out every time I tried to report? Why now…!’
Yet the hierarchy prevailed, and he swallowed his anger.
The council dragged on. They wrapped up the remaining items and prepared to disperse.
“…Also.”
Tarkan spoke again, pausing—a rare hesitation that drew every ear in the chamber.
What could he say now? Last time he hesitated it was to propose an operation costing the lives of many warriors—but it was the optimal plan for victory with minimal sacrifice.
The warriors swallowed hard. They were already in truce talks with Silvanus, yet their true foes lay on the plains: the relentless beasts. All steeled themselves for fierce battle.
“…Arrange to recruit a pâtissier skilled in scone-making. I don’t care which palace they belong to.”
“Yes, my lord!”
The warriors, sworn to follow any command, answered—and then blinked in confusion.
“…No further reports? This meeting is adjourned.”
Without another word, Tarkan left the hall as if eager to escape it.
‘Ha. Our lord fleeing the council?’
‘Perhaps urgent matters call.’
‘He’s always detested wasting time.’
Each made excuses to justify his departure—a touching display of loyalty.
“But why scones? Does His Highness favor them?”
“Preferences are irrelevant. He calculates their caloric value to endure emergencies.”
“Scone calories are high… Is he inventing new battle rations? Why scones of all things?”
“We cannot fathom our lord’s wisdom.”
Indeed, none truly understood.
Sunlight softly roused Aristine’s eyelids. She opened them slowly.
‘Wow, this bedding is incredibly plush.’
It was her first thought upon freeing herself from that musty mattress. She pressed her hand into the coverlet and felt it give richly beneath her palm.
‘So springy!’
Unconsciously, she pressed again at a particularly plump spot.
Puff, puff, puff! She repeated it, cheeks flushing faintly despite her impassive expression.
‘…This is fun.’
She remembered little after collapsing into bed the previous night. Perhaps she’d even thought how soft it was before sleep overwhelmed her.
‘I must have passed out instantly.’
No wonder—she’d had no proper rest since leaving Silvanus. Yesterday’s events had been unlike anything in her life before. She’d handled them admirably, but her strength was spent.
Yet here she was, clean, in fresh clothes, on a steadfast, comfortable bed—for the first time in years.
‘And it’s so cushy! The pillow’s perfect, too!’
She bounced the pillow lightly, reveling in its resilience—then froze.
“Tarkan?”
Her gaze met his across the small table beside the bed.
‘I should have noticed when the sunlight fell in.’
This was no prison chamber. Curtains that blocked light had been drawn back. That meant someone had opened them.
‘A maid would normally wake me.’
“Good morning… or rather, good afternoon.”
Tarkan’s voice was lazy in the afternoon light. He gestured at the carved pillow.
“Am I entertaining you?”
“Uh, well… it’s just so plush.”
Aristine blurted an awkward answer, cheeks warming at being caught in her private diversion. She swiftly changed the topic.
“Why are you here?”
“Does a husband need a reason to enter his wife’s chamber?”
A crooked smile curved his lips—a provocative line, but Aristine matched it.
“We’re not married yet.”
She’d said the same yesterday.
“So after marriage, I can come whenever I please?”
Aristine perched on the bed’s edge and met his gaze without a word. Tarkan raised an eyebrow.
“You seem rather leisurely.”
Leisurely—a word he’d never heard applied to himself.
“When did you arrive? I could have awakened easily, instead of waiting aimlessly… don’t you have duties?”
At her question, a vein throbbed at Tarkan’s temple. Of course he’d meant to wake her. Why hadn’t he?
When he first visited her chamber, he’d waited outside. Never before had he waited for a sleeping person—man or woman—to awaken.
He’d finished morning training, convened the council, bathed, changed clothes, and then come here—only to find her still asleep.
Could a person really sleep so long?
Then he recalled her long, arduous carriage journey—and realized how exhausting travel must have been for her small frame.
He left briefly to inspect the drill grounds while she slept. The warriors had suffered hell in her absence.
‘She’s surely awake by now.’
Yet when he returned, she still slumbered.
〈We tried waking Her Highness, but she would not stir〉
Reported her maid. Tarkan detected an odd tension among them. He’d never concerned himself with palace gossip, but now it irritated him.
He recalled how they had mocked her filthy state—laughing as she was pointed at. His eyes narrowed. Even after yesterday’s cruelty, he felt a savage thrill at punishing them.
What to do?
He worried over the still-sleeping Aristine.
〈Of course I don’t want to die〉
She had spoken that so lightly… Surely the maids had not dared harm her. Killing her now would spark war—Silvanus could not afford that.
Yet anxiety drove him to open her chamber door.
〈P-Prince Tarkan!〉
The maids shrieked in horror. They could not believe he would barge into the lady’s chamber.
‘Such barbarous behavior…!’
Even betrothed, this was a grave breach of etiquette.
‘They truly think of us as savages.’
But his next action froze them utterly.
With a swift motion, Tarkan threw aside the bed’s curtains—no hesitation.
〈C-Call the guards!〉
〈N-No guards in the bedroom!〉
The maids panicked at this unprecedented scene—not out of loyalty to Aristine, but at the shock of seeing their prince so breach protocol.
They might have thrown themselves to block him if they were truly devoted. Instead, they stamped helplessly while he gazed down at Aristine, lying as if dead on the wide bed.
His eyes narrowed. In the next instant, he scooped her into his arms.
The white coverlet cascading around her like a fish’s tail, her limp form drifting against gravity.
〈My… heavens…〉
The maids gasped. Aristine still did not wake.
Tarkan, face stern, cradled her. He noticed her cheeks were not clammy—her complexion was not poor.
Shak, shak, shak.
A small exhale escaped her half-open lips.
For a heartbeat, he fought the urge to toss her aside. Then forced himself to lay her back on the bed—perhaps more like dropping her.
Despite the roughness, she only shifted slightly, lips parting once more, but remained asleep.
〈Is this even human…〉 he muttered.
The maids fell silent at his presence. Seizing the moment, he sat beside the bed and commanded:
〈Tea.〉
They looked at him like a brute, yet hurried to serve three trays at once.
〈Here, Your Highness.〉
〈We don’t yet know your preference, so we omitted sugar. Please instruct us.〉
〈Would you like cream?〉
They buzzed in maddening rotation. Tarkan frowned.
〈Can’t even fetch tea alone?〉
They scuttled away, faces flushed.
Exhaustion washed over him—he planned to leave after one cup. He’d never felt fatigue even after three days without sleep, yet here he was tired. Such a remarkable woman.
He stifled a chuckle—then heard a soft thump.
Finally, the sleeping princess stirred.
Aristine raised her head, eyes meeting his as he sat wordless.
‘What’s he doing? Is he embarrassed?’
Then a memory flickered: a man watching an angelic sleeper, too awed to wake her, until she asked why he’d let her slumber. He’d blushed so.
Understanding dawned, and Aristine smiled brightly—pure and clear.
“Ah, I see. I must have looked so angelic you couldn’t awaken me?”
“…”
Tarkan could not speak. His trembling fingers on the cup spoke for him—one more tremor and the porcelain would shatter.
“But, um…”
Aristine hesitated. Anxiety flickered in her eyes. He wanted to clamp a hand over her mouth, yet she was quicker.
“Observing someone who stealthily parts the bed curtains, savors the sight of me sleeping, and sips tea…”
Her violet gaze tracked him from head to toe.
“Well, tastes are free, I suppose.”
Pervert.
The same look had pierced him just yesterday.
“I’d prefer you restrain that habit around me.”
A tension seized his neck—and he felt he needed another strong cup of tea.