Chapter 90

“Black wolf,” Odelliana declared.

“…This?” Malena frowned, turning the handkerchief over in her hands as if searching for some hidden resemblance. No matter how she looked at it, there wasn’t a single element that suggested anything close to a wolf, much less a black one.

“I did my best,” Odelliana said, her tone a blend of pride and exhaustion. “I think it turned out quite well, all things considered.”

Malena’s gaze drifted toward the floor, where scraps of thread, discarded fabric, and uneven stitches testified to numerous failed attempts. “It’s certainly a remarkable improvement,” she said slowly, omitting the rest of her thought—that it was still leagues below average. Her expression remained composed, voice neutral, as she added with mechanical sympathy, “Don’t worry too much, my lady. Even if you handed Sir Matthias a piece of trash, he’d probably be delighted just because it came from you.”

“Trash?” Odelliana’s eyes widened in indignation, heat flashing across her cheeks.

“You have a rare talent for giving the disease and offering the cure in the same breath, Malena.”

Malena gave a soft, unrepentant laugh. “Perhaps calling it a lump of charcoal was a touch harsh.”

“Forget it,” Odelliana sighed, rubbing her temples. “Even I can admit it looks like a burnt lump. But it’s too late now. Better to give it than not.”

With that, she rose from her chair, quickly washed and dressed, smoothing her hair and donning a clean, unwrinkled gown. The handkerchief—if it could be called that—was folded carefully in her hand. Yet as she prepared to see Matthias off, her heart grew inexplicably heavy.

…So empty.

The hollow ache came all at once, sharp and suffocating, as if something had been carved clean out of her chest. The urge to beg him not to go flickered to life before she crushed it down. She reminded herself of what had brought her to him in the first place—what kind of desperation had driven her to seek him out, to bargain away her pride for one more chance at life.

She had sworn never again to crawl through the dust. Never again to be that pitiful, discarded thing. She wanted the ones who betrayed her—the man who once swore love and the woman who stole him—to live in misery. If fate had denied her justice in life, she would claim it in this one. She wanted to build herself anew, radiant and untouchable, and watch from that lofty height as her former husband and his lover crumbled into ruin.

Matthias was the instrument of that vengeance—the man she had chosen at the edge of despair. She had staked everything on his ability, his talent, his power. She had not brought him into her world to nurture or protect him, but to use him. To shape him into the blade that would cut her enemies down.

Odelliana looked down at the crude handkerchief, threads uneven, the stitched image more like a shadow than a beast. Her lips tightened. “…This is only the beginning,” she whispered.

This campaign, this first departure, would decide everything—their future, their survival, their chance at the world she envisioned. Cutting off the weight of sentiment and the tremor of longing, she pulled her hat low, steeling herself to let him go with composure.

She would not weep. She would see him off with dignity, as she must.

***

The parade ground was choked with movement. Supply wagons lined the perimeter, the air thick with the scent of iron and dust. Soldiers in gleaming armor stood shoulder to shoulder, their polished helms glinting in the morning light, while the families and lovers they would leave behind wove through the chaos.

Everywhere came the sound of parting—sniffling, stifled sobs, quiet promises. The weight of impending separation pressed upon the crowd like a shroud. These knights, once merely sons and lovers, now looked like strangers encased in steel, swearing solemn oaths of survival to those who clung to them with trembling hands.

Odelliana had left Malena behind and hobbled through the crowd alone, her cane striking the ground in uneven rhythm. Her eyes scanned the sea of armor and banners until, at last, she found him.

Matthias stood apart from the others—his figure straight, his armor catching the sun. Perhaps it was because of his striking appearance, but he was unmistakable. He stood alone where every other knight was surrounded by family or kin, and the stillness around him seemed almost unnatural.

A pang went through her chest. His broad back, his proud posture—why did they look so unbearably heavy today, so laced with sorrow? The resolve she had built so carefully began to crumble.

She wanted to embrace him. To pull him into her arms, to hold him until her heart stopped shaking. The thought alone made her feet move faster, her limp forgotten as she half-ran toward him.

“Matthias!” she called.

He turned at once. Even among the restless crowd, his golden eyes found her instantly, as if she were the only person who existed. The clarity of that gaze stopped her heart.

When she reached him, he caught her in his arms. The impact should have staggered him—he was weighed down by full plate, the steel dense enough to rival her own body weight—but he didn’t budge an inch. His embrace was steady, immovable.

Her face pressed against the cold metal of his chestplate. She could feel the faint warmth of his body beneath the steel.

“What would you have done if you’d fallen?” he murmured, his tone calm, touched with humor.

Odelliana looked up. Unlike the other knights—tense, solemn, their eyes shadowed with fear—Matthias looked almost bored. As though this grim farewell were nothing more than a tedious errand. When their eyes met, his lips curved in a small, beautiful smile.

“Ah,” he said softly, fingers brushing her chin. “Why do you look like that? As though you’re about to cry.”

She clenched her jaw and dropped her gaze. She had meant to be composed, detached. Yet emotion rose unbidden, tightening her throat. Even knowing he would return alive, even trusting his strength beyond reason, sending him into danger tore at her.

“I always wondered what it would feel like to make you cry,” he said with a quiet chuckle. “It’s not unpleasant.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “You’re awfully cheerful for someone heading to war. Is this a battlefield or a picnic to you? What’s there to smile about?”

He laughed again, low and warm. “It’s only that my teacher cares enough to weep for me. That alone makes me happy.”

“You used to tell me not to cry,” she reminded him, her voice sharp with emotion. “You said it hurt to see me like that.”

“It still does,” he admitted, studying her face. Then, with the faintest smirk, he tapped her cheek with his finger. “But when I’m the one who causes it… that’s different.”

Odelliana’s expression froze. “What on earth is wrong with you?” she muttered, scandalized, but he only smiled, unrepentant. She exhaled sharply, forcing herself back to the purpose at hand. “Enough nonsense. Take this.”

She held out the handkerchief. “It may look terrible, but I made it for you.”

He said nothing. He simply looked at it, his expression unreadable, golden eyes fixed on the uneven stitches. The silence stretched between them, long enough to make her fidget. She couldn’t tell whether he was touched or dismayed—or simply too polite to comment. Then, without a word, he tied the handkerchief to the hilt of his sword.

When he took her hands, his gaze dropped to her fingers—raw and reddened from the hours she had spent learning to sew. “Your hands,” he said softly. “They’re a mess.”

Odelliana flinched and tried to pull away, embarrassed. She wished she’d worn gloves. “It’s my first time trying embroidery,” she muttered. “My stitching’s clumsy.”

But Matthias did not release her. Instead, his fingers closed around hers—gentle yet firm, tracing each cut and bruise as though committing them to memory. The warmth of his touch seeped into her skin, making her acutely aware of how rough her hands were against his. She tried again to withdraw, but he only tightened his hold, binding their fingers together more securely.

It felt like a snare tightening around her. That same strange, binding pressure she had felt once before—the day he first said, You should have taken my hand. The sensation came flooding back, vivid and familiar.

He said nothing, only held her hand as if it were something sacred. His thumb brushed slowly over the calluses and small wounds, deliberate, reverent. The intimacy of it made her breath catch. His touch was too slow, too careful, and the way his eyes lingered—dark and intent—sent a shiver down her spine.

She should have pulled away. The silence between them had grown heavy, almost indecent. Yet she didn’t want to let go. The thought of him leaving, of that hand slipping from hers for good, filled her with sudden panic.

“This handkerchief,” she whispered at last, her voice low and unsteady, “must never return to me through a coffin.”

His reply came just as quietly, steady as an oath. “And you, Master—this will be the last time I see you wounded.”

The blare of horns cut through the air, signaling the assembly. All around them, knights began to form ranks, the order rippling outward like a tide.

She couldn’t let go. Not yet. “Be careful,” she said, her voice trembling.

He met her eyes. “Yes, Master.”

“Come back alive, Matthias.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And… there’s one more thing,” she murmured, leaning close to his ear. Her words were too soft for anyone else to hear. When she finished, he gave a short laugh, his smile curling with quiet confidence.

“Do you think you can manage it?” she asked, worry flickering across her face.

“Do you doubt your own student?” he teased, the edge of his mouth lifting.

“No,” she said, almost a whisper. “I ask because I know you can.”

“Then wait for me,” he answered simply. “Whatever it is you wish for, I’ll bring it back in my hands.”

“Don’t push yourself,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Your life matters more than anything else.”

Their fingers finally slipped apart. Matthias knelt briefly, pressing his lips to the back of her hand in a gesture of solemn respect. “I’ll return, Master.”

And then he was gone—striding toward the assembled ranks, armor flashing in the sunlight.

Odelliana stood rooted to the spot, watching the broad line of his back until it vanished among the soldiers. Her hands, still warm from his touch, curled into fists.

She turned away at last, swallowing the ache that rose in her throat, and walked back into the crowd without looking behind her.