Chapter 100

Elena sat quietly inside the carriage, her gaze fixed blankly on the window.

Outside, the forest had already surrendered to dusk. The trees closest to the road were still visible in the fading light, but beyond them, everything was swallowed in darkness—thick and impenetrable, like midnight had arrived early.

The muffled sounds of voices drifted in through the glass: attendants calling to one another, knights moving about, the steady thud of supplies being unloaded. They were likely setting up makeshift tents and lighting fires to prepare for the night.

Once the sun dipped fully below the mountains, the caravan would halt. Come morning, they’d have a quick, simple meal before continuing their journey to the capital.

Occasionally, they passed a village—but most were too small, lacking enough space to house such a large group. Kennard had offered to arrange lodging in a villager’s home for Elena alone, but she had shaken her head.

She couldn’t accept comfort when the knights and attendants had only thin blankets and bare earth to sleep on.

At least she and Kennard had tents.

The carriage door creaked open, and Kennard stepped up into the cabin.

“Your Grace,” Elena said, quickly turning to face him.

It had only been an hour since he left her, and yet, just the sight of him brought a wave of quiet relief.

He wore no frock coat—just a shirt, unbuttoned halfway down, exposing the sculpted lines of his chest. His skin was lightly dusted with sweat and dirt, evidence of recent labor. Between the open collar, the hard ridge of muscle and the defined line running down his torso were clearly visible.

His black hair was tousled, strands hanging over his brow, and his golden eyes gleamed from beneath dark lashes.

There was no reason for him to be doing the work himself. With so many attendants available, he could’ve easily left it to them. And yet, as always, Kennard had been out there—pitching tents, gathering wood, lighting fires.

Earlier that day, while the attendants prepared dinner with ingredients stored in the carriage, Kennard had gone hunting with two knights.

“You can come out now,” he said, reaching out his hand with a gentle smile.

Elena quickly rose and made her way to him. As she placed her hand in his, he stepped aside, guiding her down from the carriage with practiced ease.

Even as he moved, his gaze never left her—watching each step as though afraid she might stumble.

Once outside, the now-familiar scene greeted her.

In the center of a wide clearing surrounded by dense forest, a large bonfire crackled and blazed. Around it, knights and attendants had scattered thick blankets directly onto the ground, creating makeshift bedding. At the clearing’s edge stood two tents—modest but sturdy—pitched side by side. A few smaller fires flickered nearby, their flames dancing beneath large cast iron pots filled with bubbling stew and other simple fare.

“Please sit over here,” one of the knights said, rising respectfully and gesturing toward the fire.

Thick furs had been laid out to serve as a seat, with a second, thinner set of furs spread neatly beside it.

Kennard guided Elena toward the spot, seating her carefully on the warmer, thicker fur before settling beside her on the thinner one.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked, removing his coat and draping it gently over her knees.

“A little,” Elena replied with a soft smile.

“Just wait a bit longer,” he said reassuringly. “The food will be ready soon.”

“Yes,” she murmured, tucking the coat around her legs.

“You’re not cold, are you?” he asked, concern flickering in his eyes.

A knight approached, handing over a tin cup filled with steaming tea. Kennard took it and passed it to Elena with both hands.

As Elena cupped the tin mug with both hands, Kennard reached out and placed his hand gently over hers.

The warmth startled her. Her face flushed instantly, and she quickly lowered her head, glancing around with nervous eyes.

She was certain others were watching.

Sure enough, several knights seated around the campfire were stealing glances in their direction.

“Your Grace…” she whispered, trying to pull her hands away.

But Kennard’s grip only tightened, firm and unyielding.

“Hold still,” he murmured. “Your hands are as cold as winter snow.”

“People are watching,” she whispered again, her voice barely audible—almost pleading.

Kennard’s brow furrowed. “What does it matter?”

Then, without warning, he turned his head sharply toward the campfire. The knights who had been sneaking glances immediately snapped their heads away, pretending to busy themselves. One even launched into a sudden, exaggerated conversation with the man beside him.

“Ha… seriously, give it a rest,” came a dry voice from across the fire.

Marten sat with a steaming cup of tea in hand, watching them with thinly veiled exasperation. “Is Elena a baby bird or something? Why are you hovering over her like she’s going to fall apart?”

He rested his chin in one hand and smirked at them, the firelight flickering across his sharp features.

“Stop picking fights and drink your tea,” Kennard shot back, scowling in Marten’s direction.

Since their departure for the capital, Marten had dressed nearly identically to Kennard—shirt, frock coat, trousers, and polished leather shoes. His reddish-black hair was neatly combed back, and his entire ensemble looked crisp and deliberate, without a single wrinkle.

This, Elena realized, was likely his true form—composed, meticulous, almost too perfect. And yet, without the dresses and wigs she’d grown accustomed to, there was something strangely unfamiliar about him. The transformation made him feel more like a stranger than the man she’d once known.

In stark contrast, Kennard’s appearance spoke of effort and grit. His shirt was half-unbuttoned from earlier, dirt clung to the hem of his trousers, and his sleeves were rolled up from working by hand. Where Marten looked untouched by the world, Kennard wore it like armor.

“When your lifelong friend starts doing things he’s never done before, right in front of your face, how can you just sit quietly and drink tea? Right?”
Marten’s voice rang out with exaggerated cheer as he glanced sideways at the knights seated near him, clearly fishing for agreement.

But none of them responded. Their expressions remained neutral, carefully unreadable—all of them quietly gauging Kennard’s mood.

Marten let out a sharp breath through his nose. “Look at that. You’ve treated them so roughly they can’t even answer a simple question.”

His voice rose a notch, one corner of his mouth twitching with irritation.

Elena tensed as she heard Kennard exhale harshly through gritted teeth, biting back a curse. The crackle of the fire seemed to recede, replaced by the quiet, suffocating pressure of rising fury.

The heat that had been warming her skin just moments ago now felt distant—swallowed by the chill radiating from Kennard’s silence.

Why does he keep provoking him? she thought desperately. After nearly dying by Kennard’s hands—twice—how can he still push him like this?

Across the fire, one knight stood, then another, followed by a third. Silently, they drifted away toward the attendants, where the smell of stew and bread filled the air.

It was clear they were retreating—trying to escape the thick tension suffocating the clearing.

Elena wanted to follow them, to rise from her seat and disappear into the safety of motion—but her legs wouldn’t move. She didn’t have the courage.

“Your Grace.”

The sudden voice cut through the taut silence. Serin and Lassino approached, each carrying a bowl of steaming stew and a small loaf of bread. Lassino handed one to Elena, while Serin passed another to Kennard.

Across the fire, an attendant stepped up and gave Marten his meal without a word.

Serin dropped down beside Kennard with a casual grunt, while Lassino handed him his own bowl before heading back to the others.

Only then did the tension seem to loosen. The silence around the fire finally cracked.

Elena released a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, grateful for the presence of others to dilute the intensity of the moment.

But the peace was fragile—and short-lived.

“Venison again?”

Marten had just taken a spoonful of stew but promptly set the spoon back in the bowl with a sigh, lowering it to the ground as if he’d lost his appetite.

“Didn’t you catch anything else when you went hunting earlier?”

“Shut up and eat,” Kennard muttered through clenched teeth, shooting him a glare that could’ve lit a fire on its own.

Elena glanced between the two men, tension crackling in the air. Then she looked down at the bowl in her hands. She had just bitten into a piece of meat.

“There’s none in mine…” she said quietly.

Just to be sure, she gently stirred the thick stew with her spoon. The bowl was filled nearly to the brim with tender cuts of meat—but not a trace of venison.

“Just eat,” Serin chimed in, shaking his head at Marten with a look of exhausted disbelief.

“How can I just eat?” Marten said, throwing his arms up slightly. “Every time I breathe, I can smell deer in my throat. It’s not like it’s only been a day or two. Are deer the only animals around here?”

“There used to be a lot,” Serin replied, his mouth full, words slightly muffled.

“But not anymore, huh?” Marten muttered, raising a skeptical brow.

“Thanks to His Grace going on one deer-hunting spree after another, there’s barely any left in Terra Demorte,” Serin added with a shrug, wiping the corner of his mouth with his sleeve.

“Stop babbling and eat,” Kennard snapped, his voice edged with warning.

Serin, who had been halfway through another bite, closed his mouth immediately and said no more.

After that, the conversation fizzled out. Only the occasional quiet small talk from the knights and the steady crackling of the fire filled the silence.

Elena tore off a piece of bread, dipped it into her stew, and shifted her gaze toward the wagons parked along the edge of the clearing.

Each one was covered with heavy canvas stretched from behind the driver’s seat to the back. Most had a rear flap that could be pulled aside when needed—but one wagon stood out.

It remained tightly sealed. Even the loading flap was shut and secured with a visible padlock.

Elena continued eating calmly, feigning disinterest—but her eyes never left that particular wagon.

There it is again.

As if on cue, Lassino walked toward it with a bowl of food in hand. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a small key and unlocked the padlock without hesitation.