Chapter 108

“Surely not…”

At first, she thought he had woken her just to let her rest more comfortably. But no—that wasn’t it.

Through the small carriage window stretched a world that existed nowhere in her memory.

The gardens of Terra Demorte Castle had been dazzling enough—overflowing with flowers and trees of every hue, a place so ornate and brilliant that her eyes had ached just looking at it. But what she now beheld was beyond words.

Fruit trees, heavy with ripening bounty, lined the roads in thick ranks. In the distance, golden fields of wheat shimmered as far as sight could reach.

The land was divided into orderly plots, each carefully planted with grain, separated by tidy roads straight as drawn lines. Yet even along those neat paths, wildflowers had been allowed to bloom in riotous color, as if to soften the rigid geometry. And past all of it stretched an endless plain, wide enough to make her wonder if the world had no edge.

Beyond the farthest fields rose a mountain, tall and commanding, its lower slopes crowded with houses, each built in strikingly similar style, clinging to the hillside tier after tier. And crowning that height—dominating the sky itself—stood a castle so immense it seemed it might pierce the heavens.

Its towers were joined by towering walls, pocked with narrow windows and arrow slits, the whole structure both beautiful and impregnable. At the pinnacle of the foremost spire, a flag whipped in the wind.

“Is this… Montefiano?” Elena breathed.

Beside Kennard, Elena had forgotten her weariness entirely. Her lips parted in awe as she gazed outward.

“It is,” Kennard said, settling close at her side so that they both looked out together.

Though he spoke only a single word, affection colored his voice.

“It feels different from Terra Demorte, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Elena admitted. “That place… I remember only dense forests and endless snow. But here…”

“Here it is all open fields,” Kennard said with a fond smile. “The weather is kind, and the harvests are bountiful every year. Most of the people farm, though some fish the river, and others keep shops in the villages.”

He pointed to the wide river that wound in a silver curve through the plain. Sunlight fell across its tranquil surface, setting it to glitter as though it were strewn with diamonds.

Elena leaned out, bracing herself on the window frame, her face tilted toward the breeze. The air carried with it a sweet fragrance of flowers, and she inhaled deeply, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed. Kennard, watching her, could not keep a smile from touching his lips.

“Perhaps next time we’ll go together to the market,” he suggested softly. “Twice a month, outsiders come to set up their stalls.”

“Outsiders?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Yes,” Kennard said, amused. “Merchants traveling through from other provinces of the Baruchella Empire—or even from foreign lands. When they come, you can find grains not grown in Montefiano, and strange rare goods brought from far away.”

Elena nodded, her curiosity stirring. What wonders might she see? The thought of walking at Kennard’s side through a bustling crowd, gazing at unfamiliar treasures, filled her with restless anticipation. She almost bounced in her seat.

But then she remembered: she was under imperial summons. The joy that had risen in her like drifting clouds collapsed at once into heaviness.

She forced a brighter smile, trying to push the thought aside.

Kennard, sensing her unease, steadied her gently with an arm around her waist. He tugged the cord dangling inside the carriage. A bell clanged outside, and the coach came to a halt.

“Your Grace, Serin is here,” came a voice from beyond the door.

“Tell Cura to bring Elena’s dress,” Kennard replied.

“Yes, sire.”

Footsteps retreated, and soon enough Elena felt the subtle presence of Cura approaching.

“Your Grace,” Cura announced.

“Come in,” Kennard said.

The carriage door opened, and Cura stepped inside, her hands carefully holding a gown spread wide across her arms.

“It would be best to dress properly before we enter the village,” Kennard said.

Elena nodded in quiet agreement. She had worn only a chemise during the journey—Kennard’s order, so that nothing would press heavily upon her in her fragile state. The carriage moved no faster than a man’s walking pace, but still he wished to ease her sickness as much as possible. Whenever she needed to leave the carriage, Cura either dressed her carefully in a gown or wrapped her in a cloak.

“I’ll wait outside,” Kennard said gently. He brushed a kiss across Elena’s forehead, caressing her cheek with his fingertips. Even as he stepped down, he held her gaze until the door closed behind him.

Cura set the gown across her mistress’s lap and began helping her into it, her fingers deft but tender. Then she drew out a comb and began working carefully through Elena’s hair.

“How do you feel?” Cura asked softly. “Your complexion has come back a little, but you still don’t look well.”

“I’m all right,” Elena said with a faint laugh. “My skin has always been pale.”

“Yes, but now it is paler still,” Cura said with concern.

Elena lifted a small mirror from her lap and studied her reflection.

“When we arrive at the castle, you’ll rest more comfortably,” Cura continued gently. “The meals will be better too. Please, sleep deeply, eat well. That will restore you.”

“I will,” Elena promised.

“His Grace will protect you no matter what comes,” Cura said, her voice trembling with earnestness. “So please, don’t let worry wear down your health further.”

Elena turned her head slightly to look at her maid. Despite her words, shadows lay across Cura’s freckled face, and sighs slipped unbidden between her sentences.

Elena reached up and caught the hand that held the comb. Smiling, she said, “Cura… thank you. Truly.”

“Milady! Don’t say such things. It’s only what I ought to do. You shouldn’t thank me for that.”

“No,” Elena said with quiet insistence. “I mean it. You don’t know how much strength you give me. From the day I first awoke in the castle until now, you’ve always been there.”

“Milady… why are you saying this all of a sudden?”

Cura’s eyes shone red, her nose flushing. She looked helpless, caught between embarrassment and tears.

Elena herself could not explain why she spoke so. She only knew the thought had risen in her heart, and she needed Cura to hear it.

***

She had found it strange, how empty the broad fields seemed of people. Did the folk of Montefiano keep their rest to fixed hours? That had been her first guess.

But the weather was mild, not hot enough to force them indoors even at noon. It made little sense.

As she puzzled over it, faint sounds drifted toward the carriage. Voices. Shouts. The closer they drew to the village, the clearer those sounds became.

“Your Grace!”

“Long live the Grand Duke!”

The moment they entered the village’s edge, Elena saw through the window what her ears had promised: both sides of the road were choked with people.

Men and women, elders and children alike—every one of them waving, shouting, stretching out arms toward Kennard’s procession. Some men hoisted children onto their shoulders, others flung kerchiefs or pieces of clothing high into the air. The street throbbed with jubilation.

Knights in gleaming armor lined the path, holding the crowds back so they could not press too close. And above it all, tiny scraps of colored paper rained down like snow.

Elena’s heart thundered so hard she thought it might leap from her throat.

Will they accept me as his consort?

The devotion of the crowd for Kennard was palpable, fierce and unrelenting. In contrast, her own existence felt unbearably small, fragile as a candle in the sun. Instinctively, she leaned toward him, seeking his steadiness.

Kennard looked away from the cheering throngs and met her eyes. He squeezed her hand tightly.

“It’s all right,” he murmured.

His voice was deep, steady, impossibly gentle, as though he had read her very thoughts.

She gazed into his golden eyes, her throat aching. She had tried to hide her doubts, but faced with the truth of who he was, her heart throbbed painfully.

“You are the one I have chosen,” Kennard said, his words slow and certain. “There will be no wife for me but you. No mother of my children but you.”

He drew her into his arms, kissing her before she could protest.

“You,” he whispered fiercely against her lips, “are the only one I want—madly, desperately.”

He did not care that their knights and the villagers were watching. He pressed his mouth to hers again, slow and possessive, claiming her utterly.

Through the corner of her vision she saw people gape openly at the sight.

He was a noble, after all—the Grand Duke of the Baruchella Empire, the Emperor’s only brother. For such a man to display himself so brazenly before his people was unthinkable.

“Your Grace…” Elena whispered, trying to turn away.

“Hush,” Kennard murmured, cupping her face in both hands and kissing her deeper still.

“Please… people are watching,” she begged, clutching his wrist.

But Kennard was unyielding, more determined than ever, refusing to let her go. Once he set his heart, no circumstance could sway him—not even the dictates of aristocratic decorum.

At last Elena yielded, unable to resist further. She tilted her head to shield her face behind his, hiding herself from the stares, while his lips consumed hers with fevered insistence.

A deep, rumbling growl rose from his chest, the sound of satisfaction.

Arrows of onlookers’ gazes struck her like sharp points, but even so, the heat of Kennard’s breath in her mouth stole her wits.

Because in truth—she wanted him as fiercely as he wanted her.