Chapter 152

“Ah, don’t get the wrong idea! It’s not like I was eager to help Argan either! Just last year, I nearly died trying to break their right flank under that merciless sun. You don’t just flip a switch and become best friends overnight, you know? Ha ha…”

Isaac looked as though he might drive his fist straight through Ruben’s teeth.

Rezette, for his part, had no intention whatsoever of helping the Emperor reclaim his throne. The only person who mattered to him was Elizabeth. Anything that threatened her—no matter the source—was his enemy. The Emperor of Argan was no exception. Neither, for that matter, was Rezette himself.

Even the head of King Ugel, whose downfall he now pursued, was little more than another trophy he intended to lay at Elizabeth’s feet.

He needed to gather everything he could—for her.

Soon, she would be torn from the family she had once cherished more than her own life. And when something precious is lost, something else must take its place. To ease her sorrow, even just a little.

I hope she doesn’t cry too much.
Those beautiful tears would be such a waste.

What was she doing now? Rezette’s thoughts drifted to the sea routes charting the eastern continent. By now, she was likely crossing the vast waters that stretched between Norella and the Tentaluna Peninsula.

She had taken some of his men with her, but it would be some time before they could reestablish communication.

First, the ship would have to land safely in Tentaluna. Then, after sending word, the message would need to travel north—a slow journey at best. It could be two months—maybe longer—before he heard anything of Elizabeth again.

Surely… surely it won’t take more than half a year.

But then Rezette remembered—his time with Elizabeth in Rotiara had lasted exactly six months. A low groan slipped from his lips.

To wait as long as we were together…

He clenched his jaw.

Do you think of me even a fraction as often as I think of you? Will you miss me even half as much as I ache for you?

He already knew the answer.

Of course not.

Most likely, she was sailing blissfully across the sea by now, swept up in the joy of returning home—already forgetting the husband she had left behind.

And yet, at that very moment, Rezette would have given anything just to see her smile again, even if it wasn’t directed at him.

He reached into his pocket out of habit, fingers grasping at nothing. He had thrown the cigars away himself. With a quiet, weary sigh, he lowered his hand.

Instead, he reached for the sword at his waist. His fingers brushed lightly against the soft strands looped through the ring at the hilt, the texture smooth and familiar.

Just that touch was enough. The storm churning inside him began to settle.

A few paces away, Ruben and Isaac exchanged a silent glance as the silver gleam caught their eyes.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Isaac murmured under his breath. “The one His Grace left behind in that cabin near the hills of Rotiara.”

Ruben nodded. “Yeah. He gathered every last strand with his own hands…”

A bundle of silver curls, bound with red cloth embroidered in gold—undeniably the princess’s ribbon, tangled with strands of her hair.

Even during long, relentless rides, Rezette would halt now and then, just to gaze at that keepsake. His eyes would linger on it, impatient, aching, filled with the kind of longing words could never express. Sometimes, they brimmed with a tenderness so raw it hurt to look at him.

And at other times, there was something else in his stare—something darker. A hunger barely concealed, a desire fierce enough that one could believe he would drag her straight to bed the instant she returned.

He looked composed. Always. But anyone with eyes could see—his mind was consumed by one person alone.

Ruben and Isaac shook their heads in quiet disbelief.

To think that this man—rumored among the knights of Rotiara to be a walking boulder, a mountain of stone—could wear such a lovesick expression…

Truly, it was as they said: live long enough, and you’ll witness everything.

***

The nine-masted ship sliced cleanly through the waves, its sails taut with wind.

Today marked the fifteenth day since the Nilinji had departed port, bearing Elise, Barnon, and the rest of the Argan delegation across the sea.

As if summoned by fate, a steady tailwind had picked up the moment they passed beyond the waters of Van Yela. The voyage had been smooth ever since, and by the seventh day, they’d dropped anchor at Hamaram—far ahead of schedule, considering they’d only just left the harbor at Norella.

At Hamaram, the crew replenished their water stores and supplies at the captain’s behest. A physician and a new servant were also brought aboard. By then, the snow had all but ceased, and the cutting cold had softened into a balmy breeze that carried the Nilinji farther south. The Tentaluna Peninsula now loomed on the horizon—their final destination.

To the untrained eye, the voyage seemed tranquil. Days passed beneath a gentle sky, each one indistinguishable from the last. But that calm was a thin veil stretched over something brittle and sharp. Beneath the surface, tension simmered. Unspoken. Unyielding.

The reason was plain: the passengers hailed from two vastly different worlds.

The divide between Northerners and Southerners manifested in subtle, sometimes jarring ways.

The pale-faced sailors doubled over the rails, retching into the sea, were almost always Northerners—men more familiar with snowdrifts and alpine winds than the rolling pitch of ocean swells. For many, this was their first time at sea. They struggled with the queasy lurch of the ship, the briny air, and the ever-warming climate.

The Southerners, meanwhile, were in their element. Accustomed to ships and salt air, they adapted easily, their strength returning day by day as the cold of the North fell away behind them.

Worse still, the dynamics aboard the ship—driven by titles and nautical hierarchy—further skewed the balance of power. The captain, the navigator, and most of the senior crew were Southerners. At sea, their word was law. On land, it had been a different story. In Rotiara and Norella, they’d endured cruelty and condescension at the hands of Northerners. Now, out on the open water, the roles had reversed.

“They strut around like kings of the sea just because they’ve got their hands on a single ship,” one Northerner growled, his tone thick with disdain.

But seasickness hadn’t drowned the Northerners’ fire. These were men whose spirits were forged in hardship—without that grit, they may as well have been corpses in the snow.

“If a little queasiness is enough to knock you flat, maybe you should’ve frozen to death on the streets last winter,” spat a sailor from Rotiara, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after retching over the side. His voice was raw, scraped thin by salt air and stomach bile.

Laughter erupted from the Southerners lounging nearby, cards splayed in lazy hands.

“Judging by that rotten-fish complexion,” one of them jeered, “looks like he already did.”

“Shut it,” the Northerner snapped, straightening. “What would pampered dandies like you know? Ever climbed a snow-covered peak with frost in your lungs and nothing but a threadbare cloak on your back? Ever been caught in a whiteout so blinding you couldn’t see your own feet? You flinch at a breeze and dare to sneer at us?”

The card players barely paused their game.

“All you Northerners ever go on about is the cold,” one Southerner drawled, shuffling the deck with a smirk. “It’s the only thing you’ve got. No real seasons, no good food, no beauty to speak of. Empty land, empty bellies, empty pride. Makes sense the loudest ones are the ones with nothing.”

“Who’s stronger, then?” another Northerner shot back. “A man who swings a sword for sport, or one who lifts it to stay alive? No—let’s not even talk about skill. Let’s talk stamina. You soft-bellied noble pups couldn’t outrun a drunk ox. That’s why even those wild tribes in the east trampled you like weeds. You lounge in your comforts and call it civilization—then wonder why history keeps grinding you underfoot.”

The Southerner slammed his cards down, face twisted in fury. “This bastard’s really asking for it!”

As always, sharp tongues led to sharper fists. The argument flared like gunpowder—loud, fast, and inevitable.

But every day, without fail, there was one moment that brought even the fiercest enemies to heel. A hush would ripple across the deck, grudges forgotten for just a breath of time.

It was the moment the princess stepped out of her cabin.

The soft rustle of her heavily padded coat brushing against the stairs was the first sign of her approach. The two men, who had been locked in a fierce grip by the collars, instantly let go and stepped apart, as if struck by a sudden jolt of realization.

A clear voice rang out, cutting through the tension.

“What’s going on here?”

Moments later, the owner of that voice appeared on the main deck. Strands of hair, as pale as moonlight, fluttered in the sea breeze, brushing gently against her face. She tucked them behind her ear with a practiced motion before fixing the two bickering groups with a calm, composed gaze.

“I heard noise,” Elise said, her voice steady. “I came to see for myself. It sounded like you were fighting. What happened?”

Her eyes swept over the scene before her, noting the tension, the hushed muttering, the barely concealed hostility. Her face, pale from the long days at sea, didn’t escape the notice of the Arganians, who exchanged concerned glances. It wasn’t just the Northerners suffering from seasickness aboard this ship.

A cluster of knights immediately gathered around Elise, their concern palpable.

“Your Highness, this is too much. You shouldn’t have come up here yourself. Please, summon the Duke.” One of the knights, his voice laced with worry, stepped forward.

“Are you feeling any better today?” another asked. “Even if the food is terrible, you must eat something. Seasickness can be rather cruel, you know.”

“And the Northern brutes—how could they build such a rickety ship?” A third knight added with frustration, his eyes narrowing. “It sways with the slightest breeze. Did they even consider who would be aboard this ship?”

Elise couldn’t help but smile, a sheepish expression curling her lips at the familiar fussing.

“I told you,” she replied, her voice gentle but firm. “I’ve really been feeling better since yesterday. But no matter how many times I say it, no one believes me.”

“Of course not!” one knight exclaimed, his voice rising in exasperation. “You’re not alone anymore, after all. Oh, what trials You give our princess. So young and delicate, yet already bearing new life…”

The knights under Barnon were particularly familiar with Elise, having accompanied him on various visits to the Imperial Capital. Many had known her since she was a child, and the old habit of treating her like a fragile treasure lingered in their voices, raising a half-pitch in her presence.

In truth, nearly every Arganian treated Elise with the same reverence. Regardless of their age or rank, they cherished her, whether in her bedchamber when she’d been too ill to even feel the warmth of those around her, or in public when the weight of their affection was palpable—nobles, knights, servants, and even commoners whose names and faces she had never known.

In her younger, more immature days, Elise hadn’t truly understood the affection directed toward her. Being treated as if she were helpless had stung, had felt like an unfair weight. But now… now, she could only feel gratitude. After all the hardship, this warmth was a welcome embrace.

“I’m eating well, sleeping well,” she reassured them. “I’m more worried about all of you. Some of those men over there don’t look so good.”

“Pay them no mind, Your Highness,” one of the knights replied with a dismissive wave. “They’re like weeds—flimsy, always wilting.”

Before the Northerners could fire back, Elise’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.

“Weeds?” Her gaze hardened as she turned to face him. “It’s not right to speak so of your comrades. You all escaped death together, didn’t you? Or am I mistaken?”

The knight stammered, his cheeks flushing with sudden embarrassment, and the others stiffened. The mood shifted instantly.

“Y-You’re right, Your Highness,” he muttered, dropping his gaze. “Our words were thoughtless. Please forgive us.”

“We’re fine, truly,” another Northerner added quickly, his voice wavering slightly. “No need to worry about us, Your Highness. We’ll be much better once we finish throwing up…”

When Elise turned and made her way toward the aft deck, seeking the fresh air that often calmed her, the Rotiarans wasted no time huddling together in quiet conversation.

“We ended up on this ship with Her Highness by chance,” one muttered, his voice low. “But… should we still follow the orders we received?”

“But our lord never told us the princess would be aboard,” another replied, his tone cautious. “With the situation changed, shouldn’t we hold back for now?”

“Exactly.” A third Rotiaran nodded, his brow furrowing with concern. “She’s expecting, after all. If we cause a commotion on the ship and she suffers a shock…”

Elise’s recent illness had only added to the unease. She had been bedridden for an entire week before they reached Hamaram, only starting to recover after being treated by the ship’s physician. The Northerners had finally breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Arganian princess or not, Elise was still the Duchess of Rotiara—carrying their lord’s child. Her well-being had become a silent, unspoken priority for everyone aboard.

“If anything happens to Her Highness or the child, we’ll be the first to lose our heads,” one of the Lotiarans muttered under his breath, his voice taut with worry. “There’s no need to rush the mission.”

“Right,” another agreed, his expression grim. “And it’s no ordinary mission, either. We’re here to track the Arganian Emperor’s whereabouts. Let’s wait until we reach land.”

Meanwhile, in the captain’s quarters, a similar discussion was taking place, the air thick with tension.

“If not now, when will we get a chance to eliminate them, Your Grace?” Sir Sylvian pressed, his eyes dark with impatience. “We could dump them into the sea and be done with it—no loose ends.”

Barnon’s voice was sharp and steady as he responded. “Then why don’t you go ask Her Highness for permission yourself, Sir Sylvian?”

Sylvian’s lips tightened into a thin line as he bit back a retort.

“She doesn’t need to know…” he muttered, glancing away, clearly uncomfortable.

“Are you suggesting we carry out something our lady would never approve of, behind her back?” Barnon’s tone was laced with disbelief.

“Sometimes,” Sylvian’s voice dropped lower, “ignorance is mercy. These men weren’t just stowaways—they’re agents, acting on the Duke’s orders. Are you seriously suggesting we escort them straight to His Majesty’s feet?”

Barnon’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. “That’s not what I’m saying,” he replied, his voice calmer now but no less firm. “Of course we’ll deal with them once we’re on land. But there’s no need to rush. Right now, our top priority is Her Highness’s recovery.”

Barnon rubbed the back of his neck, his weariness evident as he sighed, shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

“And let me make this clear while I have your attention,” he continued, his gaze intense. “The one we serve is not just another royal. She never was—and now, even more so.”

Sir Sylvian looked at him, a trace of hesitation in his eyes. “Lord Conrad…”