The Forgotten Field Novel - Chapter 5, 6
C5,6
## THE FORGOTTEN FIELDS (NOVEL) – Chapter 5
“You truly do not understand that there are lines one must never cross.”
Varkas spoke in his usual slow, monotonous voice. However, his handsome face, completely stripped of patience, had hardened into something savage.
Talia writhed, trying to break free from his grasp. But the iron hand of an experienced knight was like a shackle. Acting as a loyal shield, Varkas blocked the path before the Crown Prince and Aila, dragging Talia closer as he spat his words into her face.
“How low must you fall before you are satisfied? Was it not enough to show us the very bottom of your soul?”
“Do you think you have seen the bottom of my being?” Talia raised her chin high, a sharp laugh escaping her lips. “Pompous young lord of Siorcan, do you imagine you know anything of what the bottom truly is? Do not delude yourself.”
She leaned closer, smiling with a languid and dangerous magnetism. Where other men would have melted under her eyes and her perfume, Varkas remained immovable; his gaze reflected only a loathing-filled weariness. Talia felt the urge to dig her carefully sharpened nails into those eyes of ice.
“Perhaps, from where you stand, I seem truly low. Indeed. But I am still very far from the worst I can become.”
Her words were firm, her gaze locked directly onto his. In his eyes, she saw a yawning abyss waiting. One day, without a doubt, he would cast her into it. If she must fall, then, before being dragged to the bottom, she would at least leave long claw marks on their future. That would only be fair.
Her dark blue eyes burned with venom. His pale gaze met hers with equal danger. The tension between them was so sharp it could have cut flesh, when suddenly, a voice like that of a wounded bird interrupted the moment.
“Varkas.”
Immediately, the man who had been glaring at her turned toward his fiancée. Aila’s face was unbearably pitiful, enough to move any heart. She tugged lightly at the edge of his coat, her voice trembling in a plea.
“I… want to change my clothes. Will you take me out of here?”
“…As you command.”
Varkas wrapped a protective arm around Aila’s shoulders and turned away. Without casting a single glance back, he guided her out of the hall. For him, Talia had already been erased.
The madness that had consumed Talia drained from her in an instant, leaving her with nothing but despair, pain, and jealousy. But even through that stomach-churning pain, she stood tall with a false dignity. With a smile, as if she were the victor, she walked with a firm step toward the terrace where the food and wine were laid out. People parted as if she were a plague.
She did not care; she took a new glass of wine with grace and poise. But before she could drink more than two sips, Count Serian—who had been watching from afar—hurried over and snatched the glass from her hand.
“You should leave the hall immediately.”
“And why should I do that?” She calmly extended her hand toward a plate of pomegranates. “Did you not hear the First Princess herself ask me to enjoy the banquet as I please? I have not had enough fun yet.”
“I admire Your Highness’s audacity,” Serian said urgently, “but the beast behind you looks ready to strike.” He glanced sideways toward the Crown Prince.
Just as he said, Gares’s face was murderous, as if he could draw his sword at any second. On the back of his neck, darkened by the sun, swollen veins pulsed, and his jaw clenched with suppressed rage. Clearly, he was holding himself back from exploding.
On another day, Talia would have provoked him even further, driving him to commit some unspeakable act. But not now. Her strength was exhausted. Abandoning her pretense, she placed a hand on Serian’s arm. Together, at a swift but not shameful pace, they left the hall.
Outside, in the garden, a carriage was already waiting. A guard opened the door as if expecting her. Talia stepped onto the running board, but before she could settle into the cushioned seat, someone pushed her violently.
She fell onto the floor of the carriage and looked up. Gares had forced his way past her guard and was now looming over her, his eyes flashing with a wild fury.
“We tolerate your existence solely out of sheer restraint,” he growled, as his callous hand closed around her throat. The guard, horrified, did not dare lay a hand on the Crown Prince and only cried out in protest.
Ignoring him, Gares tightened his grip with both hands. Talia struggled, digging her nails into the tense tendons of his hands, but rage made him insensible to the pain. Spitting the words directly into her ear, he hissed, “And for a long time, I tolerated it. Time and again, I held back.” His bright green eyes burned like fire. “So you do not need to scratch us anymore, little sister. We already hate you enough.”
Finally, he released her, straightening up.
Talia brought her hands to her throat, gasping violently, coughing so hard she could barely breathe. Her face flushed scarlet while his venomous voice burned her ears.
“Remember this. Your mother’s meddling, and you—a filthy bastard—running wild through the palace… it is only for a time.”
Then, almost in mockery, he slammed the carriage door shut for her and walked away.
Talia pulled herself up with difficulty, noticing that two of her carefully sharpened nails were broken and sticky with blood. She touched them tenderly, murmuring in a hoarse voice:
“…I will grow them out again.” *Sharper this time. Sharp enough to dig into the bone.*
A broken laugh hissed from her lips like escaping air. She did not even know why she was laughing.
Her useless guard threw the door open in a panic, looking at her as if she had gone mad. Perhaps he was right. She had gone mad a long time ago. She lay down at full length on the dark floor of the carriage, chuckling to herself for a long while.
—
The entire palace was buzzing with commotion. In just a few days, the First Princess and the Crown Prince would depart on their pilgrimage.
It was the tradition of the descendants of Darian, the great emperor who had unified the nations, to undertake this holy journey once they reached maturity. Women usually departed before marriage; men, at the age of twenty. Since Aila and Gares had been born on the same day, it was deemed proper for them to receive the blessing together.
For this reason, their luggage was prepared side by side. And to guard the two highest ranks after the Emperor and the Empress, the elite of the Imperial Guard was mobilized. Of course, the overall command fell to none other than Varkas, the Commander of the Guard.
Because of this, Talia often caught glimpses of him through the windows of her villa, striding across the palace courtyard. Even today, under the persistent drizzle, he was inspecting the weapons, the horses, and the travel equipment.
Talia leaned back against her window sill, watching him without blinking.
Varkas tilted his head upward, as if calculating the time by the sky. The silvery rain veiled his face with a soft glow, filling her field of vision.
It had also been raining the day she had fallen in love with him.
Talia closed her eyes, remembering that day.
——————
THE FORGOTTEN FIELDS (NOVELA) – Chapter 6
Chapter 6
THE FORGOTTEN FIELDS (NOVELA)
Not even a fortnight had passed since she left the Taren estate and entered the Imperial Palace.
Her mother rejoiced, declaring that at long last her daughter’s name had been inscribed in the imperial genealogy. But for Talia, arriving at this unfamiliar place was nothing but misery. With Senevier’s attention fixed solely on the remodeling of the palace, Talia’s anxiety only grew worse.
The Imperial Palace was nothing like what her mother had described to her. It was desolate, terrifying. Wherever she went, sharp gazes followed her. The servants here were even colder than the retainers of the Taren family.
She felt like an abandoned child, with nowhere to belong. For that reason, whenever she had the chance, she would secretly slip away from her quarters and wander near the Annex Palace.
She especially frequented the rear garden. Because Senevier had declared that he would erase every trace of the late Empress, every flower and every tree had been uprooted. The garden had become nothing but a wasteland.
At least the entrances of the main and annex palaces had begun to be filled with brightly colored roses and shrubs, but in the rear grounds, where the landscaping was not yet finished, only scattered mounds of dirt lay about. No one went there.
Whenever she grew tired of the whispers and the piercing stares, Talia would pass the time idly in a corner of that ruined garden.
That day, she had also escaped from her tiresome nursemaid and the maid who scratched her scalp with a sharp comb under the pretext of “fixing her hair.” She slipped away toward the rear grounds of the Annex Palace.
Since midday, the rain had been pouring down. There was not a single worker in the garden. In the empty corner, Talia crouched down and stared blankly at the falling raindrops.
How long had she been sitting there? From somewhere came the faint sound of a chirp.
Startled, she looked around. Then, as if drawn by something, she began to walk toward the outer boundary of the palace, with the rain soaking her clothes. Where a large tree stood that morning, now only a deep pit remained.
Approaching the mound of earth, Talia looked down. A small bird was struggling in the mud, chirping pitifully.
Did it fall from the tree?
It looked as though it might die at any moment. Heavy raindrops pelted its soaked brown body, and a blackish mud as thick as tar clung to its thin legs and its pitiful wings. Its desperate chirps grew weaker and weaker, turning into fragile tremors.
Talia bent her knees and contemplated the scene. Before she realized it, she had already stepped into the pit.
It was a foolish thing to do. Although she stepped carefully, the rain-saturated ground, turned into a swamp, instantly swallowed her shoes.
She twisted her body to free her foot. Losing her balance, she slipped and fell face down into the mire. She tumbled forward, and the bitter, muddy water seeped through her lips. She shook her head furiously.
The green dress her nursemaid had made for her was ruined, and the mud clung to her carefully braided hair. A surge of anger welled up inside her. She stood up and muttered a curse under her breath.
Why should I care about a bird? How foolish I am, doing something so stupid…
Grumbling, she turned to climb out of the pit, when a faint chirp reached her again. So faint that only an attentive ear could hear it, but to Talia, it sounded like a scream.
She waded deeper into the muddy water. There she saw the faint brown wings and the drooping head of the tiny bird.
…Is it already dead?
She scooped it up carefully. The tiny body, soaked to the bone, gave a faint pulse. It was still alive.
She sheltered the fragile form between her hands and exhaled warm air over it. The limp bird opened its small beak, feebly fluttering its thin wings, desperately fighting to live.
Something tightened in her chest.
She did not know what this feeling was. Why did it hurt her to see this chick —lost, abandoned, struggling in the mire— now resting in her hands?
She gently pressed the bird against the warmest spot beneath her neck, and then looked up at the steep, muddy slope.
The rain fell harder, softening the earth into a liquid mud. She tried taking a few steps, but climbing out seemed impossible. The only way out would be crawling on all fours like an animal.
Talia bit her lip. She could not abandon the bird she had saved, but neither could she cast aside her dignity as a princess and crawl like a beast through the mud. So she stood frozen, as the rain drenched her.
It was then—
Through the misty veil of the rain, a boy appeared.
He was tall, wrapped in a black cloak similar to a monk’s, with the hood pulled far down. However, Talia could clearly see his pale, luminous blue eyes through the curtain of water. They were unbearably beautiful.
“What are you doing down there?”
The blue-eyed boy leaned toward her. His cool voice did not match his delicate face, which was still touched by childish youth. A chill ran down Talia’s spine.
At that moment, she thought it was the cold. But looking back, perhaps she had already sensed it. That this boy, who looked down at her with a distant face, would one day plunge her life into a living hell.
Had she recognized that vague presentiment for what it was, perhaps she would have thrown the small bird back into the mud, clawed her way out on all fours like a pig that knows neither shame nor filth, and fled as far away from the blue-eyed boy as she could. She would have erased any trace of him from her mind.
But Talia, at eight years old, had no idea that the boy in the rain would become her despair. So she looked up at him and snapped in her usual thorny tone:
“Can’t you see? I fell and I can’t get out.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. He seemed about to ask why she had entered such a place in the first place. But instead of questions, he slid gracefully down into the pit, unconcerned that his fine trousers and polished leather boots were splattered with mud.
Talia stared at him in shock. She had never expected a boy with such a cold, unyielding face to do something like that.
He walked through the swampy mire; his long legs carried him quickly. Up close he seemed even taller, towering over her by a head.
He stood before her and extended his hand.
“Take it.”
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