The Forgotten Field Novel - Chapter 55, 56
## Chapter 55
### THE FORGOTTEN FIELDS (NOVEL)
Talia floated through the remains of her memories as if she were floating among the clouds, and then slowly returned to reality.
Upon lifting her heavy eyelids, the flickering flame of a candle came into view.
As she stared at it, her blurred senses gradually sharpened.
Wrapped in a strange emptiness, Talia slowly sat up.
For a moment, she could not comprehend where she was.
Only after several seconds passed did she realize that she was lying in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar bed.
With hollow eyes, she slowly looked around the luxuriously decorated bedroom; suddenly, she felt something strange and looked down.
Both of her legs were completely exposed beneath a pair of inner shorts.
No. Those were not her legs.
There was no way something so grotesque could be attached to her body.
With trembling hands, she touched her knees: uneven and lumpy, as if they were covered in hardened wax.
Something was wrong with their shape.
Her shins and kneecaps were subtly misaligned, and her pale skin was covered in wide, stiff, tree-bark-like scars.
Tracing the long cracks that ran from her calves to her knees and thighs —like fractures in shattered porcelain—, Talia soon began to scrape at them with her fingertips.
It felt as if she only needed to peel away those rough, stained layers to reveal her original pearl-colored skin underneath.
Ignoring the burning pain, she obsessively picked at the inflamed, dark red, and scab-filled flesh.
Blood began to drip in thin threads.
She was staring at it in stunned silence when a faint rustle came from somewhere.
Talia snapped her head up, and her eyes widened completely as she spotted Senevier reclining at an angle on a velvet-covered chair.
The Empress, whose blue eyes shone vividly even in the dimness, opened her blood-tinted lips and let out a sweet and melodious voice:
—Do you really have to dig at a wound that took me so much work to heal? It is a great hassle to have to summon the healer again.
She set aside the small booklet she held in her hand and furrowed her thin brows.
Talia, who kept staring at her without blinking, parted her dry lips.
—What… did you do to my body?
At her question filled with distrust, the Empress’s eyes widened slightly, and then curved into crescents.
As if she had heard a funny joke, Senevier let out a soft laugh and shook her head.
—That is not something you should say to the mother who went to the extreme of summoning the “Clan of Eternity” to treat you.
—……
—Don’t look at me like that. I know you don’t trust me, but… this time, I truly did everything within my power for you. The fact that this is the best result they could achieve… even I find it disappointing.
Her serpent-like gaze slid slowly down Talia’s body and stopped on the blood-stained scars.
Talia quickly pulled the blanket to cover her legs.
Her fingertips trembled beneath the Empress’s gaze, a gaze that looked like that of someone contemplating something repulsive.
Senevier let out a small sigh and continued.
—I considered reprimanding them, but apparently, they truly did the best they could. Even with the damage to the bones, muscles, and nerves, they insisted that the recovery you achieved is nothing short of a miracle.
Speaking to her daughter —on the verge of collapsing from shock—, the Empress remained chillingly serene.
—They also said they could do nothing about those scars. They tried to open the wounds several times and use magic again, but even then, the hideous marks regenerated exactly as they were. Probably because the wounds were left untreated for too long, causing the tissue to become deformed.
Another faint sigh escaped her.
—And we really cannot blame the palace healers. If they had healed the wounds immediately, your skin might have been left smoother than this, but your legs would have been permanently unusable. At least now they say you can walk, so you should comfort yourself with that.
Her plain, emotionless words drove into Talia’s stomach like iron rods.
Senevier then delivered the final blow:
—It truly is a pity.
Talia slowly lowered her head.
Watching her with a contemplative gaze, Senevier rose from the chair and approached.
Her fragrant and soft fingers brushed against Talia’s cheek.
—Talia. Do you remember what I told you once: that beautiful and fragile things become the target of plunder?
Through a blurry veil of tears, Talia forced herself to look into her eyes.
Her face —carved like a sculpture of pearl, gold, and sapphire— wavered behind the haze.
As if recounting an old tale, Senevier continued in a warm tone:
—So, what do you think happens to weak and unsightly things?
—……
—Unsightly things become objects of mockery and contempt. They are not even considered worthy of being taken. They simply trample them, mock them, and shun them. Because people have a tendency to constantly look for something to hate, something to despise, to be able to prove their own superiority. A flaw makes you the excellent prey for people like that.
Talia struggled desperately not to cry, but a violent sob broke through her throat.
Her mother’s words hurt far more than her bleeding legs.
Looking down at her daughter’s face, disfigured by tears, Senevier clicked her tongue as if pitying her.
—But do not worry. I will never allow my daughter to be put in such a pitiful position.
Her cold fingers —like insect legs— brushed away Talia’s tangled hair.
Her eyes, resembling a swamp, narrowed.
It was a smile that promised an even deeper despair.
Inside the grand temple located within the imperial palace, thirty-four coffins were neatly arranged.
The priests walked among them, sprinkling holy water and chanting prayers, while the mourners stepped forward one by one to place flowers upon the caskets.
Sitting among the faithful, enduring the long and tedious rituals, Asros shifted his eyes back and forth, observing his half-siblings.
His older brother sat in the place of honor, with his usual smug expression as he strutted with arrogance.
Ayla Roem Gwirta, living up to her nickname of the “Perfect Princess,” mourned the deceased with serene grace.
She looked no different than usual.
And yet, he perceived that something was wrong.
After thinking about it, Asros soon realized: his half-sister was absolutely furious about something.
She displayed a fairly convincing expression of sadness, but her eyes were frozen with cold and her lips were stiff with tension.
Why could she be so angry?
Unlike his older brother, who expressed every emotion openly, Ayla always hid behind a serene smile.
She never showed a single crack.
The fact that she was revealing emotions now, in front of so many people, was genuinely intriguing.
Was she really that upset because the wedding had been postponed?
His gaze fell naturally upon her fiancé.
Varkas Laedgo Siorcan stood by the altar with a straight back, silently observing the funeral rites.
He looked less like a living man and more like a statue carved for a cathedral.
Finding his immobility strangely fascinating, Asros examined him from head to toe.
The next Grand Duke of Siorcan wore an elegantly tailored doublet that fit cleanly from shoulders to waist, breeches that clung like armor, and a long navy blue cape draped over his left shoulder.
It was almost simple, even austere; but to Asros, he looked far more impressive than the nobles decked out in their fine garments.
He could almost understand why his half-sister would be upset that her wedding had been delayed.
…With this kind of incident, the pilgrimage journey will not resume until next year.
Which meant that Ayla Roem Gwirta’s wedding to the future Grand Duke of Siorcan would also be postponed.
Thinking about that, Asros made a face.
A tense uneasiness spread through his chest.
He desperately wished that his half-sister —who always looked at him as if he were something unpleasant— would depart for the eastern duchy as soon as possible.
Perhaps they will break tradition and hold the wedding anyway, as scheduled.
With fervent hope, he stared at Lord Siorcan.
Please, take Ayla Roem Gwirta to the East.
At that moment, as if he had heard Asros’s ridiculous prayer, the man turned his head.
Startled, Asros quickly lowered his eyes.
His heart skipped a beat at the sensation of those eyes, eyes that felt as if they could see directly through his mind.
—
## Chapter 56
### THE FORGOTTEN FIELDS (NOVEL)
He was not even frowning or doing anything in particular, and yet, for some reason, Asros could not shake that feeling of uneasiness.
Fidgeting with the button of his clothes to appear busy, Asros finally looked up after a long while.
Sir Varkas had somehow moved to the left transept and was now speaking with the High Priest.
The atmosphere seemed grave, and Asros narrowed his eyes.
Their backs were turned, so he could not see their expressions, but the tendons in the old priest’s thin neck strained tightly.
When the priest shook his shoulders, vehemently denouncing something, a chill crossed Sir Varkas’s face as well.
It was obvious, even at a glance, that they were not on friendly terms. Asros’s eyes gleamed with interest.
What could they be talking about?
The priests were staunch supporters of the Crown Prince, and the same was true for the next Duke Siorcan.
So why were two people from the same faction at odds?
Driven by curiosity, Asros quietly slipped out of the pews. Hiding behind a column at the intersection of the naves, he leaned forward to eavesdrop… only for someone to suddenly grab him by the scruff of the neck.
Jerking his head up, Asros saw Berens’s stern face and dropped his brows.
The man looked at him with a darkened expression and reprimanded him in a low voice.
—Those men are political enemies of His Highness the Crown Prince. Do not go near them.
—What enemies? I don’t have any of that.
He pouted in protest, but the knight did not budge an inch.
Asros made a disgruntled face, then turned his eyes back toward the transept.
Sir Varkas had already finished his conversation with the High Priest and was walking toward the transept crossing.
Asros quickly hid behind Berens’s legs.
Sir Varkas cast a brief and indifferent glance at him before striding elegantly through the colonnade.
Watching his retreating figure from behind his guard, Asros whispered, holding his breath:
—What do you think the High Priest told Sir Varkas?
—He was probably reprimanding him for this incident.
—Why? Sir Varkas and the Grand Temple work together. Even if he made some mistake, shouldn’t they cover it up?
A faint, bitter smile appeared in Berens’s eyes.
—The world is not that simple.
Muttering this by way of reproach, Berens slowly turned his head toward the altar where the funeral rites were still taking place.
—Many priests harbor resentment toward the Khan people. Fundamentalist priests, especially, hold a deeply rooted hatred toward the Siorcan clan.
Asros began to ask why, but closed his mouth. The lessons from history class floated back into his mind.
In the past, during the pan-national unification movement led by Darian Roem Gwirta, the last to resist were the Khan.
They even managed to inflict mortal wounds upon Wigru, the knight said to have been chosen by God, during the Final Battle in the North.
After the war, the easterners were also absorbed into the Roem Empire, but the Khan ethnic group had still not completely assimilated into the western world. Likewise, the hostility that the citizens of the Empire felt toward them had not entirely disappeared either.
Recalling these facts, Asros suddenly scoffed.
—That is stupid. Other peoples fought just as fiercely. Rejecting them just because they were the last to surrender… isn’t that a bit petty?
Berens, momentarily surprised, looked at him with wide eyes before lifting a corner of his lips.
—That is not the only reason. It is more that people fear the strength of the Siorcan clan.
—Strength?
He tilted his head, prompting Berens to answer after a brief pause.
—The records say that, within the Siorcan clan, a certain percentage were born with strange abilities: seeing the future, reading minds, or freely commanding beasts. Thanks to these unusual powers, they were once objects of fear.
The story fascinated Asros, and his eyes sparkled.
—So… does Sir Varkas have any special ability?
—That is highly unlikely. The priests examined him thoroughly and found nothing unusual.
Berens stroked his chin, seeming deep in thought.
—Perhaps their abilities have faded after generations of diluted blood. Eighty years ago, a powerful telepath was born, but since then, no “primitive sorcerer” has appeared in the Siorcan lineage.
After declaring this flatly, he hesitated and then added:
—Now that I think about it, I once heard rumors that the previous Empress had the gift of clairvoyance…
—His Highness’s mother?!
Asros asked in surprise.
Berens paused as if choosing his words, then shook his head.
—They are probably just myths created by those who wished to deify her. After all, the Crown Prince and the First Princess are perfectly ordinary.
Then he smiled softly.
—Perhaps the abilities of the Khan people have disappeared completely.
His attempt to reassure him only made Asros feel worse.
Why was that supposed to comfort him?
He had no intentions of opposing his brother. Therefore, the Siorcan clan was not his enemy either.
But he knew that any objection he expressed would be dismissed as a childish complaint, so he kept silent.
—It seems the ceremony is almost over. We should leave.
Seeing the nobles in the high seats withdraw one by one, Berens placed a hand on Asros’s back.
Asros followed him immediately out of the sanctuary. He also had no desire to run into his half-siblings, who treated him like a thorn in their side.
They exited through the back to avoid the crowded main gates, but even in the back garden, a group of nobles was gathered, chatting loudly.
Spotting Gareth’s fervent followers among them, Asros wrinkled his forehead deeply.
They would not dare harm a prince, but he had no intention of dealing with unpleasant faces.
Grabbing Berens’s hand, he guided them toward a narrow, shaded path.
At that moment, a familiar name reached his ears.
—How likely is it that Talia Roem Gwirta will recover?
—Who knows? I heard they found her half dead. Even elves would struggle to heal her completely.
Asros’s eyes widened as he looked at Berens.
—Is that true?
Berens hesitated, worried, before nodding slowly.
Asros’s expression hardened instantly.
He had heard rumors that his sister was not well, but he had no idea things were severe enough for such gossip to circulate.
He demanded sternly:
—Why did no one tell me she was hurt?
—Because it is not something Your Highness should worry about.
—She is my sister! Of course you should tell me!
His sudden shout silenced the noisy garden like cold water poured over fire.
Looking around, Asros realized that the nobles had seen him and were hastily bowing by way of greeting. He frowned.
Unwilling to interact with them, he quickly walked out of the garden with large strides. Berens followed him in silence, sighing.
—Your Highness, the young lady despises you. Your concern will not be reciprocated.
Asros stopped in his tracks and looked at him angrily.
In his heart of hearts, he knew Berens was not wrong. Talia Roem Gwirta detested him; she had told him so herself.
But he could not resign himself to accept it.
—Maybe… maybe she regrets saying that to me. Maybe that day she was just… in a bad mood and said hurtful things. People do that sometimes.
Berens remained silent.
—If I visit her… maybe she will apologize.
It was an impulse, but to him, it seemed plausible.
Without waiting for an answer, Asros headed immediately toward the annex palace.
On the way, he stopped to pick the prettiest flowers in the garden as a recovery gift.
She will be surprised when I show up.
Perhaps, upon seeing such a kind younger brother, she will feel a little affection for me.
Filled with anticipation, Asros hurried across the vast grounds.
At last, beyond the lush garden filled with flowers and leaves, a coarse, gray building came into view.
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