As the carriage rolled steadily farther down the winding road, the sky above us darkened far too quickly, the light fading with unnatural speed. It was the classic, unmistakable mark of northern winters—daylight disappearing before you even fully realized it was slipping away, stolen by the short days and long nights that characterized this season. The sun seemed to plummet toward the horizon as if eager to escape, leaving us in premature twilight. Recognizing we wouldn't make much more progress before full darkness fell, we decided to stop for the night and make camp, even though we were still not even halfway to Ferne, with many miles yet to travel.
The army moved with practiced efficiency, transforming the roadside clearing into a temporary settlement within the span of an hour. Camps were set up with military precision. Campfires sprang to life one after another across the encampment like stars appearing in the evening sky, their warm orange glow pushing back against the encroaching darkness. Soldiers huddled in groups around the dancing flames, seeking warmth and companionship, brewing pots of tea and stirring large pots of dinner. Delicious aromas began drifting through the cold air—roasting meat, simmering spices, freshly cooked rice—filling the clearing we had chosen and making my stomach rumble with unexpected hunger.
Arvid set up our personal tent swiftly, his movements practiced and efficient, clearly having done this countless times during his military campaigns. His hands worked with barely a wasted motion, driving stakes into the frozen ground and securing ropes with expert knots. He lit our private campfire even faster, coaxing flames from kindling in what seemed like seconds. Then he grabbed a blackened cooking pot from his pack, positioned it carefully over the flames on an iron tripod, and turned to face me with a question in his eyes.
"Which tea would you prefer—jasmine or chamomile?" he asked politely, his tone neutral and careful.
It was the first time he had actually spoken to me directly since my earlier outburst—since I had thoughtlessly, cruelly called him a tyrant. The words had hung between us like a wall for hours.
"Jasmine," I answered softly, my voice barely above a whisper, watching him closely and trying to read his expression. He looked focused and calm on the surface, his face carefully composed, but I thought I could detect tension in his shoulders.
He reached into his travel pack and took out a small cloth pouch that I recognized immediately as containing jasmine tea—I could smell the faint floral scent even from where I sat. He carefully sprinkled the dried flowers and leaves into the hot water that had begun to steam in the pot. As the tea steeped, releasing its essence into the water, a gentle, soothing fragrance wafted upward—light and floral and calming, almost enough to loosen the tight, painful knot that had been sitting in my chest since we left the capital.
He poured a generous cup with steady hands and extended it toward me. I accepted it gratefully with both hands, cradling the warm ceramic, feeling the heat seep pleasantly into my cold fingers. The aromatic steam rose and brushed against my nose, and I inhaled deeply. Guilt pressed down heavily on me, settling over my shoulders like a weighted cloak. I had snapped at him earlier out of displaced anger and grief, lashing out because he was there and I was hurting. Yet here he was now, quietly making tea for me himself rather than ordering a servant to do it, tending to my comfort despite my harsh words.
"I'm sorry," I whispered at last, the apology feeling inadequate but necessary. "For what I said earlier. I was wrong."
He heard me clearly—I saw his posture shift slightly in acknowledgment. But he didn't look at me right away, didn't meet my eyes. Instead, he simply poured a second cup for himself with the same careful attention and took a slow, measured sip, his eyes fixed on the fire.
"There's no need to apologize. It's not as if you were wrong in your assessment," he said quietly, taking another deliberate drink. But I noticed his expression had dimmed considerably; he looked genuinely sad now, melancholy settling over his features. "That's what people call me anyway, isn't it? A tyrant. A murderer. The emperor who spilled the blood of his own relatives and trusted ministers without hesitation or mercy. The people obey me because they fear me and what I might do if they don't. I know that. I've always known that."
He made a brief signal to a passing soldier, a quick gesture I barely registered. Within just a few minutes, our dinner arrived, carried on a large wooden platter by a young man who looked nervous. The soldier who had prepared our meal took several bites of each dish in front of us, chewing thoroughly and swallowing before stepping back—it was a ritual I recognized, a necessary safety measure to prove the food wasn't poisoned.
"Southern people have a long tradition of poisoning their enemies," Arvid explained matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. "And we have developed so many different poisons over the centuries—some that kill instantly, some that take days or weeks, some that mimic natural illness. I have built up immunity to most common ones because I was systematically trained to consume small, gradually increasing doses since I was a young child. It's standard practice for anyone in the imperial family. But you haven't been, obviously. So we must be careful."
On the platter before us sat fragrant rice and a rich, aromatic curry that steamed invitingly in the cold air. He picked up a spoon and handed it to me with a slightly apologetic expression.
"We usually eat with our hands in the South—it's traditional, considered proper," he explained. "But since you're not accustomed to that practice and I don't want to make you uncomfortable, please use this."
I accepted the spoon gratefully, my fingers closing around the smooth wooden handle.
"I didn't mean what I said earlier," I confessed quietly, needing him to understand. "Not truly. Not in my heart."
I lifted a spoonful of rice to my lips—my first time ever trying genuine Southern rice. The North grew wheat almost exclusively; our climate was too cold and dry for rice cultivation. The South, with its warmth and water, grew rice in vast paddies. The grains were remarkably soft and fragrant, seasoned with exotic spices that warmed my tongue and filled my mouth with complex, layered flavors I had never experienced before. It was absolutely delicious, better than I had imagined.
"I don't think you're a tyrant at all," I told him earnestly, looking directly into his eyes so he could see my sincerity. "I think you're a strong leader who made difficult choices. There's a difference."
He looked at me with an unreadable, serious expression for a long moment, his ash-gray eyes searching my face.
"The people who died by my hands would disagree with your generous assessment," he replied quietly, his voice carrying the weight of old guilt and justified deaths.
---
The next day arrived with pale morning light filtering through the tent. We resumed our journey toward Ferne, the carriage rolling back onto the road as the army packed up camp around us. But we didn't speak much during those long hours of travel. He seemed lost in his own world, staring out the window with distant eyes, his thoughts clearly far away. I drifted through memories of my own past, sifting through fragments of childhood, faint smiles occasionally tugging at the corners of my lips as I remembered happy moments.
He was the one who eventually broke the heavy silence that had settled between us.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, his voice genuinely curious, his eyes shifting to fix intently on my face. "You keep smiling slightly. Good memories?"
"Just old memories, yes," I answered softly, vaguely. "Simpler times."
"What about you? What occupies your thoughts?"
He hesitated visibly, his jaw working as if chewing on words. Then he looked deliberately out the window, unable to meet my eyes for what he was about to say.
"You asked me why I wanted to marry you specifically," he began slowly. "I thought… I should finally be honest with you. Completely honest."
I immediately sat up straighter, my full attention snapping to him. He was serious? Truly going to tell me? My curiosity sharpened to a razor's edge, my heart beginning to beat faster.
"I first saw you eleven years ago, when I came to Draga for the first time in my life," he said quietly. "I was only nine years old. Just a child. And I remember thinking, even then—when I grow up and become a man, I'm going to marry that girl."
A sad, wistful smile touched his lips, transforming his face.
"Silly child's fantasy, I know. I came to Draga with my mother on what was supposed to be a diplomatic visit. She wanted to meet Draga's king personally, to discuss something important. I didn't understand why at the time—politics meant nothing to me then. But she was killed by assassins before she could ever have that meeting. They ambushed our small party on the road. I was suddenly stranded in a foreign kingdom, alone and terrified, so I ran and hid in a cave system near Ferne, staying there for days until my father's people could organize a search and eventually found me."
He paused, gathering himself, his hands clenching and unclenching.
"When you found me in those caves… you were with a red-haired boy and an older girl with beautiful curly black hair," he continued, his voice growing softer with memory. "You kept my secret. You didn't tell the adults or turn me in for a reward. Instead, you brought me food and water every single day, sneaking away from your duties. You carefully treated my wounds with medicines you must have stolen. You saved my life."
I frowned deeply, confusion and frustration washing over me. "I… I don't remember any of that. None of it. Not you, not finding anyone in caves, nothing."
He looked away quickly, visible regret washing over his face and tightening his features.
"Maybe you don't remember because of what happened after," he said heavily. "Maybe your mind blocked it out to protect you. My mother had hidden me before the assassins found and killed her, but they never gave up searching for me—I was a loose end, a witness. When they eventually saw you bringing food deeper and deeper into the woods, away from normal paths, they followed you secretly, waiting for their moment. That same day, the older girl apparently noticed your strange behavior—the sneaking around, the stolen food—and she followed you too, worried about what you were doing."
His voice began to shake slightly.
"When the assassins finally attacked us in the cave, she—the girl with curly hair—she stepped directly in front of you without hesitation, taking a blade meant for you. And another boy came running when he heard the screams, a boy with black hair who looked remarkably like you. Your brother, I realized later. He tried desperately to protect her, to protect both of you. They both died within moments. Brutally. Then the assassins turned toward us, ready to finish the job. That's when my teacher finally found me—he'd been tracking the assassins for days. He killed them all in seconds, every single one, and sent up a flare so your people would find you. And then we left Draga immediately, that very night, before anyone could ask questions."
My vision blurred suddenly, the carriage interior swimming. My brother. My kind, brave brother who had always protected me.
Misty. My best friend, my confidante, the girl who had been like a sister to me.
Dead. Both dead. Gone forever.
Because of me. Because I had led danger straight to them. Because I had been foolish and naive and thought I was helping.
No—not just because of me. I was the direct cause. I killed them.
My throat tightened painfully until it physically hurt to breathe. Tears spilled hot and fast before I even felt them coming, before I could try to stop them or hold them back.
I killed them. The thought repeated like a hammer blow. I killed my brother. I killed Misty. Their blood is on my hands.
He moved toward me in the confined carriage space, reaching out to comfort me, to offer consolation. But I instinctively pushed him away, pressing myself back against the cushioned wall.
"It's not your fault, Rhia," he said softly, earnestly, his voice pleading. "You were just a child trying to help someone. You couldn't have known—"
But his well-meaning words only broke me more completely, shattering whatever fragile composure I had left.
Because I knew the terrible truth that he was trying to deny. I understood with devastating clarity what I was. I was the disaster. I was the catastrophe that destroyed my family. I was the reason my parents had changed, why my mother had become distant and cold, why my father had aged so rapidly. I had brought death into our home.
How could I ever forgive myself for what I had done? How could I live with this knowledge?
The answer was simple and horrible: I couldn't.