Laury spent the day with the soldiers—not training them, not yet.
Instead, he made them carry water, stand straight, repeat simple commands, learn to look forward instead of down. He wanted them to feel responsible before they ever felt strong. By sunset, they were exhausted, confused, and strangely… proud.
Only then did he return to the castle.
He was shown a corridor leading to the baths, but on his way, he noticed an open door.
Music spilled out. Laughter—loud, careless, drunk.
Laury paused.
Inside was a feast.
Golden tables, overflowing plates, spilled wine. Royals leaned against cushions, shouting nonsense, clapping at jokes that made no sense. Faces red, movements clumsy—grown men and women behaving like children who had never been told no.
Laury watched them with quiet disgust.
"So this is Salvania," he muttered. "Rot wrapped in gold."
"Don't mind them."
Her voice came from behind him.
Margret stood at the doorway, her expression calm but distant.
"They are like statues here," she said. "They eat, drink, laugh… and do nothing."
A pause.
"Like animals trapped in comfort."
Laury scoffed. "That's exactly why I hate royals."
She nodded. "I know you do."
Then she looked at him—really looked at him.
"But I didn't deserve to be ignored by my own people while I was speaking," she said quietly. "I wasn't lying to them. I'm not like the others."
The words were not angry.
They were honest.
And they cut deeper than accusation.
Margret turned and walked away, leaving Laury alone with the sound of drunken laughter and a feeling he had not expected.
Guilt.
For the first time, he wondered if his defiance had wounded the wrong person.