“So I really think we should deal with it now….”

“Even if we do, pregnancy still seems inevitable.”

“I suppose, but…”

Swan’s lips moved faintly, her face pale with discomfort. Atlion gently pushed her loose hair back and pulled her into his arms.

“Wouldn’t it be better if Mirabella had a sibling sooner rather than later? She wouldn’t be so lonely.”

He offered no further explanation, as if the matter were settled. Swan stared at him in silence, her once dark and confused thoughts now swirling with confusion.

***

The fur she was wrapped in was of the finest quality. The tent was far more comfortable than the hut, and the man’s embrace was familiar – warm and comforting. After their intimacy, Atlion always held her as he drifted off to sleep. If someone asked if they had ever shared moments like a married couple, this would probably be the only instance that came to mind.

There was no need to disturb her sleep. But Swan found herself awake before dawn, her whole body aching.

Reaching to her side, she noticed that the room was empty. Sitting up, she looked around. The faint light of dawn shimmered with a bluish tint. Blinking, she got to her feet, slipped into her scattered pyjamas and pulled the blanket over her shoulders.

Cautiously, she stepped out of the tent. A knight standing guard blocked her path, but Swan brushed him off with a simple excuse about having to attend to something and sent him back to his position. Somewhere nearby, a faint murmur reached her ears. Though she had no reason to investigate, her feet unconsciously moved in that direction.

Was it the sound of weapons being stacked? Swan stopped and peered past the pile, her gaze landing on the figures of a man and a woman.

“Josie and…”

Two figures stood there. The faint light of dawn made Josietine easily recognisable, her golden hair shimmering even in the twilight. On a battlefield dominated by grim, rugged men, her beauty was striking – a rarity. Perhaps that was why Atlion had noticed her. 

Or perhaps she still held a place in his heart… The image of Renéee, smug and triumphant, flickered in Swan’s mind. 

“…Would it be out of place to ask what she means to Your Highness?” 

The silence of the early morning, devoid even of birdsong, was broken by a soft voice trembling with suppressed sobs. It was a sharp contrast to the confident image she had presented earlier in the day. Swan’s gaze fell on the woman, her expression crumbling as she stared at Atlion with pleading eyes. 

“I hope Your Highness won’t say I have no right to ask such a question. For the past year, I… I…” 

Her pale lips trembled as she opened and closed them, struggling to find the words. Atlion, his back to her, stood tall, fully armoured, radiating an air of cold, unshakable composure.

“The feelings I had before… I didn’t believe they were mine alone. I really thought – no, I was convinced – that the feelings we shared, the ones between us, weren’t just illusions.”

The woman let out a soft sob, tears running down her pale cheeks before clinging to her skin. When there was no response, she lifted her head and took a step towards him.

Already standing close, her step brought them so close that a kiss seemed imminent. Swan felt his heart begin to freeze, bit by bit.

“Your Highness.”

“Josie.”

Her delicate gaze fixed on his lips. Hearing him say her name seemed to break what little composure she had left, and she moved as if to press her lips to his. But Atlion stepped back, shaking his head and avoiding her kiss. The woman trembled, visibly shaken.

“Keep your composure, Josietine.”

“Your Highness!”

“You have been granted very few privileges.”

“Your Highness…” 

The woman’s voice broke, as if on the verge of sobbing. Atlion stood with his back to her, his face hidden. Her heart was beating loudly, echoing in her ears. Despite his earlier command to maintain decorum, her face was contorted with fear, unable to contain her emotions. 

“Keep your distance. I am your superior.”

And your master. The words that followed were sharp and biting. Even with his cold command, the woman continued to tremble, struggling to compose herself. 

“Have… have your feelings changed?”

She finally asked, stepping back to the distance he had demanded. 

“Does it matter?” 

“Please, just tell me. Is it because of the child? I can have your child too. If it’s for your daughter, I can be a good mother to her. So please…” 

“Your thoughts are not my concern. If that’s what you want to think, then think it.” 

“Your Highness!”

She cried in despair, her voice trembling with emotion.

The woman let out a cry of despair. Then, as if suddenly aware of her surroundings, her gaze shifted from Atlion to Swan. Her silent, icy stare, sharp as broken glass, made Swan gasp. Startled, she took a step back.

The woman spoke again, her voice now calm, clear and collected.

“Answer me one thing. Do you love her?”

“Do I owe you an answer to that?”

“We were engaged.”

Josietine said quietly.

“Had His Majesty not died, I would have been your fiancée. I hardly think it inappropriate to ask.”

Her tone was calm, a stark contrast to the trembling desperation she had shown earlier. Swan stared at Atlion’s back, his heart pounding with fear. He was silent for a moment before finally answering.

“I don’t love her.”

Swan blinked, the words hitting her like a blow. Her heart sank and she stood frozen, watching as he looked only at Josietine.

“But Swan is my wife.”

“……”

“This is all there is.”

Her breathing was labored and a dull ringing filled her ears. Her vision blurred as dizziness set in and she swallowed dryly, trying to moisten her parched throat. Wiping the burning tears from her eyes, she stumbled backwards, her steps unsteady.

Something cracked beneath her feet. Startled, Swan didn’t stop to see what it was. Panicking, she hurried out of the area. The sound of her movements drew Atlion’s attention and he turned, their eyes locked for a moment.

Overwhelmed, Swan turned and fled. The path wasn’t difficult, but her chest heaved and each step felt heavier. Her heart pounded violently, as if it would burst. As she clutched her chest and tried to pick up the pace, someone suddenly stepped out from behind the tent. Startled, she froze. Without warning, the figure grabbed her and held a knife to her throat.

***

“Your Highness!”

A knight, stationed to guard the tent where the remaining prisoners of Lamallac were being held, rushed over and stepped between Josietine and Atlion. The man, covered in scars and burns, looked desperate.

“What happened?” 

“The prisoners have escaped!” 

The knight, panting heavily and dripping with cold sweat, made the urgent report. Hearing this, Josietine bowed to Atlion and quickly turned away, leaving with the reporting knight. As she disappeared, Atlion’s thoughts turned to Swan, remembering her figure behind the pile of supplies. Narrowing his eyes, he began to walk back towards the tent. 

“Your Highness! That lady… she…!” 

The disturbance in the camp had been caused by remnants of the forces Josietine had defeated during her skirmishes in the western region. These rebels had been captured and transported to Solam under her command. 

Josietine was originally on her way to deliver the prisoners, but after receiving word from her younger sister Renéee, she changed course and decided to meet with Atlion instead. For the prisoners, who had been waiting for a chance to escape, the diversion was the perfect opportunity. 

In the early hours of the morning, as preparations were being made for the journey to continue, some prisoners stole horses and fled, while others created riots to seize opportunities to escape. The sudden chaos left several soldiers injured as the camp struggled to restore order.

“Aah!” 

Swan, held by a large man, locked eyes with Atlion. Her tearful green eyes trembled as they met his, filled with fear. Her lips pressed tightly together as her flushed face deepened in colour. The man holding her hair glanced down at her briefly, taking in her reaction. 

But Swan’s green eyes avoided looking directly at Atlion. It seemed deliberate, as if she was deliberately averting her gaze. 

“Ahh! Hic… hic…” 

Soft, broken sobs escaped her trembling lips. Her flushed face seemed to burn, not with fear alone, but with something deeper. Atlion’s sharp eyes shifted to the man holding her – a tall, burly figure. His powerful body bent over her, gripping her slender form tightly, her long hair wrapped around his hand like a rope. 

“Ah!” 

As Swan struggled to free herself, the man suddenly grabbed her chest, causing her to scream in terror. Her cry turned to desperate sobs as she shook uncontrollably. Atlion moved forward, cutting through the knights who had surrounded the scene, his focus fixed on the prisoner. 

Swan’s cheeks flushed, and she lowered her gaze again, deliberately avoiding his. The move was unmistakably deliberate. 

“So this is your wife? That cheap-looking country bumpkin? Still, she reeks of milk just after giving birth… but her *ss and chest are… ugh! Aaaagh!” 

The man, who had been spewing vulgarities with his eyes rolling, suddenly screamed, clutching his hand. At that moment, Swan, whose hair he had been clutching, collapsed to the ground. Atlion looked down at the man’s hand, now half severed by his blade and dangling grotesquely. 

The bloody hand, thick and coarse, was a sickening reminder of his crime. That hand had dared to insult his wife in front of him, to touch what belonged to Atlion alone – her chest, her hips, her waist and the curve of her belly. The intimate dawns and nights spent exploring her soft contours, her soft shoulders, the delicate lines of her body – all that was his and his alone. 

Swan was his, completely. Every part of her, down to the smallest strand of hair, was his. Even the curls of her hair that the man had so carelessly touched were his and his alone.