The man’s gleaming brown eyes filled Atlion with a sickening disgust. At some point he had drawn the sword from his waist. Before the man could utter another vile word, Atlion swung with precision and severed his wrist. The cut wasn’t clean, leaving the pale bones exposed through the torn flesh. 

This was the hand that had dared to fondle the br*ast that the man had claimed “reeked of milk”. The thought of him touching Swan, smelling her sweet scent, made Atlion’s stomach churn with rage. Her soft, smooth skin, glowing with her pregnancy, had been stained by the man’s filthy hand.

The rich scent of his wife existed only because of him. It was his and his alone. She was not someone a filthy mongrel could ever dare to touch.

“Aaagh!”

Before the writhing man could draw his weapon, Atlion crushed his dangling wrist underfoot. The man’s deafening scream echoed through the tent, reverberating in the tense air. The grey clouds rolling lazily over the hills seemed ominous. Swan crawled, trembling, along the blood-stained ground.

Atlion, mercilessly grinding the bones beneath his boot, severed the man’s other hand with a clean blow, leaving it lifeless on the ground. Swan bit her lip hard to hold back her sobs, her body shaking as the man’s agonised screams seemed to cut into her own flesh.

She clutched her ears and squeezed her eyes shut as the metallic smell of blood overwhelmed her senses, turning her empty stomach in sickening waves.

“Hic… hic…”

Huddled on the ground like a crushed insect, Swan let out soft, muffled sobs. The noise around her grew louder, filled with voices and commotion. A man’s urgent cry broke through the chaos:

“Your Highness!”

Desperation filled Swan’s chest as she tried to crawl away, clutching the ground with trembling hands. 

Then, suddenly, she was lifted off the ground. The weightless feeling of being carried was all too familiar. There was only one person who would hold her like that. Swan looked up at Atlion, her tear-filled eyes meeting his.

The night he took her by force, peeled her open, rubbed her cl*t and thrust himself inside, Swan never once felt that he was her husband. Not then, not now – she couldn’t see him that way, not for a moment.

Through her blurred vision she saw him standing over her, his figure clear through the haze. The image of his indifferent back earlier, behind the pile of supplies, came to mind. Distant and unfeeling – everything seemed insignificant to him. Even his admission that he did not love her carried the same careless indifference.

She raised a trembling hand and pressed it lightly against his chest. The light touch made him frown slightly. Swan’s pale lips quivered as if to speak, but she was silent, her thoughts interrupted as he shifted and carried her forward.

” Hold him.”

Atlion murmured in a low voice before they left the area. 

Moments later, Raol and Josietine arrived, their eyes landing on Swan one by one. Swan bit her lip hard, trying to hold back the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. 

*** 

The hands that wiped away the blood were soft. Swan, her eyes dull and unfocused, traced the floor absently with her fingers. A medic had examined her earlier and found no serious injuries, only minor bruises. 

Yet Atlion watched her as if she were a fragile woman whose heart had been broken. His movements were cautious, almost hesitant, as if he feared doing her more harm. 

As Swan shivered from the cold, her shoulders trembling, the man wiping away the dried blood fetched a blanket. She watched in silence, her expression blank, as he draped it over her.

As soon as they reached the tent, Atlion sat Swan down on the bed. He didn’t ask her anything – not why she had been watching him and Josietine from behind the pile of supplies, nor why she wasn’t safely inside the tent, but wandering around causing the trouble that had put him in a difficult situation. 

He simply wiped the blood from her face and said nothing. As if to ease her tension, he removed his bloodstained gauntlets and gently rubbed the back of her hand. His touch was disarmingly gentle. But it was the touch of a man who didn’t love her. Yes, he didn’t love her… 

“I don’t love her.” 

She’d always known he wasn’t a man easily swayed by love. Still, there had been a time when she thought he might have cared for her, if only a little. She had believed that he had chosen to be with her because he liked her, even a little. She had also hoped that one day he would truly care for Mirabella. Swan had trusted that time would bridge the gap between them, that time could melt even the coldest emotions. 

But it had all been her own foolish, unfounded hope. 

A long-buried question resurfaced in her mind: why had he married her? Why had he declared himself her husband that day so readily and without resistance? At the time, she had believed it was because he cared for her, because he had let her into a small corner of his heart. But now…

When she told him she was pregnant, he hadn’t questioned her. That lack of questioning had kept her on edge, right up to their humble excuse for a wedding. She had feared he would leave, just as her father had – abandoning her, pregnant and alone, to flee into the wilderness. She had felt utterly helpless. 

Even after the ceremony, nothing really bound him to her. Not even their unborn daughter seemed to mean anything to him – it was just another trivial thing. And now, looking back, she felt she understood him even less than before. 

“She’s my wife.” 

Was that what it meant to be a royal? She remembered something Tom had said once: that royals and nobles were different from commoners. For them, marriage was a union of convenience, a contract. Even if they took mistresses, a woman they married would always remain their wife – it was simply their way. 

Perhaps it was duty. He might not love Mirabella, but as her father, he fulfilled his responsibilities. He didn’t love Swan either, but he hadn’t abandoned her. Whether it was duty or something else, it was clear that it wasn’t love that held him to her. It was something she couldn’t quite understand. 

And yet… 

Her eyes slowly lifted from the floor. The man who had just wiped her cheek was now pulling down her pyjama top and touching her br*ast. Her exposed n*pple had hardened into a small, firm bead. 

Swan watched him intently, her eyes hard as she stared at his expression as he looked at her br*ast. Whatever thoughts were running through his mind remained a mystery to her. 

His hand, which had traced the curve of her chest, began to knead her soft br*ast as his other hand slid down to her groin. Swan blinked rapidly as his fingers found her cl*t and explored it with deliberate intent. His insistent movements made it clear that he intended to push his fingers inside her. 

Swan stifled a small whimper and tried to push his hand away. His gaze, which had been focused on her chest, shifted to her face. 

Flustered and flushed, Swan reached for his fingers but his large hand easily covered hers. With surprising gentleness, he removed her hand from his. The hand on her br*ast brushed her n*pple, sending an involuntary shiver through her body. 

“Mmm… Hah…” 

Her brow furrowed as a muffled, tearful sound escaped her lips. 

“Your Highness, Sir Raoul and Josietine await your report.”

A calm voice called from outside the tent. 

Swan froze, her gaze flickering between his still hands and his face. He paused, studying her for a moment, then leaned down to plant a kiss on her br*ast. 

Startled by the unexpected gesture, she instinctively moved to push him away. Instead, he stood and carefully adjusted her pyjama top, restoring her modesty. Her heart raced as she watched him. 

“Rest.”

He said softly before leaving the tent. 

Atlion, who had been silent the entire time, finally spoke in a low whisper. His words carried the unspoken implication that she should stay where she was. Swan didn’t nod or reply; she just glanced at him briefly before lowering her eyes. 

***

Atlion hadn’t returned even as the sun passed its peak. Being alone in the tent made Swan increasingly uneasy. There was nothing to occupy her, and the constant murmur of people passing by only added to her discomfort. 

Occasionally, bits of conversation reached her – not rumours, but blunt truths. Things like that country bumpkin the Crown Prince married. Every hushed remark about her seemed to find its way into the tent, which offered no barriers against prying voices. 

Eventually, Swan couldn’t stand it any longer and left the tent, wandering between the barracks. Staying inside felt suffocating, especially with Mirabella missing since midnight. Worried about her daughter and desperate to find the maid who usually looked after her, Swan decided to look for her herself. 

As soon as she stepped outside, the knights guarding the tent moved to block her path. Swan gave them a sharp look and explained firmly that she was looking for her daughter. One of the knights suggested sending a subordinate to look for her, but Swan shook her head. 

She didn’t trust them to follow through. They might say they were looking for Mirabella, but she didn’t trust them to keep their word. 

When Swan shook her head firmly, one of the knights sighed and said he would inform His Highness of her actions before leaving. Swan watched him with a blank expression before continuing her search. Another knight offered to accompany her, but she ignored him and continued on her way. 

As she walked, her eyes fell upon the wounded soldiers scattered about the area, victims of the prisoners’ earlier escape attempt. Though their numbers were small, the fact that the fugitives were skilled knights had had a noticeable effect. Many of the wounded were wandering aimlessly, with no proper place to rest. 

“Hm?” 

As she walked, lost in thought, a familiar figure appeared in front of her. It was the young soldier she had seen the day before, his messy, dull blond hair and youthful face making him instantly recognisable. 

Swan stopped and stared at the man, who seemed to recognise her as well. 

“You’re the woman I saw yesterday, aren’t you?”