Chapter 13

Right. If he were unwell, the other knights would have asked if there were any medicinal herbs.

‘It’s probably nothing serious…’

The woman quickly went to the kitchen, ordered 23 servings from Simon, and busied herself with tasks to distract her thoughts. Yet, in her imagination, Karel had already become a vivid figure, groaning under luxurious blankets from a high fever and muscle pain. And Selma’s firm voice repeatedly echoed in her mind.

‘If that man asks you to do anything, call me or the other servants immediately!’

She knew Selma was overprotective of her. It felt unnecessary, but at the same time, she trusted that Selma would never let her come to harm. Trying to shake off the image of a bedridden Karel, the woman lifted a pot of boiling water filled with cloths.

‘He might just be busy. Or maybe he wasn’t hungry this morning. Or perhaps our food doesn’t suit his taste.’

Yes, that must be it.

The woman quickly latched onto the excuse that comforted her the most. If that man, who reluctantly joined them at the dining hall out of courtesy, had grown tired of the inn’s stew—which was endlessly reheated with new ingredients—it would hardly be surprising.

‘Simon even said he added expensive beef for me today.’

Well, that’s his problem.

As she filled her mind with such thoughts, carrying the boiled cloths in a basket toward the well, she suddenly froze.

‘Oh my goodness!’

Startled, she almost dropped the steaming basket. Right next to the well stood the very man she had been imagining groaning in bed just moments ago.

The man, shirtless in the cold weather, was bending over, pouring freshly drawn water over his head.

‘In this cold? Is he trying to make himself sick?’

The thick muscles covering his back flexed with every movement. The morning sunlight reflected off the water dripping from his neck and back, illuminating the contours of his muscles in a dazzling display.

Drops of water fell from the ends of his black hair.

‘Well, he seems healthy enough…’

Unconsciously hiding behind a corner, the woman took in every detail of the scene. The man’s arms repeatedly drenched his head with cold water, his back muscles rippling as he shook off the droplets. Even the tiny water particles scattering around him seemed vivid. The sight of his muscular arms, chest, and back brought her mind back to that fateful night a few days ago.

Those thick arms that had held her captive. That broad, muscular back and waist that had moved so powerfully above her, relentlessly.

‘How indecent… Thinking about this in the morning…’

Her face turned crimson, but a tingling sensation spread below her navel. She tried to dismiss her pounding heart as mere shock, but there was no denying it.

* * *

Thanks to the upcoming Sabbath, Selma’s inn grew busier from late afternoon. While it was the largest tavern in Oedel, the influx of long-term guests from outside the region was the main reason for the crowd. Villagers from the Northern Gray Mountain Range had flocked to Selma’s inn to catch a glimpse of knights from the royal capital, a sight they would never encounter in their lifetimes.

“Four ales over here!”

“Yes!”

“Miss, there’s no salt or pepper here.”

“Just a moment!”

“Have you taken our order yet?”

“Sorry, I’ll be right there!”

As a result, the woman was busy all day. She spent the morning making up for unfinished tasks, and from lunchtime onward, guests celebrating the Sabbath eve kept her occupied.

Though her body was exhausted, she was grateful. It kept her from dwelling on the restless thoughts of the morning.

On the memories of that noble man and the night she had decided to treasure forever.

On the lingering sensations of that night that refused to leave her.

On the indecent desire to relive the intimate heat she had experienced for the first time.

The constant work allowed her to forget the confusion and turmoil over an experience she had never encountered before. She didn’t even know how to process it.

So, when evening arrived…

“Look, is that them?”

“Wow, those are the knights from the royal capital?”

“They’re on a completely different level than the mercenaries who pass through here.”

The hall grew momentarily noisy with the arrival of the expedition team. As the entire unit settled into the large tables reserved for them, a brief silence fell over the room. The unspoken tension naturally drew the gaze of the woman, who was weaving through the hall with beer mugs in both hands.

The leader of the expedition entered through the doorway leading to the guest rooms.

“As expected of a nobleman from the capital…”

“Look at that physique.”

“They say he’s survived countless brutal battles…”

“He truly is Cambiano’s Shield.”

Hushed voices murmured throughout the hall. Karel, aware of the awkward atmosphere his presence created, walked toward the seat his subordinates had left for him, his expression impassive.

‘He’s here!’

A momentary spark of joy flickered in the woman’s heart as she watched him among the crowd.

‘…No, I shouldn’t pay attention.’

Recalling Selma’s warning, she quickly turned her head away.

“One full course for everyone first.”

“Yes, it’s already being prepared.”

“And for drinks…”

As the woman carried beer mugs from table to table, she overheard Selma taking orders from Karel’s subordinates.

Even in moments like these, the knight, who had suppressed all his emotions even in bed, never raised his voice. She knew this from observing him closely, yet she couldn’t help but strain to hear his deep, abyss-like voice.

She scolded herself for seeking traces of that night, unsure why she kept doing so.

“Here! Bring more pickles!”

“Just a moment!”

“Five mugs of beer!”

“And brandy too!”

“Yes!”

Even such thoughts were a luxury. The woman was swept away by the constant calls and orders from the customers, flitting around the hall from one end to the other. As a result, she had no chance to hear what drink the man might have ordered with his deep, resonant voice or see whether he once again grimaced at the inn’s meal, which he seemed to barely tolerate.

Between carrying bowls of stew, plates of roasted rabbit, sausage dishes, and trays loaded with cheap wine and distilled spirits, she was constantly on the move.

“Excuse me, can I place an order?”

“Yes, yes!”

Hearing the voice calling her from nearby, she turned around—and her heart sank.

‘Oh, it’s him.’

The man with shoulder-length brown hair tied neatly back…

‘The one who’s always with the knight…!’

At first, Selma’s sharp gaze had kept her from even approaching Karel’s unit, but as work got busier, she must have unconsciously wandered closer. Her eyes slid past the man who had called her, landing on Karel’s profile behind him. He was sipping from a mug of ale, his expression as indifferent as ever. The drink was more than half full—he was merely wetting his lips.

The woman’s heart pounded as she took in the sight of his hands gripping the mug and the movement of his throat as he swallowed in small, measured sips.

“Three mugs of beer here.”

“Oh, yes, yes!”

The voice of Karel’s lieutenant, Winden, snapped her out of her daze.

“Add two plates of fried potatoes.”

“Some bread here!”

“This table’s empty too.”

“Alright, refill the bread basket. And…”

Winden trailed off, turning his head toward Karel beside him.

“How about a glass of whiskey to cleanse your palate?”

Karel, who had just set his mug down with a casual motion, let his gaze drift lazily in her direction. The woman swallowed hard, her eyes darting to him over Winden’s shoulder. In that fleeting moment, when his blue eyes shifted slightly, she knew.

She knew he was looking at her.

The same eyes that had trapped her that night—the piercing, moonlit blue of midnight.

Her hands clenched tightly, her grip firm.

Karel’s expression hardened. That subtle change alone made his face instantly intimidating.

“…I’m heading up first.”

“What? All of a sudden?”

Frowning slightly, Karel turned his head away and ignored his lieutenant’s response, leaving the hall without another word.

‘Is he… angry?’

The woman froze in place, her body stiff with tension.

* * *

In any case, there was no way for her to avoid Karel completely. While Selma took care of tidying his room and serving him during meals, the woman, as a runner darting all over the inn, inevitably encountered him once or twice a day.

And every time, Karel seemed angry.

At first, it was just a suspicion. His face was so impeccably handsome it resembled a sculpture, but like a real sculpture, it rarely displayed any expression. He always seemed stern. Perhaps he was displeased with the inn’s beer or food, or maybe the low-class noise of the tavern’s patrons irritated him.

But when it happened repeatedly—at the well, in the third-floor hallway near his room, or in the busy courtyard or stair landings—she couldn’t help but notice.