We had left in a hurry, the departure feeling rushed and chaotic despite all our careful preparations. I pressed my face close to the glass and watched as the figures of the people I loved grew smaller and smaller, their waving hands becoming tiny dots as the carriage pulled steadily away, the horses' hooves clattering against the cobblestones. I kept my eyes fixed desperately on the tiny window at the back of the carriage, refusing to look away, trying to hold onto the sight of home for as long as physically possible. The capital grew more distant with each passing moment until we took a sharp turn to the left, following the bend in the road, and suddenly the familiar walls and towers of my home finally disappeared completely from sight, hidden behind the hills and trees.
I turned around slowly, reluctantly tearing my gaze from the empty window—only to find myself facing Arvid directly. He sat across from me in the enclosed space, watching me with those ash-gray eyes. At that precise moment, looking at him sitting there so calmly while my world fell apart, I hated him with an intensity that shocked me. The feeling was so overwhelming and all-consuming it made my chest physically ache, as if my heart were being squeezed in a vice. And when I get truly angry, when emotion becomes too much to contain, I cry. It's an unfortunate tendency I've never been able to control. So that's exactly what happened now. Tears spilled uncontrollably down my cheeks, hot and fast; ragged sobs tore themselves from my throat without permission. I cried ugly—messy and loud and completely undignified, my face contorting and my breath coming in gasps.
Arvid's expression immediately shifted from calm observation to alarm. He got up from his seat without hesitation and moved to sit beside me on my bench, the carriage swaying slightly with his movement.
"Don't cry, please—" he said softly, his voice filled with genuine distress. He reached into his pocket and offered me a handkerchief that I could smell even from a distance, the fabric scented faintly with sandalwood and something else I couldn't quite identify. I didn't take it, too upset to accept comfort from the person I currently blamed for my pain.
"All I ever do is make you cry," he continued, remorse thick and heavy in his voice like honey. He looked even sadder than I felt, if such a thing were possible, his shoulders slumping and his eyes downcast.
But then his specific choice of words finally penetrated through my emotional fog and actually sank in properly. All I ever do is make you cry? I turned the phrase over in my mind, examining it. Yes, I had cried in front of him twice now—once on our first meeting at the camps and now—but that hardly seemed like enough to warrant such a sweeping, tragic statement. That particular phrasing shouldn't make him sound like some tragic figure from my distant past, someone who had hurt me repeatedly over years. He looked and sounded like he was recalling something from long, long ago, accessing memories that stretched back far beyond our recent acquaintance… or maybe I was simply overthinking things as I tended to do, reading meaning into innocent words because I was upset. Still, the nagging feeling persisted. I needed clarity, needed to understand what he meant.
"Have we met before?" I asked directly, my voice coming out hoarse and rough from crying, barely recognizable as my own. "Before the marriage negotiations, I mean. Have we met at some point in the past?"
He looked genuinely surprised by the question, his eyebrows rising and his mouth opening slightly. Then, as he processed what I was asking and presumably realized what his words had revealed, his eyes dimmed even more, the light going out of them.
"Just as I thought…" he murmured, so quietly I almost didn't hear him over the sound of the carriage wheels. "You don't remember me at all, do you?"
Before I could press him for more information, before I could demand he explain what he meant by that cryptic statement, a sharp knock sounded loudly on the carriage door, interrupting our conversation. The carriage began to slow its pace, the driver pulling the horses back. Arvid leaned over and opened the side window with practiced ease, letting in a gust of cool air and the sounds of the traveling army. A large, imposing man with darker brown skin rode his horse right beside our carriage, matching our pace perfectly. His eyes were a deep, rich earthy brown that caught the sunlight.
"Your Imperial Majesty," he addressed Arvid formally, his voice carrying easily over the ambient noise. "Shall we take the same route south as we did on our journey here—the one that goes through the Ferne lands ruled by Lord Yoyenne?"
At the mere mention of that name—Yoyenne—my tears vanished instantly as if they had never existed. My blood boiled with sudden, fierce rage, replacing grief with fury in a heartbeat. The emotion was so strong it almost made me dizzy.
Good. Perfect, actually. I could finally direct this overwhelming anger somewhere useful, channel it toward someone who actually deserved it.
And Misty's grave was in Ferne. The thought came to me suddenly. I could visit her too, pay my respects to the friend I had lost.
So before Arvid could formulate a response, before he could speak at all, I leaned forward and spoke clearly and firmly.
"Yes, take that route," I commanded, my voice steady and cold. "I have some unfinished business to attend to in Ferne. Important business that cannot wait."
The messenger glanced uncertainly at Arvid, clearly unsure whether to follow my orders or wait for confirmation from his actual emperor. Arvid met his eyes and nodded once, giving his approval. The man bowed from his saddle and then rode off quickly, spurring his horse forward to relay the message to the scouts and advance guard.
Arvid closed the window in one smooth, efficient motion, shutting out the noise and wind.
"I need a maid," I said calmly, as if discussing the weather rather than plotting something. "A personal attendant for my time in the South."
I paused deliberately, letting anticipation build.
"And I think Yoyenne's only daughter—Katherine—would make a fine one, don't you think?"
I smiled as I said it. Arvid's eyes widened noticeably as he took in my expression, clearly startled by whatever he saw on my face. I probably looked vicious, vindictive, like a predator baring its teeth. I didn't care at all. The Yoyennes had brought this upon themselves the moment they chose to betray me. They would pay for their choices, and taking Katherine—stripping her of her comfortable life and forcing her into servitude—would be a good start.
"Do as you wish," Arvid replied simply, not arguing or questioning my decision. He seemed content to let me have my revenge, or perhaps he understood that I needed this.
---
We rode steadily onward, passing endless pine trees that lined both sides of the well-maintained paved road. The forest stretched seemingly endlessly on both sides of us, dense and dark and ancient. The journey settled into a quiet rhythm, broken only by the steady, rhythmic clatter of countless hooves on stone, the occasional whinny of a horse protesting or communicating, and the low, continuous chatter of the two soldiers who had been assigned to ride close beside our carriage as guards and escorts.
They spoke in Arthia—the language of Selon and the southern empire—which had a characteristically nasal and high-pitched quality that many northerners found grating. It was another language I had painstakingly learned during my four years of castle-bound life, during the intensive education that had prepared me for queenship. I listened closely to their conversation, focusing my attention and piecing together their words and meaning despite the rumbling of the carriage and other ambient noise.
"—this detour is completely unnecessary," one of them was complaining, frustration evident even in a language I didn't speak natively. "We could reach the South so much faster if we simply crossed the Aresina River at the far southern border, near the lands of Regine. Practically no one lives in that region—it's empty wilderness. We could cross the river safely in just two days of travel. Going through Ferne will force us to detour significantly and add at least three more days to our journey. That's five days total just to accommodate this request."
"It's only two extra days in the grand scheme of things," the other replied more philosophically, his tone suggesting he was the more patient of the pair. "We can bear with it. The Emperor must have his reasons for agreeing."
I had heard enough. I abruptly reached over and slid open the window beside us, startling both soldiers.
"No, actually it will take a full week," I corrected them crisply in completely fluent Arthia, pronouncing each word with perfect accuracy and the proper nasal quality. "I want to visit a dear friend's grave and pay my proper respects. And I intend to enjoy the hospitality of Lord Yoyenne for several days. It will take a week, possibly longer."
Both soldiers visibly startled at hearing Arthia spoken by someone they had assumed was just another northerner who couldn't understand them. They immediately bowed low in their saddles, apologized profusely for their disrespectful conversation, and then hurried their horses forward to ride ahead of us, clearly embarrassed at being caught gossiping.
Behind me, Arvid suddenly burst into bright, genuine laughter—the sound melodic and clear, like temple bells ringing, dripping with amusement at the soldiers' discomfort and my perfectly timed intervention.
"You speak Arthia?" he said with obvious delight—speaking in Arthia himself now. But instead of using the high-pitched, nasal tone the language normally required, the tone that marked someone as a native speaker, his voice dropped unexpectedly low when speaking it. Lower, actually, than when he spoke my native tongue, Relina. The dramatic change startled me, catching me completely off guard. It gave the language an entirely different character, made it sound almost intimate.
"You speak fluent Relina too," I countered, pointing out the obvious. "Far more fluently than most southerners I've met, actually, who usually have terrible accents. Did you learn it specifically for this marriage, or did you study it earlier?"
"Not through formal study, no," he said thoughtfully. "I traveled extensively with my teacher for many years—seven years, to be exact. We wandered from kingdom to kingdom, never staying anywhere too long. I learned languages and absorbed different cultures as I went, picking things up naturally through immersion. I visited Draga once during those travels, too." His voice drifted slightly, taking on a distant quality as he accessed old memories.
"That's when you met me?" I pressed immediately, seizing on this new information, my curiosity fully aroused now. "During that visit to Draga?"
He opened his mouth as if to answer, then abruptly shut it just as quickly, apparently thinking better of whatever he had been about to reveal.
"I'll tell you everything after you meet my teacher," he said simply, his tone making it clear this was non-negotiable. "Not before."
A sudden, inexplicable chill crawled up my spine at those words, raising the hair on my arms. Something about that answer felt forbidden and dangerous, like he was asking me to open a sealed door in my mind that had been deliberately locked. A door I wasn't meant to unlock, that had been closed for good reason. The feeling was so strong and unsettling I had to physically shake it off with effort, forcing my shoulders to relax.
To fix the suddenly heavy atmosphere that had settled over our enclosed space, to dispel the tension, I deliberately shifted to a lighter topic.
"Will we have a proper wedding ceremony in the South?" I asked with genuine curiosity. "I know we're already legally married, but will there be a celebration?"
Arvid's expression immediately brightened, his smile returning. "Of course we will. I've planned an elaborate celebration that will last two full weeks—maybe longer if things go well. I already sent word ahead when you first said yes to the marriage. By the time we actually arrive at the capital, everything will be completely ready—the decorations, the food, the guest lists, everything."
"Tell me about southern weddings," I requested earnestly, leaning forward slightly. "The culture, the traditions, the expectations… what I should know to avoid embarrassing myself or offending anyone."
"Oh…" He paused, considering where to begin. "Where do I even start? Southern weddings are absolutely grand affairs—huge celebrations with countless guests, elaborate ceremonies that go on for days. There's endless food, professional musicians, dancing that continues until dawn. But honestly, you don't need to worry yourself about any of that. Just be yourself. That's more than enough."
"But I want to do well," I insisted, feeling anxiety creep in. "I want to represent Draga properly and honor your customs. Please assign me a tutor before the wedding so I can prepare adequately, learn what I need to know."
He smiled warmly and lightly grabbed my arm in a reassuring gesture, his hand warm through my sleeve.
"No matter what you do, I won't be offended," he said with complete sincerity. "And if I'm not offended, then the people in the South won't be either—they follow my lead. But I'll assign you a tutor anyway, since you're asking so earnestly and it clearly matters to you."
"My gods—what a tyrant you are," I teased, pulling my hand back with exaggerated horror. "Telling people what to think and feel."
He didn't smile at my joke. His expression remained serious, thoughtful.
And strangely, I found I didn't want him to smile. The seriousness suited him somehow, made him seem more real and less like the diplomatic mask he usually wore.