The Hand That Should Have Been Held
Lerusha simply looked at Mathias. Her gaze held no trace of personal longing—only the quiet gladness one might feel at seeing an old disciple again. Yet even that was enough to spark open displeasure in Joslyn. The man had cast aside his own queen and brought another woman in her place, yet here he was, wearing the face of the wronged party. His shamelessness knew no bounds.
“Of course I am glad. What master would not rejoice to see their disciple return fully grown?”
“We are no longer master and disciple, but ruler and subject.”
“That does not erase the fact that we once were.”
Joslyn snorted and gestured for Mathias to rise. Only then did the knight, who had been holding his bow with perfect etiquette, straighten to his full height.
“Today’s gathering was arranged in your honor. It will not do for the guest of honor to arrive late.”
“My apologies.”
He had led the triumphal procession from the capital gates, circling the entire city before finally reaching the royal palace. The crowds, wild with fervor over the returning war hero, had joined the march bearing offerings of cattle, chickens, and pigs. The unexpected chaos had delayed the parade, and so he had arrived slightly later than scheduled.
Joslyn knew this perfectly well. The only reason he found fault was obvious: the people’s adoration for Mathias after his great victory had grown strong enough to threaten the king’s own glory. Feeling that threat, he chose to be petty.
“You have labored hard. I never imagined you would bring news of victory so swiftly. It seems I underestimated your capabilities.”
“I simply did my utmost to meet the expectations placed upon me. Fortunately, fortune favored me, allowing an earlier return than anticipated.”
“How regrettable. You never did understand your king’s heart—then or now.”
Lerusha could not fathom why Joslyn treated Mathias with such icy contempt. This was the very knight who, alongside her, had contributed most to placing Joslyn on the throne. Why show him such disdain?
“The queen should speak as well. Your former disciple has returned a man grown. As his one-time master, is it not your duty to offer at least a few words of blessing?”
Knowing Joslyn would sooner die than offer genuine praise, Lerusha spoke warmly in his stead, her words sincere.
“Thanks to Your Excellency’s magnificent feats on the front lines, the Kingdom of Leveln has not only overcome its crisis but has proclaimed its enduring strength to the world. Your achievements will be remembered by countless generations, praised by the people and recorded in history. I welcome, with all my heart, the return of a great hero who has carved his name into eternity.”
For the first time, a faint smile brushed across Mathias’s otherwise expressionless face. He answered with a deep, reverent bow, the gesture filled with genuine respect.
Joslyn watched this exchange with clear displeasure. He rose and delivered a speech to the gathered crowd, praising the hero Mathias and his troops while welcoming their safe return. Throughout the address, the people chanted Mathias’s name, roaring in celebration of their new legend.
When the speech ended and Joslyn returned to his throne, he muttered in a listless voice.
“How does one train a stupid dog that cannot even recognize its master? This is why beasts should never be taken in.”
“……”
“What do you think, my queen? Does it appear that the dog I raised has chosen someone else as its true owner?”
At his chilling question, Lerusha’s startled gaze flicked toward Mathias.
In that instant, cold, razor-sharp eyes met across the open space. Even with his king and master seated before him, Mathias looked only at her—precisely, unwaveringly.
The pull between them was so powerful it felt as though the rest of the world had vanished. That intense, shameless stare made Lerusha abandon any thought of defending him. She looked away, her heart hammering as if she had committed some betrayal.
Perhaps he truly was a dog that could not recognize its master.
Though the triumphal ceremony concluded successfully, Joslyn’s foul mood only deepened with each passing day.
More than half the nobles who visited the main audience chamber were harshly rebuked by him for trivial offenses.
He even canceled all formal dining schedules, had a kitchen and private dining room prepared in his inner quarters, and began taking his meals at a folding table in his office. Given how irritable he became while handling state affairs, it was understandable that he might prefer to eat alone.
Yet Lady Orldette visited that dining room every single day. She had not been formally recognized as a concubine and possessed no right to come and go from the royal palace at will. Nevertheless, she moved freely through the king’s office and bedchamber as though they were her own. Rumors of discord between king and queen spread like wildfire.
Then one day Joslyn burst into the queen’s palace without warning and ordered her to prepare an official banquet. Knights who had rendered great service in the war were to be invited, he said, and entertained at the royal level. He instructed her to spare no effort.
Foolishly, she felt relieved. Being entrusted with such a major royal event seemed the only sign that he still acknowledged her position as queen. Believing she remained useful to him, she threw herself into the preparations with complete devotion.
While she was drowning in the brutal workload, an unexpected visitor arrived at the queen’s palace.
“I greet Her Majesty the Queen.”
“It has been a long time, Commander of the First Knights.”
“Please speak comfortably. Today I come not as knight commander but as a disciple wishing to see his master.”
Master. She had not heard that title in two full years. After she became queen and he rose to command the royal knights, their relationship had shifted from master and disciple to lord and vassal.
Even then, they had rarely met in private. He resided in the palace’s servant quarters, which were far from the queen’s palace, making chance encounters unlikely. After his promotion, he had marched off to war, eliminating any opportunity for conversation.
“Well then. What brings you to me?”
“I came because I missed you.”
“……”
“While I was there, my only thoughts were of Master. I endured by looking forward to this very moment.”
He gazed at her bloodless fingertips and slowly curved his lips.
“I hoped you were well.”
He did not finish the sentence, but its hidden meaning was easy to grasp. The unspoken words were clearly a sneer: Why are you still living so pathetically?
Instead of answering, she offered a bitter smile. It was painful to see her once relentlessly cold disciple suddenly appear and offer such formal greetings. He had never been affectionate. For him to say he had missed her, that he had hoped she was well—phrases that did not suit him at all—how wretched must her current state appear in his eyes?
“I did not realize you concerned yourself with me so deeply.”
“How could a disciple not concern himself with his master?”
“True. But you were never one to show it, so I never knew. I thought I was no longer of any interest to you. After all, we were never close enough to sit together and chat like this, were we?”
They had simply been hunting dogs trained together under Joslyn. Their master-disciple bond existed only because Joslyn had ordered her to oversee the young Mathias’s education.
Even speaking face to face felt awkward. Asking after each other’s well-being seemed strange. Their relationship had been so shallow that if one of them died, the other might offer a prayer but would shed no tears.
“The war must have changed you. You coming to see me, saying you missed me, even the way you look at me as though you care—it all feels awkward and wrong.”
“That is why I regretted it.”
“……What?”
“That we remained in nothing more than that shallow relationship.”
He reached out slowly. His large hand enveloped her pale, slender one, then his fingers—knuckles prominent—slid between hers. The motion was refined, yet carried an undercurrent of violence. His grip was stubborn, almost like a snare.
“……What are you doing?”
“I wish to correct it.”
“……Correct what?”
“What lies between you and me.”
What was he trying to say?
She could not understand her disciple’s strange words. She did not know what his gently wrapping hand meant, nor what scheme hid behind those fierce, predatory eyes that glowed as though prey lay before him.
“Remember this touch well, Master.”
“……”
“The hand you should have held first was not that man’s, but this disciple’s.”
The fingers that had gently entwined with hers released her. As she watched his hand withdraw, she briefly noted how refined it seemed for a swordsman’s hand.
Those prominent knuckles, carrying a faint reddish hue, tapped against the table. Tap. Tap. As if commanding her to focus on the sensation.
“Do not make the same mistake next time, Master.”
With those cryptic words, he left as abruptly as he had come.
Lerusha remained in her seat long after he departed, turning his words over in her mind. Eventually she pushed them aside, dismissing the encounter as a trivial, forgettable incident.
Yet for some reason, the soft, skillful way his fingers had intertwined with hers remained burned into her memory like a brand.