5. Nobility
A luxurious express ship, brimming with nobles who had spent delightful times on the western continent, arrived at Leisha's harbor.
Though it was midday, the wind that enveloped their bodies as they stepped out of the cabins was a razor-sharp chill, utterly unlike the mild winter breezes of the western continent.
Shaylin, her shoulders trembling faintly beneath the thick winter coat she had worn from inside the cabin, called back to Laura, who followed behind her.
"Give me the mink scarf. This wind is so fierce it's making me miss the gentle winters of the western continent."
Only after wrapping the lustrous brown mink fur around her neck did the swirling winter gusts from all directions feel somewhat bearable.
With the courteous assistance of the ship's hired hands, she disembarked, pressing the heel of her shoe firmly into the ground to savor the sensation of solid land beneath her feet after ten days at sea. Just then, Evril approached from afar.
"Has your anger subsided a bit? You wouldn't even acknowledge me on the ship."
Shaylin greeted her with a bright smile, but Evril haughtily lifted her chin, looking down at her. As the taller woman gazed from above, Shaylin beamed all the more.
"You, this time it's really..."
Evril began in a low, threatening tone, but a quiet voice called from behind her.
"Lady Loren, the lord is summoning you."
The man who approached Evril was a knight with broad shoulders and a sturdy build. A long sword hung at his waist, and his silver uniform bore the emblem of a black eagle with two heads embroidered on the chest—the heraldry of the Kingston ducal house.
Shaylin glanced at his face and immediately recalled his name. How could she not? Anything related to Kingston instinctively flashed through her mind.
It was Ballot, the right-hand man of Sir Gophrid K. Kingston.
"Oh my. Sir Ballot, it's been ages."
Shaylin greeted him brightly, and Ballot, meeting her eyes, bowed slightly with a courteous gesture.
"Lady Loren, this way."
Evril frowned slightly in displeasure. She shot Shaylin a quick glance, signaling her to follow, and Shaylin nodded lightly.
As they walked toward where Sir Ballot led, she spotted Gophrid standing tall before a splendid six-horse carriage, reading a document. The harsh winter harbor wind whipped his cloak, and his ash-brown hair fluttered softly against his cheek.
His straight nose and jawline, sculpted as if by a master's careful hand; the deep, serene eyes beneath thick brows and delicate lashes; the dignified line of his lips. Towering in stature, he cut an imperial figure—Shaylin would have to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze if she drew near, and the sight filled her with rapture.
As Evril and Shaylin approached, he sensed their presence and lowered the document he had been reading. Shaylin's eyes darted to it quickly. Though its contents were obscured by his thigh, the signature "Anika" at the page's edge caught her notice.
"I trust your journey was pleasant, my lady."
Gophrid gently took Evril's fingertips and kissed the back of her hand. He met her eyes with polite courtesy. Evril, looking at him, soon cast her gaze downward, standing rigidly.
Gophrid turned to Shaylin with a soft smile. She felt herself drawn into those golden eyes, as if sinking into their depths. She wished this moment could last forever, but soon he looked away, wrapping an arm around Evril's shoulders.
"The wind is fierce. Let us go inside at once."
Sir Ballot swiftly opened the carriage door. With Gophrid's aid, Evril entered, and Shaylin followed. As Gophrid's hand briefly touched her arm to help her aboard, a scorching heat flared there, sending shivers racing up her spine—a thrill she savored.
But the sensation faded quickly. Sitting opposite, Shaylin watched Gophrid gaze tenderly at Evril, who sat beside her with head bowed. Shaylin's brown eyes darkened.
The first time she had unwittingly entered the imperial palace with her father and seen Gophrid speaking to the crown prince beside the emperor, Shaylin had frozen in place, as if struck by a hammer to the head, staring endlessly at him. She had been ten then. Now, seventeen years later—with the year newly turned—she had yearned for him ceaselessly.
As a child lost in pink fantasies of Sir Kingston, her father had stroked her hair and said,
"Shaylin, the next Duke of Kingston has been pledged to Lady Loren since before she was even born in her mother's womb."
"Lady Loren? That renowned elegant Evril?"
Shaylin had asked urgently, incredulous, but her father, Count Fret, had only smiled faintly.
She fell silent then, gazing at Gophrid, who shone solitary in the afternoon sun—like a star in the night sky, forever out of reach no matter how she stretched her hand.
After that, suiting her lively nature but driven by the desire to glimpse Sir Kingston from afar, she attended every ball and gathering without fail. People welcomed the bright, cheerful, cute, and humble girl.
With time, she mastered the art of conversation that revealed nothing of her true feelings, earning her the title of queen of high society.
From the moment she first encountered Lady Loren at a ball, Shaylin had strived to become her friend. Noble, elegant, and slightly arrogant, Evril kept others at arm's length, so when Shaylin approached, she was wary at first. But she couldn't coldly reject the friendly overtures and invitations from the isolated island that was herself in society. In time, from their first meeting at ten, they became close friends, and now Shaylin stood as Evril's dearest companion.
At twelve, when Evril refused all summons and remained cloistered in the Loren count family's townhouse, Shaylin visited to find her pale and gaunt. Despite pressing questions, Evril only pursed her dry lips and furrowed her brow in silence.
The following year, after a ball, as Shaylin massaged her weary feet in the carriage, Evril stared darkly out the window at the night and murmured softly,
"He... he hurts me."
Shaylin knew "he" meant Gophrid. She shook off her fatigue, her eyes sparkling.
What followed was, to the precocious Shaylin, hardly a big deal. If only she could hold those golden eyes—deep-set beneath delicate lashes in a perfectly balanced, beautiful face; feel the tremor of muscles in his tall, commanding body against her skin; bring him ecstasy and tousle the soft ash-brown hair that fell gently over his straight nose.
Offering her ass to such a perfect Sir Kingston? It was no issue at all. For Shaylin, if he desired it, she would gladly offer every hole in her body.
Though as a count's lady with no fiancé, she had preserved her virginity until now.
Ever since, whenever Evril complained about him, Shaylin had feigned deep sympathy in her eyes, comforting her. She even encouraged her from the sidelines, arranging liaisons with those in society known for their discretion and light morals, insisting that if he enjoyed it, she had the right to as well.
Yet despite all efforts, Evril remained indifferent—until this western continent trip, when she suddenly ignited upon discovering Olens, that baseborn noble's stud horse.
Shaylin had busied herself dragging Olens's sister Olivier here and there to keep them undisturbed. And now, facing the perfect Gophrid here, she struggled to calm her flushed cheeks and pounding heart.
"What document had you so absorbed?"
Shaylin asked, lips curving upward.
His golden gaze, which had been on Evril, shifted to her.
"Upon turning twenty, I've taken on not only the Bluebay Trading Company I've managed thus far, but also modest ventures on the western continent. It being the day the first report arrived, I came to the harbor to greet you both ladies."
His low, resonant voice sent a thrilling vibration through her chest. His kind golden eyes soon returned to Evril.
"I heard rumors you fell ill in Eliyum. Are you feeling better?"
"Ah, yes. Much improved now."
Evril forced a stiff smile, and Gophrid gently enveloped her white hand on his knee.
"I'm relieved. I rushed here in anxious worry that you might be suffering from afar."
"..."
Evril stood rigid, silent. Shaylin despaired inwardly at the sight. No reaction even to his tender touch. If only it were her...
She swallowed deeply, turning her gaze to the carriage window. As the carriage began to move, the rough sea outside receded.
Somewhere on that sea, a speedship likely carried Baron Belpharos toward Lyon. To ensure he met Evril at this founding festival, she resolved to follow her brother Sir Fret to Lyon, narrowing her eyes.
The horizon, glittering in the afternoon sun, faded into the distance.