Through the Smoke and Ash
Gregory could not shake his suspicion that if Cronen were behind this, the man would have planned things far more meticulously.
Then again, Cronen was the undisputed master of this temple. If he truly set his mind to it, nothing stood in his way. The princess had brought only a handful of maids, and Sir Lisianthus—the only one among them who could truly be called an escort—was far away. Who knew when another chance like this might present itself? It was hardly out of the question that Cronen had rushed into an attempt the moment the stars aligned.
Still, he ought to have given me some kind of warning…
Should he go find the princess, or should he stay put?
Gregory weighed his options in earnest.
If the princess died, he would face disciplinary action either way. With the Empress pulling strings on his behalf, his life would never be in jeopardy. He might have to endure a rough year or two in disgrace, but once Prince Brian ascended the imperial throne, his own rise through the ranks would be assured. It hardly mattered in the long run.
He could even afford to put on a show of guarding the princess.
The problem was that he had no idea what method Cronen had used. What if he went looking for her, staged his gallant defense, and in doing so inadvertently ruined the plot?
…Well, if worst comes to worst, I can always dispose of her myself.
With that resolve, he set off to find the princess—fully prepared to cut her down with his own blade if the situation called for it. Separating her personal guards had not originally been part of such a scheme, but on second thought, it seemed a pity to let an opportunity like this slip away.
Your Highness! Princess Titania, where are you!
Yet something felt dreadfully wrong. According to the morning's report, the princess should have been soaking in the Water of Purification. But the entire pavilion was cloaked in silence. It was as if not a single living soul were there.
No matter the emergency, for a man to barge into a chamber where an imperial princess was alone—into what was essentially a private bath, sacred title notwithstanding—was an unpardonable breach of decorum. Even so, the Empress would be delighted. Besides, with a raging fire consuming the grounds, he could easily offer an excuse should anyone catch him.
Armed with that logic, Gregory pulled on the door handle.
In that very instant, a voice whispered right against his ear.
"Wow. Does Her Highness really have nothing but absolute garbage around her?"
Before he could react, something clamped around his throat.
Guh—krrk!
Darkness rushed over his eyes. His mind blanked completely, and consciousness slipped away.
…When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself lying amid ash and soot in the heart of the scorched wreckage. Priests were dousing him with water to wake him, offering pitying murmurs that he must have collapsed from smoke inhalation.
The moment he came to his senses, unable to grasp the full reality of what had transpired, instinct alone had driven him to rush toward the gathering around Princess Titania and chime in to support Cronen. Naturally, when pressed on where he had been during the most critical moment, he had found himself utterly tongue-tied.
What could he possibly say? That an unknown assailant had ambushed him and knocked him cold? To utter such nonsense would be worse than silence. Gregory's lips trembled as he blustered defensively.
"The very instant I smelled smoke… I searched tirelessly for Her Highness! I merely succumbed to the suffocating fumes and lost consciousness!"
He could not afford to shoulder the entire blame. Gregory was desperate. Had the princess actually died, he would have played the contrite soldier, quietly submitting to his punishment. But she had not perished at all! Amid those roaring flames, she alone had emerged completely unscathed.
Wait… hold on.
A discordant thought pierced Gregory's panic.
How, in heaven's name, was the princess unharmed? Could she have orchestrated the whole spectacle herself? But how? The temple was practically Cronen's private backyard!
While Gregory was still caught in his spiral of confusion, Phlux launched a relentless assault.
"I was told that the escort who stood faithfully at Her Highness Princess Titania's side was none other than Sir Lisianthus. Was it not you, Sir Gregory, who forcibly ordered Sir Lisianthus and the escort detachment outside the temple gates?"
A muffled groan escaped Gregory's throat. Since things had come to this, he had no choice but to drag Lisianthus down with him. If he insisted that the entire escort detail bore joint responsibility, the princess—indebted as she was to House Castreine—would be forced to step back to protect the young lord.
"…How many times must I repeat myself?! I dispatched him because there were suspicious traces of demonic beasts and a flock of savage birds in the area! In the first place, I am the chief of Her Highness's imperial escort, appointed directly by His Imperial Majesty! If you wish to interrogate me as you please, you would need—!"
"If we wish to interrogate you, what?"
The voice was chillingly frigid.
Every soul present froze beneath an overwhelming aura of dread.
Titania, who had stepped away from the center of attention to watch them tear into one another while hiding her face behind her hands in a facade of weeping despair, went just as rigid. Phlux, who had been enthusiastically tearing Gregory apart, instinctively took a step back.
Though it was a sweltering day, a biting winter wind seemed to sweep through the courtyard.
More precisely, it felt as though an untimely winter night sky had unfurled right before their eyes. Beneath hair as black as a midwinter midnight, eyes burned with the searing brilliance of falling meteors. It was a man whom no one in this place had ever expected to appear.
"Must His Imperial Majesty come in person to pass judgment on you?"
Thud. Thud. Thud.
His stride resembled that of a prowling beast far more than a man.
A hand clad in black leather seized Gregory's jaw. With only that single hand, the burly imperial knight was hoisted clean into the air. Fingers hooked around Gregory's windpipe like iron talons, twitching as though eager to snap the life out of him on the spot. Only when the knight's face flushed crimson, then deepened into a sickly blue, did the grip release—hurling Gregory violently to the stone floor.
Not a single person moved to check on the man sprawled like refuse upon the ground. No one dared ask the newcomer what he was doing here. Only Lisianthus, who had been hovering restlessly beside Titania like a leashed hound, looked on with deeply conflicted eyes.
Reymon Oberon El Castreine.
The man who had looked like a thoroughly enraged predator turned and extended a hand toward the princess, who sat huddled small and pathetic upon the dirt.
The contrast between Titania and Reymon was striking.
Reymon was fully armed, looking as if he had just marched from a bloody hunt, ready to slit the throat of his prey. Titania had deliberately chosen plain, unadorned clothes to win the sympathy of the populace, allowing herself to become smeared in grime, ash, and smoke.
They looked like a knight from a fairy tale standing over a soot-covered scullery maid—even if Titania was far too radiant for anyone to truly mistake her for one.
Perhaps that was why the princess nearly took his hand without thinking, only to look down at her own filthy, soot-blackened fingers and pull them back.
Yet Reymon did not budge. He seemed not even to notice that she had withdrawn, standing motionless as a carved stone statue. It was as though he were declaring that so long as she refused him her hand, he would not move an inch. That refusal was not an option.
His silent posture pleaded with her.
In the end, when her hesitant fingertips reached out and brushed against his leather-gloved palm, Reymon moved like a predator whose patience had finally snapped. As though swallowing prey already inside its jaws, he swept Titania into his arms, pulling her tightly against his chest.
A soft gasp broke from Titania's parted lips.
"Ah—wait?!"
"From this moment on, I will protect you."
"W-Wait, right now, this is—"
"Your attire is in disarray. You dislike being seen by others in such a state, do you not?"
"……."
Titania's eyes met Reymon's. Every time their gazes collided, it felt as though sparks scattered between them.
Truthfully, she thought she was dreaming. There was no earthly reason for him to be standing here.
Just moments ago, she had been secretly giggling behind her hands as everything unfolded according to her calculations. Then she had frozen solid. Only when she saw the hand extended toward her did her reason sluggishly return.
It was only holding a hand. It was hardly the first time.
In front of others, they still needed to maintain the plausible appearance of an engaged couple. Had she not already agreed that they would break the engagement later?
And yet…
As she went to grasp his hand, her gaze had caught on her own fingers. Though they were slender, fair, and delicate from a life untouched by hard labor, today they were exceptionally filthy. Dirt was wedged beneath her nails, and they reeked of acrid smoke. Blood was the only stain missing; had she wiped them against fine silk, the fabric would have been ruined beyond salvage.
Reymon's glove, by contrast, was immaculate. It possessed a sleek, expensive sheen. The stark difference seemed to lay bare the gulf between their present states, and she had pulled her hand back on sheer instinct. The moment she did, their eyes locked.
Why are you looking at me with those eyes? Why you, of all people?
A gaze brimming with desperation.
A gaze that swore it would never, ever let go.
A look that belonged only to the 'Titania' of a very distant past…
Reymon never once took his eyes off her. Even though Titania's refusal in front of the entire crowd would have bruised his pride, even though it would have put him in an awkward position, he acted as though none of that mattered in the slightest. Her breath hitched in an unnerving, breathless flutter.
Desperate to break the suffocating tension, her fingertips had twitchingly reached out, brushing against him.
It was barely a touch.
Yet as if he had been waiting for that sliver of contact alone, Reymon had scooped her into his embrace with the swift, decisive strike of a hawk snatching a chick.
"You dislike being seen by others in such a state, do you not?"
Suddenly, a tight ache constricted the back of her throat.