“If that’s the case, I won’t force it. If nothing else, permit me to take my leave.” Her tone was cool as moonlight on stone. Medith flicked Talant a glance like a passing breeze, smiled, and turned with a swan’s ease. Velledo hurried after her, playing tour guide while shadowing her like a tethered kite.
Before long, Haidra arrived late, rain-on-leaves unhurried, with Paris beside her beneath a golden crown. The man tossed Paris a look; Paris caught it and curved a confident smile, like a helmsman riding the current.
To cut off their meeting by force would backfire, like damming a swollen river; suspicion would surge and drown us. So let the two women meet—just mute their tongues and blind their signals.
That way, Medith would stop yearning for Talant, and Talant would taste disappointment, twin cups of bittersweet peace. “Captain Haidra, about Tianensai… I’m sorry. If possible, I don’t want your people on it.”
“Hand him to the Erene Guard or the Heavenly Dragon Corps,” Paris said, voice smooth as oil on water. “It’ll free you up, and ease your burden.”
Haidra cut him off like a drawn blade: “Your Majesty, the offense is grave. Since the traitor is from within our Dike Guard, we should handle it ourselves. I trust you understand—please allow it.”
Paris nodded as if he’d expected it, a quiet thunder held in palm. He said no more. Far off, Talant pricked her rosy ears like a forest fawn, and folded every word into memory.
...
In the Royal Capital, after the Elyu affair, joy finally stirred like lanterns in wind. Paris’s welcoming feast whipped up a citywide storm; to most, his accession was good. A realm can’t go a day without a lord, like a ship without a captain on black water.
Moreover, his claim was rightful; fame and skill hung on him like twin suns. His timely crowning was a shot of courage, fire in chilled veins. Some ruckus was natural; what king lacks a mind of his own?
Ostos had proved that point. The navy built with the nation’s strength once cried like gulls in a storm, stumbling and cursing. Yet facts stood like mountains: some people see beyond mortal sight, and everyone learned to trust, then grew used to trust.
They only needed to forget the pain, remember the story, and cherish the now like warm tea in cold hands. As for the future… how many care, under the drifting clouds?
Night fell; rain ticked like beads. Tomorrow’s banquet pressed close like a drumbeat, yet Medith, center of the stage, vanished from “her” own palace. Old tricks, new wind—she worked a touch of art and slipped into Talant’s watch-swarmed halls.
A cool gust lifted the eaves; a shadow dropped from the sky and slid in like a night cat, noiseless as mist. Talant still wore that pure white dress; knees tucked, she hugged a pillow and smiled like a moonlit fox. “General, you truly marry wit and courage—advance, you cut down a thousand alone; retreat, you slip into a royal palace solo.”
“Princess, you flatter me.” Medith peeled off the black garb, revealing her milk-white Corps uniform. Paris had eyes everywhere, near watertight, yet who’d guess Medith crept along alley walls, then rode blade-wind skyward and rolled in along the storm?
Who bothers looking up at stars? Worse, tonight’s rain draped in sheets; black clouds smothered the moon, and even the last scrap of leisure felt like ash.
“The Wind Sprite clan’s secret art is wondrous indeed. With such a covert way to pass words, no wonder your tactics never leak.” Talant recalled when their palms met; a thread of breeze carried birdsong whispers straight into her ear.
