Chapter 14: The Queen’s Gambit

Dorota Normanthine withdrew a crumpled slip of paper from her pocket. It bore numerous names, each belonging to one of her half-siblings, though most had been conspicuously struck through.

Her gaze fell upon Norria Normanthine, now unconscious, whose name remained on the list. He was the last survivor, her final brother.

King Glais II would never suspect why his beloved illegitimate children had vanished without a trace.

Dorota could no longer recall how many siblings she had killed. Some were still infants, and to ensure their silence, their mothers were typically dealt with as well, for they often acted rashly in their efforts to protect their children.

Cliff had decreed only one survivor, yet it was this simple-minded boy, Norria, who had unexpectedly endured. Dorota shook her head with a sigh. Among her many siblings, Dorota only remembered a few distinctly; she had, at one point, even forged friendships with them. Anna, with her icy intelligence; Alexander, audacious yet meticulous; Susan, gentle as flowing water. Any of them, had they lived, would have been superior to Norria.

Alexander had been stabbed in the back by her, Susan suffocated with a pillow. Anna proved more troublesome; the initial plan was to shoot her in the secluded forest, but a tiger suddenly appeared, disrupting Dorota’s actions. She was forced to abandon Anna and flee, and the tiger, naturally, completed Dorota’s task for her.

She still remembered Anna’s expression before she died: sorrow, terror, and helplessness, just like her own mother, who had been abandoned by Glais II and then abducted by bandits.

****

A chilling arrow whizzed past Dorota’s ear, sharply pulling her back to reality.

“Sweetheart, the Count has arrived~”

Bloen, with his usual effeminate drawl, called out to Dorota, one hand gripping his bow, the other idly stroking his elongated ear.

This was the mark of elven blood, a race that once flourished during the ancient imperial era but was now almost entirely extinct. Elves were rumored to be tall and beautiful, yet this impish Bloen was a hideous, garrulous dwarf. Dorota’s only desire was to sever his ridiculous pointed ears and stuff them into his mouth. His younger brother, though handsome, was not particularly bright; they were a truly perfect pair.

“Do not aim your arrow at me, you inferior elf,” Dorota said, her face clouded. She leaned against the damp wall, the moisture soaking through her thin gown. “And do not call me ‘sweetheart’.”

Bloen grinned, revealing his yellowed teeth. He said, “Oh, then perhaps ‘kinslaying beast’ suits you better. In our elven legends, those who murder their own kin are destined for hell, you know~”

Kinslayers were said to be cursed by the gods, which was precisely why Dorota chose to disbelieve in deities; if they didn’t exist, neither could their curses.

Bloen cackled. Dorota was about to lash out when a booming voice interrupted their dispute.

“Enough, both of you quiet down.” Count Cliff strode purposefully into the bell tower. Though his attire remained as modest as ever, a jewel-encrusted coronet now rested upon his head.

It seemed the outcome was decided.

“Your Majesty,” Dorota murmured, offering a slight curtsy. Above, Bloen also made a show of bowing to Cliff – a gesture his diminutive stature rendered more comical than respectful.

“Dispense with the formalities,” Cliff waved a hand. Unlike Glais II, he was not one to stand on ceremony. Noticing Norria sprawled on the ground, a mischievous smile touched his lips.

“Is this my grand-uncle’s last male heir?” Cliff seized Norria’s head. “He’s the spitting image of him in his youth.”

“To my eyes, they bear no resemblance whatsoever,” Dorota stated plainly. In his youth, Glais II had been a dashingly handsome man, a fact that had surely won her mother’s affection. Norria, by contrast, was merely a crude country guard; the disparity between them was vast.

“I speak of temperament,” Cliff clarified. “They both possess an annoying stubbornness.”

“Perhaps so.” Dorota extended a leg and kicked Norria. He slept like a log, utterly unresponsive to her repeated prods.

“Furthermore, I have a request,” Cliff stated dispassionately. “I wish to marry you. In due course, you shall be the Queen of Saint Fros.”

A chill ran through Dorota. She fixed her gaze on Cliff’s handsome face, pondering his proposition. She wasn’t entirely surprised; for legal legitimacy, marrying the former king’s illegitimate daughter would bolster Cliff’s claim to the throne.

Was this purely a political alliance, or did Cliff genuinely harbor feelings for Dorota?

Dorota had no doubt her beauty could captivate most men in the world, yet Cliff’s intentions had always remained an enigma to her. Even when he was merely the Lord of Lopeda Territory, Cliff had been an eccentric. Unlike other lords who indulged in women and revelry, he was not only abstinent but also a tireless workaholic. He disdained extravagant attire, and his daily meals were often indistinguishable from those of commoners. Typically, a lord’s life was filled with a constant stream of banquets and grand hunting expeditions. He, however, preferred to spend his days in his study, surrounded by dusty parchments.

Dorota felt neither particular dislike nor affection for Cliff. Throughout their years of collaboration, Cliff had never shown her any hint of personal affection. But could it all be an elaborate facade?

“Your Majesty, do I have the luxury of refusal?” Dorota asked, testing the waters.

Cliff sighed. He said, “I dislike pawns with their own thoughts, especially you, my ‘Queen’.”

Having played chess, Dorota knew the queen was the most versatile and crucial piece on the board; wielded correctly, victory was all but assured. With her answer now clear, she extended a blood-stained hand, allowing Cliff to press a light kiss upon it.

“Congratulations,” Bloen applauded from above.

“Our wedding will take place in one month,” Cliff explained. “Numerous guests will be invited, including the great nobles of Saint Fros, Elder Chloe and her council, and Emperor Carloman of Eledis.”

“Emperor Carloman?” Dorota almost doubted her own ears. The Emperor of Eledis’s animosity towards Glais II was widely known; thirty years prior, Glais II had slain his eldest son on the battlefield. “Saint Fros and Eledis have long been at odds; he will not come.”

“It was Glais II he was at odds with, not me,” Cliff’s gaze drifted to Norria. “And to break the ice, we need to send them a gift. Since Glais II killed his son, we shall give him Glais II’s son.”

“You intend for him to exact an eye for an eye?” Dorota inquired.

Cliff merely offered a soft smile, then turned his attention to Bloen.

“Did you hear that, boy? Tomorrow, gather your handsome younger brother and together, present our prince to Emperor Carloman,” Cliff commanded.

“As you command, Your Majesty. But why would you invite that fellow Carloman to a wedding ceremony?”

“Red is a color of celebration, and at my wedding, I wish for red to be everywhere,” Cliff said with a smile, his pale golden eyes fixed on Dorota. “Red as blood, that would be ideal.”

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