Chapter 85: Brotherly Farewell and Campfire Shadows

Just as my mind hadn’t yet drifted into sleep,

Kritiya had already recognized the voice shouting from beyond the carriage window.

She promptly tugged at a hanging cord by the sill, shaking it vigorously.

Ding-a-ling—

The bells linked to the cord emitted a crisp chime.

This was the prearranged signal.

The carriage and escort procession, which had been advancing at steady pace, gradually came to a halt.

The sound of hooves striking ground faded into stillness.

Kritiya drew back the curtain, and saw the figures approaching from afar on horseback, finally reining in before her window.

It was Trik, with Diers close behind.

Though the two brothers had ridden hard, sweat beaded finely on their horses’ necks, glistening faintly in the sunlight.

Kritiya gazed at their dust-worn appearances, a flicker of puzzlement crossing her face.

“Tiya . . .”

Trik caught his breath slightly, reaching up to smooth his wind-tousled hair, before saying,

“I heard you’re heading to the capital.

Father’s decision was so abrupt.

When the news reached me, I was still drilling with the sword on the training grounds—not even time to change into proper attire.

I hurried after you just to see you off.”

“It was Father’s arrangement.”

Kritiya regarded her two brothers who had raced to bid farewell, falling silent for a moment, then speaking slowly.

“Ah—”

Diers sighed from behind, his tone laced with evident dissatisfaction.

“I just don’t understand the rush.

At the very least, there should have been a proper farewell banquet—not this hasty departure.”

“Enough—”

Trik glanced back at Diers, then met the girl’s gaze, saying,

“We’re just here for a quick look. Don’t send Tiya off with worries weighing on her. And don’t you go looking all glum yourself.”

Trik turned his head to Diers once more, then addressed the girl, saying,

“In any case, take care on the road. And—about little Claire, you’ll be studying magic in the capital, right? This is our belated birthday gift for her. Be so kind as to deliver it, and pass on our regards while you’re at it.”

As he spoke, Trik drew from his saddlebag a square box wrapped meticulously in deep blue velvet, handing it through the carriage window.

Kritiya reached out to take it, feeling its substantial weight in her palm.

“I understand.”

The girl placed the gift gently upon her lap. Lifting her eyes, she noted Trik’s hesitant expression.

“Oh! One more thing—”

Trik suddenly lowered his voice, leaning his body forward slightly.

“We heard . . .”

His words dwindled almost to a whisper:

“That brat from the Ley Bay Earl’s house—that clown— Father truly appointed him as your guard captain?”

“It appears so.”

Kritiya’s reply came calm and even.

“Well—”

Trik said,

“Though that fellow’s the captain, the guard detail is all seasoned veterans from our house . . . you get me? Remember—if he dares any untoward move, just say the word—”

Trik chuckled, adding,

“Of course—judging from yesterday’s spectacle, that little baby must already be scared witless of you.”

“As long as he gives me no reason to dislike him, I have none to target him.”

Kritiya fell silent for a beat, then spoke slowly.

“You always say these ambiguous things.”

Diers shrugged from behind.

“That guy’s heading this way. I have no desire to cross paths with him— So, take care, Tiya.”

Before his words had fully faded, Diers had already kicked his stirrup, wheeling his mount around.

Trik nodded, then spurred his horse to follow his brother’s departing figure.

The two steeds kicked up fine gravel, growing distant in the afternoon sun, leaving only the dwindling echo of hooves and a faint veil of dust.

***

The column halted to make camp as twilight gathered.

Though the Duke’s orders had come down with utmost urgency, insisting time and again that the journey be hastened, even those faithful beasts required grass when hunger struck, water when thirst gnawed;

without full bellies and sound strength, they could not draw the train and its goods onward.

“Miss—dinner is prepared. Shall you dine out, or shall I bring it in?”

….

“Hey, hey? Can you hear me?”

“Mm . . . Bring it in—no, wait. On second thought, I’ll eat outside.”

Kritiya lay curled drowsily in the carriage seat, her body askew like a corpse freshly deceased, sprawled there without a shred of decorum— the compartment held no others, after all, no eyes to witness the ducal daughter’s unseemly disarray.

“Right away! I’ll be waiting up front for you!”

The response rang clear and bright, brimming with vigor, a stark contrast to Kritiya’s half-dead rasp.

She hauled herself upright with effort, smoothing the creases from her skirt, and had just shoved open the heavy carriage door when the maid stationed outside darted forward nimbly, reaching to support her arm.

A soft exclamation suddenly sounded;

“You’re . . . hm? You’ve come all this way?”

“Indeed.”

I regarded the scene before me, and could not help recalling—

Duke Airandil had ever disdained ostentatious women; the maids serving close in the castle were mostly deft-handed, steady-mannered matrons of reliable temperament.

Yet this girl before us seemed no older than sixteen or seventeen, strikingly youthful in a way that jarred the eye.

Moreover, along this road, this face was far from unfamiliar to me—

she seemed to shadow Kritiya with particular zeal, scarcely a step apart.

“It was the Duke’s command that I attend to you, Miss.”

“All the way?”

Kritiya pressed, as if confirming.

“Yes, just as you say, Miss.”

“Attending to . . . what, precisely?”

“Well . . .”

The maid blinked her bright eyes, nodding earnestly, as if reciting some sacred decree.

“The Duke said that anything my eyes can behold pertaining to you, Miss— all such matters, I am to tend with utmost care.”

“I see—”

So this is what they call a lady’s maid? Tending to one’s dress and daily needs, safeguarding secrets and privacies, ever at the master’s side when required.

In my recollection, the last figure who could somewhat qualify as a lady’s maid had been the late governess at Kritiya’s side in childhood, tasked with her tutelage.

Yet recalling that stern old dame of yore— the gulf between her rigorous ways and this rash young maid’s demeanor seemed, if anything, a touch too vast.

“You . . . very well.”

Kritiya allowed the maid to support her, walking onward as she asked,

“What’s your name?”

“In reply to Miss, my name is Sally—no family name.”

“Sally . . .”

Kritiya murmured the name, rolling it over her tongue, before inquiring further,

“Can you read?”

“A bit, Miss!”

Sally beamed with pride, as if unveiling a treasured heirloom.

“Not only do I recognize characters, I can write quite a few as well! Should you need any stray notes or letters penned along the way, entrust them to Sally, and it’ll be flawless!

Back in the castle, I often helped the illiterate maid sisters compose letters home!”

“I see.”

Kritiya’s voice softened.

“So, Father must have instructed you to write him regular reports— detailing all my doings here?”

“Ah! How did you know!”

Sally halted abruptly,

her face alight with astonishment.

“The Duke specially cautioned that no one else learn of it . . . Though it’s not written directly to the Duke— some gentleman will handle it.”

“Enough.”

Kritiya cut her off sharply, waving a hand.

“You needn’t tell me the details. Whatever he bids you do, simply carry it out.”

With that, she gently disengaged from Sally’s arm, striding straight toward the campfire at the camp’s heart.

The accompanying servants clustered there, tending pots over the flames; the aroma of scorched bread and bean stew wafted from the cauldrons.

A flash of panic crossed Sally’s face; she hurried two steps after, but dared not reach out again, merely trailing in silence.

Kritiya stood poised at the firelight’s shadowed fringe, watching the cook ladle portions for the queuing servants.

Dusk had deepened; it was some time before anyone noted Kritiya— or rather, they first spied Sally in her black-and-white maid’s garb, then discerned Kritiya standing in the gloom, clad in somber skirts.

The cook cried out in surprise:

“Sally? What are you doing here? And this lady . . . this—”

“Ah! Miss Kritiya!”

The cook flustered, her soup ladle dodging about as if unsure where to settle. Kritiya simply stepped forward, saying,

“Enough fuss. No need to trouble yourselves. Just fetch me something to eat, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Please wait . . . Miss, this place hardly—”

At that moment,

I heard Sally’s low murmur from behind, but a firmer, more authoritative voice overrode it:

“Miss Airandil,”

the voice shifted to deference, yet brooked no argument.

“It seems you’ve wandered astray. How could such crude fare suit your palate? Your place and dinner have been prepared properly— over there.”

Kritiya turned to look,

finding Viscount Arendel, resplendent in burnished armor, bowing slightly and gesturing toward the brighter side of the fire, where a makeshift awning sheltered a table laid with fine linens and cutlery.

📚 Also on NHV Novels

Scream for Me

BLLove–Hate RelationshipModern

Read Now →
Not interested