SALP Chapter 9

How am I supposed to escape this time? Is there even a way? How would I get to Floretta...

Lanthe asked Nina about Floretta, trying to sound casual.

But Nina just tilted her head.

"Floretta? It's really far from here. Sometimes we get guests at the castle who live there, but they don't talk much so they hardly ever mention their hometown. I remember they said it's a southern territory, and it costs a lot of money to travel there every time."

"So it really does take a lot of money."

Then it would be difficult. If it were somewhere she could walk to, she'd walk for a month, two months, however long it took. Now that she'd learned that in this world, you couldn't do anything without money.

In any case, Lanthe didn't need to agonize long over her troublesome problem.

She wasn't given that luxury.

That very night, as she was preparing for bed, Rix summoned her.

"Everyone's waiting in the meeting room."

Someone had come from Newbella looking for her.

If I grab the doorknob and struggle, refusing to go, will Vigo tear me away by force and send me to Derek?

Lanthe stood in front of the meeting room, staring at the floor.

"Please go in, Miss Lanthe."

Rix had already knocked. Under his prodding gaze, which seemed to find her hesitation strange, she felt self-conscious, but her feet wouldn't move.

Derek Gebimonde. The man who killed Aunt Louise and burned the village. Not the one who dirtied his own hands, but the ringleader who gave the orders to his subordinates.

The thought that he was beyond the door made her body freeze cold.

"Miss Lanthe."

When Rix urged her again, carefully.

"Come in."

Vigo's voice came from beyond the door.

"Pardon the intrusion, my lord."

The door opened. Unable to do otherwise, Lanthe steeled herself and took a step forward.

The meeting room was a bleaker space than the room where Vigo worked. With no windows at all, the tightly sealed interior was gloomy with only a few candles lit. In the center of the room sat a large rectangular table, and expressionless knights stood along the walls. Besides Hermea's knights, she saw familiar dark red uniformed knights as well. Newbella's knights.

At the table, where refreshments were laid out with incongruous prettiness, sat only two people.

Occupying the seat of honor at the far end of the room was Vigo, and diagonally to his left—

She was there.

Not Derek, but Fiarelle.

"Princess!"

She jumped to her feet when she saw Lanthe.

"I'm so relieved you're safe."

She crossed the room quickly, scattering smiles—looking, genuinely, relieved..

"I came to escort you, Princess. You were startled by the sudden accident, weren't you? But I must thank Ailea's grace that you're safe like this."

Flustered, Lanthe rolled her eyes to survey the meeting room while Fiarelle pulled her into an embrace.

He's not here? He didn't come?

"I came alone today, Princess."

Fiarelle released her arms and smiled warmly, meeting her eyes.

"You're most comfortable with me, aren't you, Princess? I asked His Majesty Derek's permission to come alone to escort you."

I see. So he's not here...

Lanthe's dazed gaze, which had been wandering around the meeting room, suddenly landed on Vigo.

A strange smile rested in his eyes as he watched them steadily.

"Let's return to Newbella quickly, Princess. It's really cold here. Even during the Serea festival, Newbella doesn't get this cold."

What was he thinking, with those wolf-like eyes observing whether she was prey or not?

Lanthe found his gaze extremely distracting.

How he might feel about her being called "Princess." How far he and Fiarelle had talked. How much he knew about Derek's plans. All of it...

"I'm not going, Fiarelle."

In any case, what she had to say was clear.

"I don't like you people."

She spoke pointedly without taking her eyes off Vigo, as if to make sure he heard.

Then the faint upward curve of his mouth lengthened further, drawing a soft arc.

"I loathe and despise you, the people who killed my mother."

She'd always wanted to say it. Every time she saw Fiarelle smiling and pretending to be kind. She'd wanted to curse her, to condemn her. She'd wanted to spit at that inhuman kindness that didn't even try to hide its sinister intentions while justifying them.

I don't like you people. Even these words she could only say in her imagination every day. Back when she lived on an invisible leash in their territory.

"Mother, you say, Princess."

Fiarelle's eyes drooped at the corners in a pitying expression.

"I can state with certainty that your mother wasn't in that place. There may have been some commoner who presumptuously claimed to be the Princess's mother, but that was a fraud. You were deceived by a swindler."

Presumptuous commoner? Swindler?

"...Who are you to decide who's qualified to be my mother?"

You who know nothing.

Lanthe shifted her gaze from Vigo to Fiarelle. Shaking off the hand that had been holding hers without feeling.

"I know that much myself, that she wasn't my birth mother."

"Then why are you angry? I thought the Princess understood our circumstances..."

Fiarelle explained as if flustered.

"Please put aside your hatred, Princess. Remember that we rescued you from the shackles binding you to an unfortunate life."

"Shackles?"

A laugh nearly escaped at her ridiculously theatrical performance.

"You're still saying such..."

Isn't it said that tragedy viewed from a distance becomes comedy?

The Newbellans she'd feared so much looked only ridiculous when viewed from a little distance here. Had spending just a few days away from them and seeing a new world changed something inside her? Or was it because she'd experienced something like a miracle when she escaped them?

Like a protagonist who cried silently in tragedy, then stepped outside the play and could observe her own story with detachment.

"...If I tore apart that mouth that cut off my beloved gold bracelet without permission and deceives me by calling it shackles, Ailea herself would clap and say well done."

Like a troublemaking child from ten years ago returning, Lanthe spat out rough words.

"P-Princess..."

"Go to the afterlife and ask your goddess if I'm wrong, you wicked, foolish witch."

Instead of the pale Fiarelle, a low laugh. Vigo.

The boy who would have been frightened and tried to stop her ten years ago had become an insolent man, laughing at her cursing.

"How, how can the Princess use such vulgar cursing..."

She looked back at Vigo with a trembling gaze.

"What did you do to our Princess here, Lord? She wasn't someone who'd use words only commoners use, so how..."

"Didn't you know she had a rough personality originally?"

Vigo said with his arms crossed, as if it was none of his business.

"What?"

Fiarelle stared at him as he laughed irresponsibly.

Was his background publicly known? Was he about to reveal that he knew her well? Lanthe watched tensely, but Vigo just shrugged and shook his head lightly.

"You didn't know the Raphlish are originally a barbaric, aggressive people, Prophet. The natives I knew in the old days were foul-mouthed and bad-tempered."

He glanced at Lanthe sideways, narrowing his eyes.

Fiarelle frowned her carefully shaped eyebrows, apparently not catching his real meaning.

"This is the first I've heard that they're bad-tempered. Haven't the Raphlish been known as gentle pacifists since ancient times?"

"Hmm. Regrettably, what they aspire to in faith is one thing, but by nature they're as ferocious as any barbarian tribe."

"But when I personally visited Roas, I didn't get that impression…"

Visited. Who calls an invasion a visit?

When Lanthe's stomach churned at her expression that didn't even seem to recognize their crime, and she was lifting her eyes—

"You can believe my word since it's mixed with that barbarian blood, Prophet."

Thunk. Vigo propped his boot on the table and stretched.

"My mother was Raphlishian. Ran from Roas before she was married."

"Ah..."

It hadn't lasted long. It felt like it had.

"I see."

Fiarelle's gaze and voice shook slightly as she answered, trying to seem composed.

Lanthe wasn't the only one hearing about his background for the first time.

"So let's both ignore minor attitude problems and get to the point."

Vigo rubbed his eyes, openly showing fatigue, then artificially lifted the corners of his mouth.

By that point, it seemed like he was saying to ignore not Lanthe's cursing, but his own rude posture of leaning back half-reclined in the large chair at the head of the table.

"...I simply trust the Lord's judgment."

But Fiarelle returned to her polite smile and bowed her head.

"Whether bloodline aside, I believe everything the Lord has experienced and realized is fact. As a prophet who only reads books in the palace, I have no intention of competing with the Lord in worldly knowledge, so please don't misunderstand."

She returned to her seat and sat down. She was performing more deference than she ever did before King Derek.

Now only Lanthe stood there awkwardly.

"Please sit, Princess."

Vigo gestured to the seat beside him.

She hesitated briefly, not wanting to sit at the same table as Fiarelle, but didn't drag it out long. There were soldiers beyond the door anyway. Even if she escaped and ran, she didn't know where to go. She didn't even know the way back to her destroyed hometown.

"...Actually, I hate staying up late. In Hermea too, visiting someone's home in the middle of the night is such poor manners you'd deserve a slap. Please keep your words brief, Fiarelle."

Lanthe turned and walked around the table. Vigo pulled out the chair beside him—barely, the smallest gesture—and she sat with her chin up, as though it were her due.