Chapter 1
The bride who was promised to the Marquess had only just turned twenty. Ezekiel knew her family was of minor standing and impoverished, but the Quillucsia estate was in far worse condition than he had imagined. Beyond its crumbling walls and a small moat, the structure barely deserved to be called a “castle.” It was a relic from a bygone era, built over a century ago in a style that relied on packing stones of all sizes into its joints. Now, the wind whistled through the gaps time had worn into the masonry.
A pair of chickens, not servants, strutted across the cramped courtyard with craning necks. A small stable in the corner housed a single, swaybacked packhorse and a lone well, which was a practical arrangement, as any more animals would have overwhelmed the meager space. To be generous, one might call it pastoral. To be blunt, it was utterly decrepit.
And today, a crowd that had no business being there stood before this decaying keep: twelve Holy Knights of Udal, god of storms and thunder; two magnificent carriages; a handful of servants clearly in the employ of a great lord; and a well-dressed, middle-aged man.
Amid them all, a particularly fragile woman was bidding her family farewell.
“Miss Iris, you must take care of yourself. And you as well, Henry.”
“You must take care of your health too, Mrs. Bavin,” the woman, Iris, replied.
Her gown was beautiful and finely made, but it did not quite suit her. Of course it did not. The dress had not been tailored for her. Ezekiel was already aware that it was a gown his own sister, the princess, had tossed to the royal seamstresses months ago, like so much charity. He also knew it had been hastily altered to fit this young woman.
“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Bavin. I shall protect my sister,” the woman’s younger brother declared, puffing out his chest.
The nursemaid, dabbing at her tears, snorted at his childish bravado. “Oh, dear, Master Henry. You just worry about yourself.”
“Hmph!” the boy cried, stomping his foot. The simple exchange spoke volumes of their closeness, but no one seemed to realize it was prolonging the farewells. Not that it mattered to the Holy Knights, who stood in perfect formation, long accustomed to waiting through tedious ceremonies.
Finally, the middle-aged man stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Ahem. Miss Quillucsia, this farewell is growing rather long.”
“Oh, my apologies, my lord Marquess.” The woman flinched and bowed her head.
The Marquess waved a dismissive hand, a smile playing on his lips.
“Not at all. A good relationship with one’s servants is admirable. I am merely concerned for the Holy Knights of Udal, who must be growing weary.”
“What a load of crap,” Shanka, one of Udal’s proud Holy Knights, muttered under his breath.
Ezekiel kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. “Quiet,” he commanded in a low voice.
“Honestly, Udal himself could strike him down for that, and he would have it coming. Gods. They look like a father and daughter.”
Shanka’s observation, spoken despite Ezekiel’s warning, was painfully accurate. Barely twenty, the woman’s face still held a soft, youthful innocence. The Marquess, by contrast, was well over forty, his hair long since turned white—a common side effect of wielding powerful magic. And these two…
“I am pleased that my future wife seems to possess such a kind heart.”
…were to be wed.
The story was as common as it was simple. Marquess Kazakov was a Sorcerer of Water, his name renowned across the continent. To secure his services, the Emperor had granted him a fortune, a title, and lands. The price of employing a sorcerer was always steep, especially one who could command water as if it were an extension of his own will—a living miracle. No one would have begrudged the Emperor such generosity.
But the sorcerer had demanded one more thing: the hand of an imperial princess.
The princess, a girl of sixteen, had fainted upon hearing the demand. For three days and nights, she had wept and raged, vowing she would rather die than marry some decrepit old mage. At an impasse, the Emperor devised a clever solution: he would formally adopt the daughter of a minor noble house and send her to the sorcerer in his daughter’s stead.
The candidate chosen for this honor was from a family so insignificant that none could rival their obscurity. Iris Quillucsia. Thirty years ago, her father had stumbled into a barony by breaking the Emperor’s fall. The fiefdom he received, however, was desolate and destitute. Worse, the barony was a single-generation title, meaning his daughter was, for all intents and purposes, a commoner. As a result, she had reached the age of twenty without a single offer of engagement.
The sorcerer had been displeased at first, but one look at her portrait changed his mind. The silver-haired woman was an undeniable beauty. Consumed by eagerness, he had even offered to travel to her remote home himself to retrieve her. The Emperor, relieved, had readily agreed and, in his role as adoptive father, provided a staggering dowry. It was a transaction from which neither the sorcerer nor the young woman stood to lose.
…Or so it seemed.
“A man of forty should have kicked the bucket years ago,” Shanka grumbled. “He drags himself all the way out here to marry a twenty-year-old, then has the gall to rush her goodbyes. It is pathetic.”
Ezekiel shot him another warning glance. “That is enough.”
Ordinarily, Shanka would have fired back with ten more retorts, but he had the sense to hold his tongue this time. Ezekiel returned his gaze to the scene before him.
“In any case, we have a long road ahead,” the Marquess announced, oblivious to the knights’ conversation as he wrapped an arm around Iris’s shoulders. She stiffened, her eyes darting unconsciously toward Ezekiel. He knew she was looking at him, but he deliberately kept his gaze fixed on the space just behind her. After a few hesitant blinks, she lowered her eyes to the ground. Her younger brother glared up at the Marquess, but the old man just laughed and clapped the boy on the shoulder.
“Henry, is it? I hear you are of frail health. I have prepared a fine carriage for my bride’s brother. Why don’t you have a look?”
“Oh… should I?” The boy was only thirteen.
The Marquess had brought two carriages: a four-horse carriage for himself, and a grand six-horse carriage for the bride and her brother. The boy’s eyes lit up at the sight of it.
“Wow! The horses are magnificent!”
“Haha, I chose only the finest.”
This time, it was Millena, the knight beside Shanka, who spoke.
“Gods. He is pleased with himself for dragging ten damn horses out here. Who is supposed to guard all this?”
Millena rarely spoke out of turn, but even she was clearly annoyed by the Marquess’s extravagance. It was understandable. The prospect of escorting two carriages with a mere twelve Holy Knights was a daunting one.
Shanka muttered under his breath, “This is just high-class begging. Oh, Udal, please grant your poor knights enough to eat.”
“What is the point?” Millena shot back. “We work our asses off, and the priests just gobble it all up.”
“We cannot exactly ask Udal to smite all the priests, can we?”
Ezekiel finally fixed them with a glare that silenced them both. In truth, he shared their grim assessment. The Temple of Udal had dispatched only twelve Holy Knights. Even with the ten temple guards and six squires, their party numbered only twenty-eight. Could they truly protect two carriages with so few? He had assumed the Marquess would bring a single four-horse carriage at most. That had been his mistake.
No wonder he was so cagey about the size of his retinue until the last minute.
But it was too late to protest. Just then, the Marquess, having seen the boy into the carriage, approached with his bride-to-be. He possessed the high-handed arrogance typical of sorcerers, extending a wrinkled hand for a handshake.
“I am counting on you, Sir Ezekiel.”
Ordinarily, a man of his position would not have dared to address Ezekiel so familiarly. But Ezekiel simply inclined his head. “Very well.”
“They say you are the knight most cherished by Udal. I trust you will ensure a pleasant journey for my bride.”
“I will do my best,” Ezekiel replied, his tone rigid.
The Marquess retreated with a faint, self-satisfied smile. He then nodded at the silver-haired woman at his side, Iris Quillucsia. She had been staring at Ezekiel, lost in thought, and jumped when she realized she was being addressed.
“I am… in your care, um…” Her voice was a trembling whisper. From a distance, she had seemed composed, but up close, her girlish vulnerability was impossible to miss.
“You may call me Sir Ezekiel.”
“…Sir Ezekiel.” The young woman forced a smile. For a fleeting moment, a profound sadness flickered in her deep blue eyes, eyes that reminded him of a winter lake. He remembered a time when those same eyes had shone with a light brighter than any star.
“Thank you.”
“Of course.”
The old man’s expression soured. Was he displeased that his young fiancée had smiled at a handsome knight? But as they turned away, Ezekiel overheard the Marquess’s sharp rebuke and understood.
“You are to be the wife of Kazakov now. You shall not offer thanks to others so freely. Do you understand?”
“Oh…”
“Since becoming a sorcerer, I have never thanked anyone. Not even His Majesty the Emperor…”
“I am sorry. I did not know.”
Millena snorted as she watched the old man humiliate his fiancée in front of everyone. “Some great sorcerer he is.”
His reasons for putting on such a display were obvious. He wanted to assert his superiority, even over the servants of a god. Shanka blew his nose loudly into a handkerchief before stuffing it into his trousers.
“I’d love to see him refuse to thank the Queen of the Fae if she descended from Mount Aspel herself.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” Millena scoffed.
“What if that Marquess actually managed to capture her?”
“Even for a sorcerer, that is impossible, is it not?”
Ezekiel cut off their bickering with a sharp gesture. “Enough. We are wasting time. Since the Marquess brought two carriages, we will minimize our own baggage.”
“As you wish.”
“Send one of the two baggage wagons back to the temple and reduce our rations to the bare minimum. And…”
Shanka’s flippant demeanor vanished, replaced by military crispness. Millena shrugged and relayed the orders to a squire, who immediately set the guards and other squires into motion. Ezekiel glanced toward the Marquess’s carriage. The old man had already disappeared inside. In his place, the young woman was struggling to board, encumbered by the heavy skirts of her gown. A maidservant hurried to assist her, and Iris seemed to offer her a bright, grateful smile.
Ezekiel turned away. The sorcerer and the woman were his responsibility for the next two months, nothing more. Whether they looked like father and daughter, whether the old man treated her cruelly—it was not his place to interfere. He had no right to.
Across the courtyard, the woman’s nursemaid met his gaze and gave a silent, respectful nod. Ezekiel returned it.
“Depart.”
No grand pronouncements were necessary.
