Chapter 15. A Strange Encounter

Given Yona’s fickle nature, I half-expected him to be late, but there he was, already waiting in front of the square’s clock tower.

Clad in a pristine milk-white tunic under his robe, he looked as if he might be a priest from a wealthy temple—if not for the arrogant slouch as he leaned on one leg. Any chance of appearing priestly was nullified by his demeanor.

“Good morning, Director.”

“You’re late.”

The sharp criticism came flying my way. I glanced up at the clock tower. It wasn’t even the appointed time yet. Raising a brow in protest, I caught him shrugging dismissively.

“If you’re later than me, you’re late.”

As he spun around, his thick robe rippled behind him like a noblewoman’s gown.

* * *

The capital, Tepenn, was alive with a festive buzz, even in the early hours. Soldiers stood stiff-backed at various posts, their presence adding a certain gravity to the air. The signs were unmistakable.

“Looks like there’s some sort of parade,” I mused.

“Not a parade—an expedition ceremony.”

Yona corrected, striding purposefully. He weaved through the gathering crowd, showing no regard for whether I could keep up. His indifference reminded me of Nexiard.

The two were almost the same height, but Nexiard had always matched his pace to mine. I’d never had to chase after him, gasping for breath like this.

“Wait… hold on, Director…!”

Yona’s tall figure, like a signpost above the crowd, began to fade into the distance, swaying like a mirage.

“Look! It’s General Neumonte!”

The sudden exclamation in a voice dripping with admiration jolted me.

“General! Over here, please!”

“Oh my, he’s so handsome!”

At the mere mention of ‘that’ name, my entire body froze, every hair standing on end. A chill sliced across the back of my neck like a paper cut.

Caught in the swelling crowd, I was trapped. Yona was nowhere to be seen, and I was being pushed around by the surging mass of people.

Unlike a triumphant return, an expedition ceremony wasn’t a grand event. It was closer to a standard procession, and the crowd had gathered of their own volition. I told myself it wouldn’t last long—the mob would eventually disperse. That thought brought a modicum of calm to my nerves.

“Step back, please! You’re obstructing the procession!”

“General! General!”

“Wipe out those savages!”

“Hey, don’t push!”

Somehow, I found myself shoved to the very front, gripping the barricade that separated the spectators from the procession. My heart pounded with an ominous dread as I clung to the barrier.

A jet-black warhorse, as intimidating as its rider, snorted as it approached. Children tossed colorful confetti into the air, while others clutched wilted bouquets of wildflowers.

Neumonte was one with his steed, clad in black armor that gleamed menacingly. His eyes were as dark as his armor, but his golden hair stood out starkly, catching the pale winter sunlight. The soft curls bounced with every motion, shining like polished gold.

‘So that’s Neumonte.’

His features were well-sculpted, but something about him exuded a sly arrogance. His numerous medals and ribbons declared him a young man of ambition and capability, but the air around him made my stomach churn.

“I love you!”

The near-scream came from a woman who promptly fainted, tears streaming down her face. Her heart seemed to burn with passion, while mine froze solid.

It felt as though a piece of Mine Molière’s soul, buried deep within me, was wailing.

‘The man who used Mine and then killed her.’

If only I could hurl a stone at his smiling, deceitful face—or spit on it.

As the cheers around me reached a fever pitch, my chest tightened with anger. But then, as I trembled with hatred, my eyes caught sight of something that made my heart lurch.

‘Nexiard.’

How could I have forgotten? If Neumonte marched, Nexiard, his right-hand man, would inevitably follow.

Trailing behind Neumonte, Nexiard wore plain silver armor. Unlike the last time I saw him—poisoned and near death—he was now immaculate. His neatly trimmed hair revealed a clean, polished forehead.

Yet, his back and shoulders were hunched, an unusual posture for him. I realized it was likely intentional, meant to emphasize Neumonte’s grandeur.

The bitterness Neumonte had stirred within me was replaced by an unbidden surge of excitement. I had promised myself I’d forget Nexiard until we met again, but clearly, I’d been holding onto him in the depths of my heart.

‘Does he remember me?’

Would he remember the witch who had selfishly taken pleasure in nursing him back to health, reveling in his vulnerability?

Part of me hoped he wouldn’t. Another part wished he’d remember me forever.

‘Why not just beg him to love you while you’re at it?’

I scoffed at my own sentimentality. After all, remembering someone for a lifetime was far harder than fleeting love.

Even so, it didn’t matter if he didn’t recognize me. I craned my neck, desperate for just one glance from him.

“Nex… iard.”

I murmured, my voice a soft, trembling whisper.

“Nexiard!”

As I waved a handkerchief high above my head, pain suddenly seared through my shoulder, and the cloth fell from my grasp. I clutched my throbbing shoulder and turned to see a man wearing a white scarf, his face twisted in fury as he stepped onto a raised platform.

“Down with the military dictatorship!”

In his hand was a bottle with flames licking the top—a Molotov cocktail. The burning bottle soared through the air, aimed at the procession, just as a soldier tackled the man.

“You bastard!”

“Down with the mili—aargh!”

The scuffle sent me tumbling forward, directly into the path of the procession.

“Ugh…!”

— Hiiiiiinnng!

The explosion startled the horses, sending them into a frenzy. One of them reared up on its hind legs, its hooves poised to crush me. I couldn’t think, let alone move. Even if I had, I doubted I could escape in time.

All I could do was close my eyes tightly.

— Hiiiiiiii!

But the horse didn’t trample me.

— Prrrh! Hiiing!

Panting, I forced my heavy eyelids open. I saw Nexiard, covering the horse’s eyes and calming it down. Despite his efforts, the panic spread, affecting Neumonte’s black steed and the other once-proud warhorses. They began snorting, tossing their heads, and pawing at the ground in agitation.

The soldiers in the procession scrambled to soothe their mounts, leaving me completely unnoticed. The culprit had already been arrested, so I dusted myself off and shakily stood up. Carefully, I approached Nexiard’s horse.

“Miss, it’s dangerous.”

Nexiard flinched and tried to block my path. I raised a finger to my lips and whispered, “Shh.” He froze in place like a well-behaved child, or rather, like someone caught off guard.

“…”

“Shhh… It’s okay, Jul. It’s okay.”

Seizing the moment, I uncovered the horse’s eyes. At first, the horse seemed even more agitated.

— Prrrh! Prrh!

“How do you know my horse’s name…?” Nexiard muttered.

I let his words slip in one ear and out the other, focusing on calming the horse.

“You’re such a fine horse, aren’t you? You even carried your master across snowy mountains. Good girl…”

I met the horse’s dark, glistening eyes directly, as if peering into the shadows at the bottom of shallow water. Continuing to speak softly, maintaining eye contact, I watched as the horse’s heavy breaths began to steady.

“Good girl… Our Jul, you’re so beautiful.”

The reason I could calm Jul was simple—she had originally been Mine’s horse. Considering the care and time required to raise such a fine steed, it was practical for the revolutionaries not to kill the horse even after its owner was sent to the guillotine.

Consul Dottney, ever the pragmatist, saw no reason to waste such a valuable asset. Still, the horse couldn’t remain with the disgraced princess. Eventually, Jul was assigned to Nexiard.

Nexiard gave me a slight bow.

“Um… Thank you.”

There was no hint of recognition in his eyes. I was disappointed but didn’t let it show, offering him a polite smile instead.

“Stay safe… Don’t get hurt.”

“Yes.”

It was then that Neumonte approached, kicking up a cloud of dust as he arrived.

“Do you know this lady?”

His voice was slightly high-pitched and sharp, like the flick of a blade. I felt his gaze sweep over me from head to toe, leaving me with the sensation of a snake slithering across my skin. Nausea clawed at my throat.

“You’re beautiful,” Neumonte remarked.

“…Thank you,” I replied curtly.

“The eyes of a horse are said to see through to one’s essence,” he mused.

“Yes… I’ve heard that,” I responded.

“Interesting.”

At his signal, a soldier stepped forward and saluted.

“Escort her safely. But before that, have we met somewhere before…?”

“N-No, sir. I can manage on my own.”

“Hey, witch!”

The call drew Neumonte’s gaze. Yona stood nearby, his expression cold as ice.

“What’s the meaning of wandering off on your own?”

“I got lost. The crowd was overwhelming.”

“Tch.”

Yona reached out and lightly pulled me toward his side. It felt oddly protective. Straightening his back, he addressed Neumonte with the kind of poise only a confident mage could muster.

“My apologies, General.”

“…”

“Let’s go. We’re running late because of you!”

I was practically dragged away by Yona, his icy grip mirroring the chill in my chest.