#136. The Hidden Meaning Is That I Trust You
After leaving the words “Think it over” behind, Princess Blanche exited the council chamber.
Dagon tapped lightly on the table.
The round table of the council chamber, passed down for hundreds of years, was carved from a single massive stone. A dull sound echoed across its smooth, timeworn surface.
“What do you think?”
Dagon asked his son.
Though still young and inexperienced, his son sometimes displayed remarkably cold judgment. For that reason, Dagon placed high expectations on him.
“I think we should accept it.”
“Why?”
“Because the price she offered is generous.”
In return for cooperation, Blanche promised annual aid in grain.
More precisely, what she proposed was not a one-time bargain, but the foundation of a continuing partnership beginning with this matter.
“Our defenses are drained far too heavily each year by conflict. If we can ally with the Nikal tribe, we’ll reduce the waste of military strength. Considering that, food aid is no loss at all.”
In other words: for helping her strike at the Kartian Kingdom, the reward would be a share of the spoils. And afterwards, if a peace treaty were promised, then food aid would be guaranteed.
Truly, it was not a bad deal for the Nikal either.
Raiding placed great strain on them as well, and there was never any assurance that the plundered grain would be plentiful.
“But can we trust the princess?”
Perhaps her words were nothing more than a temporary measure to put out a fire—and later she might go back on them.
The Nikal might never receive the promised reward.
Or worse: perhaps this entire proposal was a ruse to lure them down from the mountains and crush them all at once.
Who could say the kingdom’s army, which seemed to have headed for the capital, wasn’t in fact lying in wait, watching for them to descend?
“Yes.”
But his son’s answer was swift and firm. Dagon lifted his head to look into Sharkel’s eyes—eyes still young and unrefined, but burning with passion.
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because Princess Blanche herself declared that it is Princess Langrisha, in the capital, who will ascend the throne.”
Dagon gestured for him to continue. Sharkel pulled his chair closer and spoke on.
“Langrisha too was said to have fallen from poison. If Blanche harbored ambition, she would have seized the throne herself.”
“She could be lying.”
“It would be a meaningless lie. Considering Blanche is the one conducting these negotiations, it would sound far more convincing if she claimed that she herself was to be queen—that her words carried royal authority. Yet she openly acknowledged that authority lay with Langrisha.”
It was a valid point. Dagon himself had wondered during Blanche’s explanation whether this matter had been agreed upon with Langrisha.
“But by admitting there’s someone above her with decision-making power, she spoke the truth. If she were in a position to seize power anytime she wished, but still chose to yield authority, it means Blanche truly has her country’s safety at heart.”
Sharkel cast a glance toward the door, then finished his persuasion.
“In that context, her words are logical. Rather than losing their grain to us every year through raids, they offer it to us from the beginning in return for stability. With most of the royals dead, this is the best option. Two princesses barely of age cannot possibly govern the kingdom smoothly. It will take time for stability to return—and until then, the promise will surely be upheld.”
Dagon exhaled slowly and blinked.
“Very well. I understand your view. You may go now.”
Sharkel bowed lightly and withdrew. Left alone in the chamber, Dagon pondered the future of his tribe.
Was it truly right to descend from the mountains? Could the relationship between the kingdom and the Nikal really change?
Sharkel did not return home after leaving the council chamber. Instead, he walked toward the lodging assigned to Blanche and her attendants.
He had an excuse prepared—that he only wished to see whether the foreigners felt at ease—but whether by fortune or misfortune, he met no one on the way and reached the lodging without interruption.
“It seems rather late for a stroll.”
And without his even knocking, the person he sought was already outside. Whether that was fortunate or not, he could not tell.
“I only came to ask if anything is inconvenient.”
“Thanks to your concern, all is well.”
Blanche smiled faintly, then removed something from her lips and dropped it to the ground, crushing it lightly underfoot.
The object was wholly ill-suited to Princess Blanche. Sharkel’s eyes widened slightly.
“You smoke?”
“I needed an excuse.”
An excuse? For what? He didn’t even need to ask—Blanche closed the distance herself.
“I thought perhaps you would come.”
Her pale hand reached for the cloth tied at his wrist. She untied it deftly.
It was a familiar cloth. Sharkel realized it was the scarf he had wrapped around a girl’s leg years ago, out in the fields.
“…You still had it.”
A faint relief spread through his chest. Not only had he recognized her—she had recognized him too.
Not only had he remembered her—she had remembered him as well.
“Of course. It was given to me by the one who saved my life.”
Saved her life? Hardly. The words were too flattering, and Sharkel’s face reddened slightly. Thankfully, the darkness hid it.
“Thanks to you, my leg healed completely.”
He could tell just from watching her walk, but hearing it aloud was different.
Sharkel thought it fortunate that no scar remained. But saying so would be too embarrassing, so he diverted the subject.
“But how did you recognize me as that boy?”
Recognizing Blanche had been easy for him—not only for her beauty but also her distinctive hair.
But Sharkel had no such rare features.
Yet Blanche had not even needed to confirm—she had been certain.
“Why, the moment I saw you, I knew.”
Her answer made him falter.
“Every time I looked at that scarf, I thought of you.”
Sharkel accepted the scarf she handed him. Despite the years, it was well cared for.
“I never truly believed we’d meet again… but I’m glad I kept it, so I could return it to you.”
Blanche’s hand brushed lightly against his arm. Her face, once still touched with youth, had matured completely.
“Once again, thank you.”
Sharkel unconsciously clenched the scarf tightly before returning it to her.
“You don’t need to give it back.”
Blanche’s eyes widened.
“Pardon?”
“Instead… would you let me keep your handkerchief?”
Just as he had said when he received the scarf, he had thought of that silver-haired girl every time he saw the handkerchief.
Even after he learned that silver hair was the mark of royalty.
He had always wondered—did she think of him too? As she had said, did she remember him when she looked at that cloth?
He had not changed, even knowing she was royalty. But had she changed?
Now he had his answer. She still regarded him as her savior and had treasured the scarf he had given.
Sharkel chose to believe in Blanche’s proposal. Perhaps the Nikal tribe and the Kingdom of Lamore were ready to form a new kind of relationship.
I almost let out a sigh of relief but forced it back. At least this much worked, Count Grif.
I had wondered whether a single meeting could really leave such a deep impression—but fortunately, Sharkel remembered me.
Well, this hair color isn’t easy to forget, after all.
And judging from his words, it seemed he even held some goodwill toward me.
Whether that was thanks to my face or thanks to the count, I couldn’t quite tell—but either way, it was good.
I wasn’t the type to rely on people’s favor to get things done. But still, it’s easier to work with someone who likes me than with someone who despises me.
“Yes, very well then.”
I smiled and wound the scarf back around my arm.
When I asked if he would walk with me, Sharkel nodded silently and led me toward the woods.
Once we had gone far enough from the village, I opened my mouth.
“Will it take long for a decision?”
Walking a step ahead, Sharkel turned back to me.
“Are you worried?”
“Yes, I am.”
Before his expression could fully darken, I quickly added—
“Because I left my sister alone in the capital.”
“Ah.”
Though standing in enemy lands nearly alone, I did not speak of my own safety, but only of hers.
The meaning hidden within those words was this: I trust you.
I trust that you will not harm me—and moreover, that if another plots to harm me, you will stop them.
In the Ralke Mountains, evergreens grow thick.
Even in winter, their leaves do not fall, and the moonlight scarcely filters through.
But even so, I could see Sharkel’s expression soften.
