Tristan’s expression darkened. He was the crown prince, the one who commanded respect. Yet now, all eyes were on Grace. Of course, that didn’t sit well with him.
If those plague-infected civilians had died, he could’ve sealed off the city and buried the truth along with the bodies. But now that Grace had stepped in, there was no covering it up.
Worst of all, she was the one who saved them. Compared to that, he seemed somewhat incompetent. No matter how bitter he felt, he had to keep up appearances.
The rain had just stopped, and a damp mist still clung to the ruins of Harbortown. Tristan trudged through the mud toward Grace, wearing a warm smile.
“You must be exhausted,” he said. “Come back to the tent with me. I had the chef prepare some chicken soup to help you warm up.”
Raindrops slid down Grace’s cheek, and she wiped them away. Her black field clothes were already soaked through with mud.
She glanced at the civilians huddled in the ruined church nearby. They’d just been rescued from the flood, and some of the children were still burning with fever.
“That’s thoughtful of you, Tristan,” she replied flatly. Her tone gave nothing away, though her fingers unconsciously tightened around the pendant at her waist. It was a gift from Valon, etched with the words, “Protect the People”.
The camp sat on high ground along the northern slope with gray-blue tents dotting the hillside. Outside, soldiers stood in gleaming armor that made a sharp contrast with the ragged refugees below.
Inside the main tent, everything was warm and comfortable. A brazier burned steadily in the corner, its coals giving off a steady, comforting heat.
On the table, slices of smoked venison were neatly arranged on a porcelain platter. Amber-colored wine shimmered in an emerald decanter. Even the preserved fruits served alongside were arranged like flower petals.
“Have a seat,” Tristan said. He pulled out an ornately carved rosewood chair for her. The cloud brocade lining his sleeve cuffs peeked out, embroidered with subtle golden dragons.
“This venison is a tribute from the Skarnvale. It was marinated for three days in 20-year-old wine. Try some?”
He picked up a silver knife, sliced a piece of meat with a perfect fat-to-lean ratio, and offered it to her. The emerald ring on his finger caught the lamplight with a warm, glossy sheen.
But Grace didn’t reach for her utensil. Her eyes had drifted to the military map hanging on the tent wall.
The streets of Harbortown were circled in red ink. On the west side of the city, where the slums were, someone had marked an aggressive black X.
“Tristan, do you know how many people in the quarantine zone are actually infected? And how many are healthy?” Grace’s voice turned sharp and cold.
Her fingertips drummed against the table as she added, “I passed the supply depot on my way here. There’s a stockpile of herbs just sitting untouched. Why haven’t they been distributed?”
Tristan’s hand froze mid-cut, then he burst into laughter.
“You don’t understand. Those herbs are set aside for our troops. If disease breaks out in the camp, we can’t just let our soldiers die, right?” he explained.
He poured himself a drink, and the liquid made a crisp sound as it hit the goblet.
He went on, “Besides, there are so many refugees. How could we possibly save them all?”
“So if we can’t save everyone, you choose to save no one?” Grace retorted. As she shot to her feet, her dark cloak swept past the brazier, sending sparks flying.
She continued, “The people are the foundation of the throne. Have you forgotten that these civilians are citizens of the Dragonmarsh, not weeds to be trampled underfoot?”
Wind carrying the scent of rain and blood seeped through the tent. The candle flames danced and hissed in protest.
Tristan’s smile dimmed as he lifted his goblet for another sip.
“You make a fair point,” he said. “Though Matthias and Nathaniel have been far more ruthless than I have.”
He set the goblet down and lowered his voice.
“When the plague hit Thornwick, Matthias just set everything on fire. He burned over 10,000 people alive. You can still see black smoke rising from their bones.
“When Sommertown got hit, Nathaniel was just as brutal. He burned, killed, and buried people alive. His hands are soaked with innocent blood.
He picked up the goblet and added, ” Compared to them, I’ve been merciful. Everything I’ve done has been for the greater good. To stop the plague from spreading.”
“That’s enough!” Grace cut him off. Her knuckles were white from how tightly she clenched her fist.
She turned and looked outside the tent. The post-rain sky had just begun to brighten. In the distance, the cries of the refugees drifted in on the wind, each one like a knife to the heart.
“I’ll remember what they’ve done. But I’ll also report to Father how you stood by and watched while people suffered,” she said coldly.
Tristan’s smile vanished. He set his goblet down hard, the base hitting the table with a hollow thunk.
“Why do you have to be like this?” he asked. “We share the same mother. If you’d just stand with me, we could rule Dragonmarsh together someday. Think of how many more lives we could save. What could be better than that?”
“You’re wrong, Tristan.” Grace straightened her collar, her voice returning to its usual cool reserve. “I never wanted power. I just want people to live in peace.”
She glanced at the feast spread across the table. The fancy spread looked ridiculous now.
“I won’t be staying for dinner. The children in the quarantine zone are still waiting for their medicine.”
With that, she turned and walked away. Tristan watched her figure disappear into the distance, his smile slowly fading.
When the tent flap lifted, cold air rushed in and set the candle flames dancing wildly. His shadow twisted across the wall, long and distorted.
Only after Grace had gone completely out of sight did he slowly clench his fist until his knuckles turned white. His eyes were seething with silent rage.
