Please Die, Your Highness - Chapter 28

Declan had already bitten into it by the time she said that. His mouth and tongue burned horribly, as if he had swallowed fire.

With tears welling in his eyes, Declan quickly spat it out. Maeve silently looked between the top of the bread—now marked with teeth impressions—and Declan, who was bent over, panting with his head lowered.

He really does need a lot of looking after, she thought.

Of course, that made sense. This must have been his first time experiencing anything like this.

Just as it had been for her, back when she had recklessly fled from the tower.

Her brief reflection ended there, and Maeve quietly handed another coin to a nearby fruit vendor. The prince, who had just received bread in one hand, now found a yellow fruit of unknown name in the other.

When he looked at Maeve as if to ask, What is this? she was already munching on her own fruit.

Following her lead, Declan bit into the smooth surface. The skin split apart, and sweet juice-filled flesh flooded into his mouth.

It was pleasantly tart and sweet. The rich juice pooled in his mouth, cooling the spots still sore from the hot bread.

“Thank you.”

Declan, cheeks puffed as he chewed, managed to say his thanks while following her.

The maid did not answer, nor did she look back at him as she walked ahead.

After they passed the food stalls crowded together, they began to see stands displaying a wider variety of goods. Prince Declan followed her closely, holding onto her sleeve, and whenever she stopped, he stopped as well, looking over the items on display as she did.

The nearby merchants glanced curiously at the tall man clinging to a much smaller woman as if he were a child.

Maeve bought a sturdy-looking leather bag, a pot, and finally, a small knife that looked rather sharp.

Watching the much smaller woman buy a throwing blade, as if preparing for what lay ahead, Declan felt an odd sense of awkwardness.

“You already have two knights. Is there any need to buy one?”

He said this only to fill the silence and mask his discomfort. The maid replied without turning around.

“It’s faster than a longsword. You can throw it and strike immediately.”

Declan was dumbfounded and couldn’t find a word to say. Maeve, unconcerned, simply walked ahead again.

It was then that Declan realized she was actually quite strong. He had been too preoccupied with the humiliating memory of being naked to remember that this same maid had once carried him—much larger than her—over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Declan suddenly found himself curious about her.

“You seem pretty strong. Were your parents also strong?”

It was an innocent, casual question, without any ill intent.

But when the maid, who had been silent for what felt like an eternity, suddenly turned her head and fixed him with those glowing yellow eyes, Declan was taken aback.

“Why are you asking about my parents?”

She asked him in return.

“…Just curious. Was it something I shouldn’t have asked?”

To Declan, parents were a source of pride—people he loved and missed dearly. They had been the ones who had poured endless affection on him, who had given him love without any price or condition.

He realized, belatedly, that it might not have been the same for her.

“No, I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer.”

The air turned awkward in an instant. Instead of replying to his apology, the maid simply turned her head back and continued walking.

Maeve walked with an expressionless face, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Her father, once a knight, had considered her a disgrace to their family. Believing her to be a gifted mage, he had sent her to the cradle, but when it was revealed that she was a useless being, he had not hesitated to hurl cruel words at the young girl who returned home.

That was the kind of man her biological father was—a man who, consumed with preserving his own pride, shamelessly blamed his child for the shame he felt.

When Fergus later demanded her presence, her father, without hesitation, dragged the young Maeve—who had refused to go—and handed her over to the Great Archmage.

And her mother?

Her mother swayed like a reed in the wind, changing her attitude according to her husband’s mood.

When her husband despised Maeve, she too acted cold and unpleasant. When he was affectionate, she managed to be somewhat kind.

Her parents were nothing more than that sort of people…

Maeve stopped walking.

Suddenly, an image of her mother—the last time she had seen her—flashed vividly in her mind.

“Eve, I’ll get you out of there. Just wait a little longer, alright? I’m looking for a way.”

That woman, who had always seemed weak and helpless, had come to sixteen-year-old Maeve and said those very words. But after saying that to Eve, she had never returned.

Maeve had waited another year or so before finally escaping from the tower on her own.

“Maeve?”

The prince, walking behind her, asked curiously. Maeve came back to herself.

As if steadying her own mind, she slowly shook her head and began walking forward again.