Chapter 4
Ian muttered while staring at the ground, then looked up at Maeve, who didn’t respond.
A gentle breeze blew, scattering her red curls.
Her yellow eyes, the same ones his parents always called ominous, looked at him without a trace of emotion.
Yes. Maeve had no feelings for him.
In truth, she behaved that way toward everything. When she first wandered into this area—barely nineteen, if that—and finally settled down, she had shown no trace of human affection, not even toward the old woman who had taken her in, much less the townsfolk.
It was merely a relationship of exchange—food and shelter given, and labor in return. Everything was transactional.
Whatever her reasons were, it was now clear that Maeve intended to leave this place. Ian was certain of it.
“Ian.”
Maeve called out to him.
When Ian lifted his head, Maeve had already gathered the absurdly tall stack of firewood into her arms and slung it over her shoulder.
“Let’s go back.”
Ian silently wrapped up the potatoes again and followed behind Maeve as they left the forest.
While they walked, Maeve said, “Let’s have a taste,” and reached out her hand to him. She took the prized potato Ian handed her and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly.
There was something distinctly different about it compared to ordinary potatoes. It was less sticky, softer.
Maeve looked at Ian’s profile with the same lack of expression she had shown toward the rare potato.
She didn’t bother saying the pointless words, I know about your one-sided love. Instead, she turned her gaze forward again and finished eating the potato.
“Don’t worry about Grandma. I’ll take care of her in your place. I’ll even keep her company sometimes, like a grandchild.”
“Don’t. She’ll smack your backside and throw you out for being a nuisance.”
Two days later, at a very early dawn.
There was no one to see her off. The old woman, Morrigan, lay asleep in bed, breathing deeply.
Maeve looked at the frail curve of her back with a blank face, then glanced around.
The shabby hut stood far away from the village. There was enough firewood stocked up; the old woman would get through the winter without trouble.
Maeve quietly packed her bag and stepped out of the hut.
By the time she passed through the village and reached the castle, the same officer she had seen before was glaring down at her with an angry expression. She was late.
But there was someone even later than her—the prince who was to accompany her on this journey.
Maeve was told to load her luggage into the carriage and hurried outside again as if being chased.
There was a single carriage, with another wagon behind it for the baggage.
Four horses were harnessed, and a single donkey was tethered to the wagon.
She went down the line, greeting each horse, and was scratching the donkey’s cheek when a man approached and spoke to her.
It was immediately clear he wasn’t from this region—the accent alone gave it away.
He was tall and broad-shouldered. His features were ordinary, but his gait carried a cocky swagger.
“Are you the only maid here? I’ll help you.”
Maeve silently watched as the man grunted and hoisted a sack onto his shoulder.
When she gathered three sacks together in her arms to make them easier to carry and started walking toward the carriage, the man followed after her in admiration.
“You’re really strong,” he said, with the same kind of amazement she’d heard countless times before.
“What’s your name?”
“Maeve.”
The man didn’t seem to care that Maeve spoke to him rather casually.
“I’m Rory. As you can see, this is how I make my living. I guard nobles, and sometimes, well… I take on more discreet work.”
The scabbard hanging from his waist was black. Maeve gave it a brief glance before nodding.
After Rory, she exchanged greetings with the coachman named Colm. He was a gaunt man, and his timid appearance matched his hesitant, reserved greeting.
Then she was introduced to Fione, an older man who, like Rory, was also assigned to the escort.
Once they had all exchanged introductions and were waiting a bit longer, the large door in the distance suddenly burst open again.
The prince? she wondered, but it was obvious at a glance that he wasn’t.
Maeve recalled how the village girls had gossiped endlessly about the prince’s beauty. According to their stories, he was said to possess looks capable of enchanting the entire world.
The man who appeared looked to be in his thirties at most. His face, utterly lacking in masculine charm, was burdened with an unfitting goatee.
Though he wore fine clothes and spoke in refined tones, every word that came out of his mouth—despite that polished manner—was so arrogant it grated on the ears.
“You still haven’t finished loading the luggage? What are you doing just standing there? Hurry up and get it loaded! Now!”
Rory shrugged, looking exasperated.
“Not everyone’s here yet. How do you expect this maid to load everything by herself?”
“Everyone’s arrived! This is all of us! Or were you planning to just stand there and act important because you’ve got a sword? Get moving and help load the baggage immediately!”
For a brief moment, not only Rory but even Fione’s expression hardened.
Only Colm grew visibly restless, brushing the horse’s mane while glancing nervously in their direction.
The man with the goatee didn’t stop there—he kept on shouting, waving his hand accusingly.
“From now on, don’t talk back to me! Understand? You’re being paid, so just do your job accordingly! Since there are few of us, everyone must share the work!”
In that instant, Maeve noticed that Rory’s eyes had turned not just cold, but oddly glinting with something sharper.
But before Rory could retort, a new voice called out from the other side.
“Craig.”
It was a pleasant, low baritone.
Footsteps descended the stairs—steady and unhurried—and then a man appeared.
The moment Maeve saw his smooth, refined face, she thought,
The prince.
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