Please Die, Your Highness - Chapter 7

Before they knew it, it had already been four days since their departure.

Unlike the uneasy start, the journey has been smooth so far. The group had reached the kingdom’s border the previous day, and now, as originally planned, they were heading steadily westward without any particular destination in mind.

The Prince, who was said to be suffering from an incurable illness that no remedy could heal, appeared rather lively.

Throughout the journey, he didn’t stay quietly seated inside the carriage, let alone groan in weakness — if anything, he would jump out at the slightest opportunity to chatter away.

He shoved his protesting attendant Craig into the carriage, took Craig’s horse for himself, and rode alongside the others, conversing with everyone in turn — except Craig.

“Ah, the border watchtower is no longer visible. That means we’ve completely left Lutea now. Seeing it this way really makes me realize how prosperous and comfortable my country was — and how small it is, too. Compared to the vast continent we’re about to face, Lutea must be no larger than the palm of one’s hand. Don’t you agree?”

Especially on the day they crossed the border, the Prince seemed overwhelmed with emotion and kept talking endlessly.

“You two — Rory and Fionechta — being foreigners, probably don’t know much about Lutea. Once, Lutea ruled over all these lands, you know. Back when my ancestor first founded the kingdom. Judging by your expressions, I suppose you didn’t know that? The last dragon of the mortal realm was the first King of Lutea.

Oh, and that’s not a legend — it’s the truth. The royal castle still keeps the first king’s fang and claw preserved. I saw them once, when I was young, following my father — it was both the first and last time, but I’ve never forgotten that feeling.

Some claim they’re just some beast’s teeth and claws displayed for show, but I’m sure those rumors were spread by the petty small states jealous of Lutea. You’ll be astonished when you see them for yourselves.”

Once the Prince began to speak, he wouldn’t stop, so the group’s reactions gradually dulled.

The Prince, as if used to such reactions — or perhaps never expecting enthusiasm from them in the first place — turned to the carriage to draw a response from Craig.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Craig?”

Then, still trapped inside the carriage without his horse, Craig would energetically play along.

“Indeed, Your Highness, absolutely. What would these foreigners know? Even if we explained it, they wouldn’t understand.”

By now, the group had already been categorized according to the Prince’s own standard.

First, those who, like himself, lived within the castle walls, possessing the minimum etiquette befitting nobility — people who naturally understood how to revere him properly.

That category, of course, included Craig. Out of generosity, the Prince decided to include the coachman, Colm, as well.

The second group consisted of thorough outsiders like Rory and Fionechta — self-proclaimed knights whose speech and accent were so distinct from Lutea’s that their foreign origins were immediately obvious.

Then there was Maeve, the red-haired maid, who fell into a third category. Though she spoke with the dialect of Lutea, she neither revered the Prince like the others nor showed any trace of nervous deference before him.

Declan reasoned that this must be because she came from some rural backwater. Surely, being uneducated, she looked upon a royal like himself with the same indifference one might show to a pebble on the roadside — and she probably didn’t even realize how insolent that was.

“Sir Rory, you look rather young. How long has it been since you left your homeland?”

The Prince treated each member of the group differently according to this classification.

He was a bit more casual with Colm and Craig, mildly indifferent toward Maeve, and outwardly polite but cautiously wary toward Rory and Fionechta.

Prince Declan, of course, was no fool. He did not for a moment believe Craig’s claim that Rory and Fionechta were knights.

Instead of directly telling them not to lie, he persistently asked them question after question, almost to the point of annoyance — as though he were waiting for them to finally feel guilty and confess, “In truth, we are not noble knights. But please, allow us to continue serving you, Your Highness.”

“I don’t really have a hometown to speak of. Just when I’d start to get used to a place, I’d have to move on again. I must’ve passed through at least ten different countries by now.”

Of course, Fionechta and Rory did not fall for the Prince’s shallow ploy. Rory merely gave a smooth, easygoing smile — the kind that said, I’m sorry for being such a rootless fellow.

The Prince smiled gently, seemingly unbothered.

He concluded the conversation by saying he envied Rory for all the experience and knowledge he must’ve gained from traveling to so many places, then turned his gaze toward Fionechta.

“Then, Sir Fionechta, tell me your story. You are truly a man of few words. Are you of a knightly lineage?”