The man's large hand moved slowly across the fabric of her dress, as though he were touching something that already belonged to him.
"You use the same perfume as your mother," he murmured. "Lady Senevier's hair carried this same scent. Once someone is caught by it, they can't help but keep searching for it … again and again."
His hand began to move higher.
Talia instinctively tried to twist away, but he didn't budge. He pulled her against him, his breath hot against her ear. Revulsion and panic burst through her body.
In the next instant, she was forced down onto the carpet. Furniture crashed; the puzzle they had spent hours building scattered into pieces. She struggled wildly, but the man's strength crushed her.
"T-Talia, just … stay still," he panted. One hand pinned her wrists while the other forced her chin upward. He leaned in—
A wave of sickness rose in her throat. She tried to scream but could barely breathe.
Then—
The suffocating weight vanished.
Talia crawled away, shaking, barely aware of what had happened. Only after several heartbeats did she realize: Barcas was there—clad in the black uniform of the Royal Knights, one hand gripping the assailant's head and slamming it again and again against the wall.
The man's face, once smooth and smiling, was now unrecognizable. Talia could only stare, stunned.
"Tal ia."
Barcas spoke without looking at her, his tone unnervingly calm.
"Go to your room."
His voice was too steady, too quiet—it took her a moment to understand he was speaking to her. His eyes, cold and gray-blue as storm clouds, met hers.
"Talia Loem Girta," he said slowly. "Did you not hear me? Go."
She couldn't move. Only when his shout ripped through the room—
"Now!"
—did her body jolt into motion.
She fled to her chamber, dove beneath the covers, and pressed her trembling body into a ball. The sensation of those filthy hands, that breath, that touch—it clung to her like oil. She rubbed at her skin until it burned, struck her own legs with her fists, anything to drive away the memory.
Everything was disgusting—the man, her own body, the fact that Barcas had seen her like that. She hit herself harder until bruises began to rise, then buried her face in the pillow and sobbed like an animal.
When she finally sensed another presence, she lifted her head.
Barcas was standing by the door, immaculate as always, his expression unreadable.
"You'll never see that man again," he said flatly.
Talia blinked at him, her voice shaking.
" … Did you kill him?"
A faint line appeared between his brows. After a pause, he answered,
"He's been permanently exiled. He'll never set foot in the capital—or any large city—again."
Something snapped inside her. She hurled the pillow at him.
"Why? Why didn't you kill him? You should have destroyed him! For what he did to me—!"
Her words dissolved into ragged sobs.
"If you let him live, he'll come back … he'll come back to defile me again … he said … he said he couldn't stop …"
Her throat tightened until she couldn't breathe. She wrapped her arms around her neck, gasping. Then she began to throw everything within reach—books, ornaments, dolls.
"Useless! I don't need you! Get out! Get out of my sight — !"
A candlestick flew. There was a sharp clang, and Barcas staggered as the metal grazed his temple. Blood ran down his pale cheek and neck.
Talia froze. Her mouth opened soundlessly as she stared at the red streak spreading down his skin.
Barcas looked at her once, eyes like cold steel, then turned and walked out.
She leapt from the bed, reaching out as if to stop him—but he was already gone.
The corridor beyond the door was swallowed in darkness. She sank to her knees, trembling. Shame and despair crushed her.
He had saved her. And she had turned her fury on him.
No wonder he would never want to see her again.
She pressed her face to the carpet and wept until she could no longer breathe.
After that night, Barcas did not appear before her again.
Months later, she saw him only from a distance—kneeling before the Emperor at the imperial investiture ceremony.
He recited the oath of loyalty in a calm, steady voice. Her father drew the royal sword and touched it to Barcas's shoulder, declaring him the new commander of the Imperial Guard.
He was barely twenty, yet no one questioned his worthiness.
When he turned to descend the steps, sunlight streamed through the windows, falling over his face like a flood of gold.
Talia fixed the image in her eyes—the straight back, the unyielding expression—as he walked past her without a glance.
Quietly, she whispered after him,
"Good-bye."
Then, almost without thinking, she added,
"Don't go."
Tears welled up again.
And just like that, the boy her mother had once given her seven years ago was gone from her side.
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