Chapter 12
About Him
“Isn’t this far too much?”
Bang!
A noble slammed both hands on the table. Even after that outburst, his anger hadn’t cooled; his breath came in furious huffs. Across from him, seated calmly, Tarahan regarded the noble’s flushed face for a moment and let out a short, amused laugh.
“There’s still someone who dares raise his voice in front of me?”
Tarahan looked at the man as though observing a curious spectacle. The noble flinched but refused to quell his fury.
“A person must have a sense of decency! Return my lands and my people!”
This noble had fled south to the capital when war broke out in the north. Back then, he had promised Tarahan rewards if Tarahan won the war.
But promises made in desperation often wither when the crisis passes. Now he demanded the return of the territory, mines, and serfs that Tarahan’s knights had seized.
Despite the noble’s face reddening in the bitter cold, Tarahan didn’t so much as blink.
“You should have lost your head back then.”
When Tarahan grinned, the noble shuddered as if he’d glimpsed a corpse. Still, he would not let pride bend; whether he froze to death outside or died here hardly mattered to him.
“You’re a murderer! The Goddess will not forgive you!”
“Oh?”
Only when the Goddess was mentioned did Tarahan finally react. So, even a devil like you fears the divine, the noble thought, suddenly emboldened.
“But as you well know…”
Contrary to the noble’s expectations, Tarahan rose from his chair with a slow scrape and came around the table. Compared to the slight noble, Tarahan was a giant, his powerful frame all muscle beneath his clothes. Standing before the smaller man, he exuded a suffocating presence.
“There’s no temple in the north. This is my land now.”
He spoke almost regretfully. Swallowed by Tarahan’s shadow, the noble lost his words.
“Do you think I’ll show you mercy, or pass judgment for your sins?”
The noble turned deathly pale. Tarahan found it almost funny—this was a man born on soil long abandoned by the Goddess, a man who couldn’t even recite a single verse of scripture, now daring to shout about divinity because he’d made one trip to the capital.
“If you choose now, I might return you your mansion.”
It was an offer of clemency, and the noble instinctively understood: refuse, and death was certain. Moments ago he’d thought dying here or out in the cold made no difference. But with death standing right before him, his resolve wavered.
With a face drained of color, he hastily stamped the papers and fled the office.
“Pathetic.”
Tarahan clicked his tongue. If only he’d done that from the start, we could both have been spared the trouble.
“In a land where even livestock can barely survive, the squealing of swine should at least be tolerable,” he muttered.
It was a harsh country where grass grew scarcely three months a year. There was no harm in giving back a mansion; whether the man starved inside it or sold it to eke out a little longer and then froze to death, the end would be the same.
Tarahan sank into a sofa in the center of the room. The sturdy furniture creaked under his massive frame, but he felt no discomfort.
A knock broke the quiet. “May I enter?” came a short, polite voice.
“Come.”
It was his adjutant, Zernom. Closing the door, Zernom settled casually on the opposite sofa. Etiquette meant little to his master, who never cared for such niceties.
“Has he gone?”
“Yes. Ran off like his tail was on fire.”
“Would be nice if he drowned in the lake.”
Zernom, amused by his lord’s lofty way of wishing someone dead, thought Tarahan would fare just fine in polite society after all.
“Unfortunately, the lake is frozen solid,” he replied lightly, handing over a stack of documents—the inventories of northern nobles’ assets. Those who had balked at surrendering them had yielded everything once shown a few public executions.
“How many remain?”
“Less than half.”
So most valued their lives. A few still resisted, but that would require…special handling.
As Tarahan skimmed the papers, Zernom shifted to a different topic.
“…Have you visited Lady Ninia?”
“She’s fine, for all the fuss,” Tarahan said without looking up, his voice devoid of concern. So long as she’s not dead, that’s enough, his tone implied.
To retrieve Ninia, the temple had demanded either that all future medical supplies and food be purchased through them, or a donation of several hundred million lua. Both were outrageous, but Tarahan chose the latter, deeming it the cheaper, simpler option. Most of the imperial reward he’d received had gone toward bringing her north.
I never thought they’d stab me in the back like that.
The temple had immediately announced the Saintess’s retirement, declaring that the Goddess had favored the Piëcen Empire and that Saintess Ninia had poured out her divine power to end the war. The tale spread across the continent.
Now all that remained to Tarahan was the desolate northern land and Ninia, the former Saintess.
Zernom thought to urge him to treat her kindly, but shut his mouth before the words left. He would have hated her too.
The northerners resented Ninia for stealing Tarahan’s honor, but his own dislike had deeper roots—something fundamental, like a weed whose hatred was in the very soil.
“How is the construction?”
Tarahan’s interest had already shifted. He was building underground canals: snow wasn’t water, and when ground and rivers froze, problems abounded. Warmer underground tunnels were the solution.
“We continue whenever the snowfall eases,” Zernom reported.
It was all for the prosperity of the territory. Tarahan might be ruthless and cold-blooded, but to those under his rule he was a capable lord—generous to his own, never preying on the innocent. Mercy was for those who stayed quietly in his care, not for those who invoked the Goddess or refused to pay their due.
The north suited him perfectly.
Abandoning the subject of Ninia, Zernom finished his report on the canals and produced a letter.
“A message has arrived.”
“Give it here.”
This time Tarahan reacted at once. He tore open the fine envelope, scanned the contents, and frowned. In an instant, he crumpled the letter and tossed it into the fire, where it burned to ash.
Then he scrawled a reply on a blank sheet and handed it to Zernom.
“Send this.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Zernom carefully folded the page and tucked it into his coat. The briefing was over, yet he hesitated to rise.
“Is there something else?” Tarahan asked, sensing it. But after another pause, Zernom decided he could not speak for Ninia.
“No, my lord. I’ll take my leave.”
As Zernom left, Tarahan’s eyes remained on his papers. To Zernom, Ninia and Tarahan both seemed bound by equally harsh fates. He said nothing more.
Perhaps the weather had eased, or perhaps it was the doctor’s prescription. Either way, the fever that had tormented Ninia was gradually fading, and her strength returning.
“You can stop taking the medicine now.”
“Thank you. I feel much better.”
The physician, a man named Krov, came regularly to examine her. Ninia offered thanks, but Krov merely looked at her as if she’d said something odd and left with his bag.
The door shut with a thud, making Ninia blink. Had she said something wrong? She puzzled for a moment, then gave up.
Surprisingly, his treatment worked. Divine power could heal any sickness, but physicians and apothecaries achieved it through human knowledge.
Thank goodness.
She didn’t know the details, only that her body was recovering, and that was enough. During her illness she had come to a decision.
“Your meal, my lady,” said Rosa, the maid, entering with a tray.
Ninia lifted her head and studied the maid’s icy expression.
“Rosa.”
The maid flinched—this was the first time Ninia had spoken her name.
“Please tell His Excellency that I request an audience,” Ninia said softly.
