Galin strode down the corridor, gnawing at the side of his right thumb. The conversation with Jorgen ten minutes ago left him quite displeased. Following a series of errors, he had to bear the ultimate responsibility, even though none of them were his fault.
At least, he never ordered the execution of a pregnant female prisoner. The guards, in their negligence, failed to exclude the pregnant ones during the process, and Galin considered it their fault, not his. Galin had ordered the arrest of everyone involved in driving the condemned to the execution site, preparing to administer punishment. These were individuals without any sense of the bigger picture, lacking in critical thinking, and it was their oversight that had brought shame upon him.
Galin didn't want to witness an individual killing a pregnant woman in front of hundreds of eyes. Showing care for women and children, refraining from involving them in physical activities during the castle reconstruction, had been a key policy in winning public favor. More importantly, a pregnant woman couldn't become a symbol of Syndicate violence—something incompatible with the public execution of Syndicate prisoners. What he wanted was for a Stalwart Knight to bravely overcome a brutal Syndicate force alone, not to slay a weak mother who likely wouldn't survive to see her child born.
When he realized the last survivor was a pregnant woman, Galin faced a choice. To exhibit mercy, order the execution to be halted; or to demonstrate unwavering determination in battle, urging the individual to deliver that fatal blow. In the initial three seconds, he leaned towards the former but realized that doing so would be an admission of his error, especially since this wasn't just a routine matter but something meant to be seen by Jorgen. It was unacceptable to show hesitation in front of the low-ranking guards and Jorgen, representing the Seven. At that moment, he wished Jorgen wasn't seated next to him because he needed to gauge Jorgen's expression to assess the situation, but he couldn't turn his head directly.
After a series of considerations, he stood up and fabricated a lie about the female prisoner. He didn't know why she was incarcerated, but what did it matter? People wanted to know a prisoner's reason for incarceration because it could predict their future behavior. Condemned prisoners had no future.
Up to that point, he felt his actions were flawless. He was certain that by doing so, he could perfectly compensate for the foolish mistakes of the guards. The individual would kill the woman, and Jorgen and the other spectators would commend his decisiveness. Perhaps a small portion of the guards might feel uncomfortable witnessing the scene, but not everyone could tell she was pregnant. As time passed, people would only remember his booming voice when giving the order, and the identity of the condemned wouldn't matter.
However, the individual failed. Not only did the fearless knight fail to kill the woman, but he suddenly knelt down, dropped the sword, and frantically clawed at his mask. What was more terrifying was that the female prisoner picked up the sword and wounded his shoulder. It was like a tiger lying on the ground, its claws buried in the soil, while sparrows pecked at its eyeballs. The most powerful symbol of future Stalwart strength bled because of a supposedly defenseless pregnant woman, right after he declared her a shameful Syndicate collaborator.
The female prisoner retaliated only once before falling to the ground. Perhaps she stumbled because she couldn't stand steadily, inadvertently thrusting the sword into the individual's shoulder. For a moment, the individual's body froze, hands dropped from his face, palms resting on his knees. At this point, Galin experienced the third unexpected and regrettable event: Jorgen, seizing the opportunity, ordered the guards to separate the two. Galin, then, just pressed against the railing of the platform, saying nothing. He risked becoming a tyrant in rumors, publicly ordering the execution of a visibly pregnant woman to showcase his decisiveness, but in the next moment, Jorgen surpassed him by intervening in a seemingly kinder way: separating two individuals not suited for combat.
This directly put him at a disadvantage in his later conversation with Jorgen. "I deeply apologize for everything that just happened," Galin said, but Jorgen seemed skeptical that the appearance of a pregnant woman was a mere accident.
"I'll rephrase my question. Is your ideal Stalwart Knight someone who, for the greater good, would hesitate to kill a pregnant woman?"
"Mr. Jorgen, are you defending the individual's hesitation, or are you expressing disappointment in him?"
"Neither. The final criteria for the success of the individual's experiment have not been set by the Seven. So, my question can only be answered by you."
"I suppose... yes. In necessary circumstances, he should do so. Also, it depends on the situation. Mr. Jorgen, please, let's not dwell on this. I don't want to argue with you about whether the situation just now can be considered 'necessary.' It was just an accident."
"Are you suggesting that the appearance of the pregnant condemned and the individual's abnormal reaction were both accidental?"
"Yes."
"At least the latter point is uncertain. We should wait for Lawrence's examination of the individual to draw conclusions. However, in my view, he is troubled by hallucinations. You wouldn't want to see such 'accidents' happening in real combat."
Jorgen's last words raised Galin's genuine concern. Although he had never explicitly told anyone, he had unwavering confidence in the individual; otherwise, he wouldn't have repeatedly conducted such public execution ceremonies. So far, the individual's behavior had been satisfactory, and he was prepared to formally propose to Jorgen to consider the individual as the first reward for cooperation. The Stalwart Knight would follow him, build achievements, and reclaim lost territories. That was where his long-standing expectations lay. He had to endure tedious, demeaning, and confusing tasks. He commanded subordinates to secretly transport corpses from the battlefield like ants. He tolerated Lawrence, who lacked any sense of identity, annoyed and cursed at everything—a massive and filthy rat in a laboratory. Significant funds were invested, which should have been used to replenish the armory with gold coins. Despite meticulous safety and confidentiality measures, he still faced daily anxiety about secrets leaking. He was forced to house a troll—more than an enemy with a longer history of mutual conflict than the Syndicate, not only having to feed him but also maintaining another woman with an unclear origin.
No one, Galin thought, in the history of Arathor had sacrificed so much for the nation. No one. If he hadn't seen the notable results of the experiment, he wouldn't have had enough reasons to persist until now. But the so-called results were now facing scrutiny, and another scout from the Seven arrived, arrogantly giving orders to the kingdom's soldiers in his place.
Galin felt a reverse anger in his chest—not the kind that made one want to vent, but one that rose from the skin, gradually sank down, passed through muscles, veins, and finally tightened like a noose in the center of his body. He thought, someone must pay the price for making the king of revitalizing Arathor feel so uncomfortable. Those betrayed apprentices, arrogant masters.
When passing by Crecyda's room, he stopped. Ten seconds later, he had the maids open the door, and he entered.
Crecyda was sitting by the window, gazing outside. Even though there was nothing to see outside the window, there was no better way to pass the time in this empty room. The window had been stuck for years, unable to fully open or close. It was a kind of stubbornness. She was a somewhat stubborn woman herself. Everyone would have some persistence, but stubbornness was different because it came with a sense of defeat.
"Do you know what your ex-husband just did? Not far from here. Maybe when things happened, you were also looking out the window like this. I used to be quite satisfied with him, but not anymore. At least not necessarily. The person who used to spend day and night with you, supposed to progress smoothly under my guidance, has now made a big joke. Fingers digging into his own eyeballs, blood flowing from his shoulder. A ridiculous posture. That woman is far smaller than you, not to mention frail and pregnant. You once fell in love with him, probably because he could conquer you, but now he can't even conquer such a weak and helpless life—yes, two lives. Your stubbornness is not worth it. What does it mean to silently look out the window? Why always make a gesture as if waiting for an inevitably arriving person? There is nothing outside the window. The wind will mess up your black hair again. I would rather see them softly attached to your neck. Water droplets at the tips of your hair. They have disappeared, but I can still see them. No one will come. Stop waiting. Stop, waiting, mother—"
"Prince Galin." Crecyda turned around and stood up, holding the edge of her dress with her left hand, looking uncomfortable.
"Please sit, Lady Crecyda," Galin said. "Sit in the same place as before."
"May I ask... do you have something on your mind?"
"I asked you to sit first."
Crecyda sat down. Galin approached, sitting on the bed about a foot away from her. She shifted slightly but didn't move further away.
"I would like to apologize for what happened last time."
"Apologize? You mean... oh." Crecyda lowered her head and then raised it again. "Actually, last time, I..."
"Don't say it was your fault or anything like that."
"No, it's not. I just mean, you don't need to apologize."
"Why?"
Crecyda mumbled a few more words, failing to form a coherent meaning. Galin looked particularly calm, and his reaction was even more strange to her. He didn't seem angry or anxious.
"You refuse to accept the ruler of Stromgarde's apology?"
"No, absolutely not."
"Never mind, I know this conversation is difficult for you. So, let's say this, we forget about what happened last time. It never happened. Alright?"
"Yes. It never happened."
Seeing that Galin didn't seem to intend to leave, Crecyda didn't know what to do next. She involuntarily tilted her head to one side, immediately realizing that this was a very impolite behavior, so she turned it back. At this moment, Galin was closer to her.
"Crecyda."
"Prince?"
"Do you know why I went into the bathroom that day?"
"We just said..."
Crecyda wanted to say "we said to forget about it," but she didn't have a chance to complete the sentence. Galin placed his left hand on the black hair behind her right ear and gently stroked it. The last word Crecyda wanted to use to describe Galin was "gentle," even though she still resisted his current actions in her heart. However, she had to admit that Galin's movements contained an emotion that could be called gentleness, and his eyes temporarily abandoned the dark anxiety and suppressed arrogance, truly showing a vibrant spirit.