The Evil Ladies Form An Alliance

CHAPTER17: The Crimson Envelope

The fire crackled in the center of the knight's camp, its golden glow casting flickering shadows across the weary faces of the soldiers who huddled close, seeking its warmth against the chill of the night. Beyond the circle of camaraderie and shared murmurs, the captain of the knights sat alone in his tent, enveloped by the silence of his own thoughts.

His hair, a deep brown so dark it bordered on black, clung damply to his light tan skin, strands framing the sharp lines of his face. Droplets of bath water traced slow, meandering paths down his temples and jaw before pooling on the map spread across the weathered wooden table in front of him. The light from the campfire outside barely reached him, leaving his features half-shrouded in shadow, save for the pale glint of his silver eyes. They gleamed with a focused intensity as they roved over the intricate markings of the map, the flicker of distant firelight mirroring the calculations turning in his mind.

The faint scent of damp leather and wet earth mingled with the cold steel tang that clung to the tent. Beside him sat a bowl of soup and a slice of roasted meat, long abandoned, the food’s steam now a distant memory. His light tan hands rested lightly on the edges of the map, their knuckles roughened by years of wielding a blade but steady as he traced invisible lines of strategy across its surface.

"Hey, human," a voice piped up from the holy sword lying atop the desk. "Aren't you going to eat your food? It’s sitting there like it’s waiting for you to apologize."

Ashton’s gaze didn’t waver. The soft glow of the firelight danced on the map’s surface, but his focus was absolute.

"Human! I’m talking to you!" the voice called again, sharper this time.

At last, his silver eyes lifted, cool and emotionless, to meet the sword. "If you’re so concerned, you can eat it yourself," he said in a voice calm enough to be unsettling.

"Huh?" The sword sputtered indignantly. "Did you just insult me?"

"Holy sword," he said, his tone flat. "Be quiet."

A faint glow emanated from the sword’s blade as it bristled with indignation. "Ungrateful human! I’ve been fighting all day, getting drenched in that disgusting monster's blood, and this is the thanks I get? Do you know who I am—"

Before it could finish, Ashton stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the ground. He reached for a thick white cloth on the edge of the table.

"Wait—what are you doing?" The sword’s voice wavered, shifting from indignant to nervous.

"You don’t know when to shut up," Ashton said, his silver eyes steady, his expression unreadable. He grabbed the holy sword, ignoring its protests, and began wrapping it in the cloth.

"Ah! Stop! You, ungrateful human! I’m a legendary sword, protector of the empire—"

"Silence." His hands moved with precise efficiency, muffling its glowing blade beneath layers of fabric.

The commotion was interrupted as Sir Enoch, the vice-captain, stepped into the tent. "Captain," he began but paused at the sight before him. Ashton calmly binding the holy sword, while the sword squirmed and cursed beneath the cloth.

"Fighting with the holy sword again, are we?" Enoch asked with the air of someone who had witnessed this far too many times.

"Help me, another human!" the sword cried, muffled under its wrapping. "You can’t let him do this to me!"

Enoch’s lip twitched, but he stifled the urge to sigh. "I’m just here to deliver these letters, Captain," he said, holding out a stack of correspondence.

"Thank you," Ashton replied curtly, taking the letters without so much as a glance at his fuming blade.

The vice-captain turned to leave, throwing a half-hearted salute over his shoulder. "Have a good rest, Captain."

As the tent flap fell shut, the muffled sword let out one final, exasperated cry. "You’re all ungrateful humans!"

Ashton, unbothered, returned to his desk, the map once again capturing his full attention. The cold food remained untouched, but the tent was quiet—just the way he liked it.

The weight of worry pressed heavily on Ashton’s shoulders, a relentless burden he couldn’t shrug off. The subjugation dragged on, days stretching into weeks, as the tide of monsters refused to wane. Each day brought more injured knights limping back to camp, their wounds hastily patched by the temple’s priests, who toiled tirelessly with their healing magic. But even their strength was finite, and Ashton could see the exhaustion etched into their faces.

As the wielder of the holy sword, he was no stranger to responsibility. His unique abilities, instantaneous healing, and boundless stamina set him apart from ordinary men. Yet, even these gifts can not lighten the suffocating weight of leadership. His mind swirled with strategies, doubts, and the mounting fear of how long they could endure.

Leaning back in his worn wooden chair, Ashton let out a rare, weary sigh. The wood creaked beneath him, its protest cutting through the muffled sounds of the camp outside his tent. His gaze fell on the stack of letters neatly arranged on his desk, their bland parchment blending into the dim surroundings.

Except one.

A flash of crimson drew his attention, stark and vivid against the monotony of white and beige. His sharp silver eyes narrowed, locking onto the envelope. Its deep red hue seemed almost defiant, daring him to uncover its secrets.

“Henstone always uses white envelopes,” he murmured under his breath, reaching out. The parchment felt smooth and cool against his fingers, but his hand stilled when his thumb brushed the wax seal.

A symbol, pressed into the wax, sent a jolt through him. A hawthorn branch intertwined with a crest—a seal he knew intimately. It was hers.

The air in the tent seemed to be still as he stared at the envelope, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar mix of emotions. Valerie Hawthorne. His fiancée. Their engagement had long since cooled, a duty more than a bond, and he had learned not to expect warmth from her. Yet here it was, her unmistakable seal.

"Why now?"

He hesitated, the envelope’s weight suddenly immense in his hand. The hope stirring within him was dangerous and fragile. Did he dare to open it?

Before he could decide, a voice shattered the stillness like a thrown stone splintering glass.

“Aha! Who would dare send you a love letter?”

Ashton’s eyes snapped at the holy sword resting smugly on his desk, its blade faintly aglow with an aura of self-satisfaction. Its voice was high-pitched, mocking, and unmistakably annoying.

Clenching his jaw, Ashton fought to keep his irritation in check.

“What? Do you think you can ignore me? Not even the strongest magic can silence me!” the sword proclaimed, a smug edge to its tone. The glow brightened. “Oh, a red envelope? Could it be… a declaration of love?”

Ashton froze, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. “What did you just say?”

The sword hummed mockingly. “Are you completely ignorant? In high society, a crimson envelope is a symbol of affection—a woman’s way of declaring her love for a man. I know you’re a loner, but even you should know that.” Its blade seemed to vibrate with smugness. “Then again, no wonder your fiancée finds you as exciting as a cold stone wall.”

Ashton’s hand tightened around the envelope, his silver eyes flashing with annoyance. He ignored the sword’s jeers, sliding his thumb under the wax seal. The soft crack of the breaking seal echoed in the quiet tent.

The letter unfolded with an elegance that mirrored its sender. Each stroke of ink was deliberate, the handwriting delicate yet commanding. His breath caught as his eyes fell on the signature.

Valerie Hawthorne.

Her name glimmered like a beacon amid his doubts. His chest tightened further, and heat rose unbidden to his face. His stoic mask cracked, and before he could stop himself, he buried his face in his arms, his ears burning.

“What’s wrong with you now, annoying human?” the sword demanded, its tone both curious and disdainful.

Ashton didn’t answer. For once, the holy sword’s incessant chatter faded into the background. All he could feel was the strange, unexpected weight of that letter—and the flood of emotions it unleashed.