Erdene looked down at her wrist held by Arkan, then raised her head and glanced at him.

If it had been the imperial adjutants or subordinates who knew her temperament, they would have immediately prostrated themselves upon meeting that gaze, pleading, ‘Strike my neck instead of this insolent wrist.’

Arkan too was startled by his own unexpected action.

And he was surprised once again upon seeing Erdene’s blue eyes and that gaze.

It was a cold, mocking look, as if throwing a person to the ground.

‘It’s a look not for someone who’s to be her husband in a week, but for an enemy whose head should be cut off tomorrow. As if she’s graciously offering a last meal to a death row inmate.’

Arkan thought.

Meanwhile, he was inwardly surprised at how slender Erdene’s wrist was compared to what he had imagined.

Her hands were by no means as delicate and soft as those of princesses or noble ladies.

The moment he grabbed it, he could tell she was someone who had lived a life of constant training.

Even Arkan, who had little knowledge of martial arts, could tell.

“How long do you intend to hold on, Your Majesty? We haven’t had the wedding ceremony yet, so you can’t take me to the bridal chamber like this.”

As Erdene, who had been silent, added a word, Platt felt like he wanted to faint right there.

But Arkan, whatever he was thinking, calmly let go of her wrist and smiled as if nothing had happened… though his mouth twitched slightly.

“That wasn’t my intention. But since this is our first… meal together, I thought it might be nice to have a toast at least.”

“What’s with this ticklish toast…”

Erdene muttered under her breath. Of course, Arkan heard it all.

She was about to refuse outright, but seeing Arkan’s face looking at her intently, she suddenly felt her heart turning slightly.

Besides, this wasn’t a battlefield.

It wasn’t a place where they’d be lucky to even taste the alcohol, let alone raise glasses elegantly.

What harm could a simple toast do?

Erdene found herself staring at Arkan’s bright, intelligent eyes before clearing her throat and pushing her glass towards him.

Arkan slightly raised his hand to Platt, who was trying to rush over, and filled Erdene’s glass himself.

It wasn’t wine.

It was clearly a fruit-based alcohol, but as Platt had said, it seemed like it might be a strong spirit.

Especially since the aroma lingered distinctly without disappearing.

Arkan slightly raised his glass.

“Then… what should we toast to?”

Erdene immediately replied as if she had been preparing for this:

“How about toasting to Hirschsten’s horn trumpet being broken forever?”

Despite the obvious sarcasm, a smile unexpectedly appeared on Arkan’s lips.

As he tilted his wrist slightly, his glass and Erdene’s touched briefly with a cheerful sound.

“To the long-lasting peace of both the Empire and the inland. Let’s toast to the land of the continent where no more useless blood will be shed.”

For a moment, Erdene’s face turned slightly red.

Arkan had responded even more blatantly to her overt sarcasm.

‘I absolutely don’t match with this guy.’

Erdene muttered to herself again as she tilted her glass and drank the alcohol in one go. The sweet scent was fleeting.

The alcohol’s heat, scratching her throat as it went down and warming her stomach, immediately enveloped her.

“This is good.”

Erdene blurted out with satisfaction in the rough tone she usually used with her adjutants.

It came out unconsciously, so she momentarily looked at Arkan, who was staring intently at her with a serious face, holding his glass for some reason.

“…Why are you looking at me like that?”

With a thud, Arkan’s glass was placed on the table.

Erdene blinked in slight surprise, seeing his lips, which had been smiling incessantly—a desperate effort—now pressed into a straight line.

“I like alcohol too, Princess.”

“And?”

“I’ve learned enough from tonight’s brief experience that you also like alcohol, Princess… But in my opinion, it seems you’re not someone who enjoys and loves alcohol, but simply someone who wants to get drunk.”

What nonsense is this now. Erdene stared at him blankly.

“Isn’t alcohol for getting drunk? What, are we supposed to drink it to vomit gold the next day?”

“No, that’s not it. It’s fine to drink to get drunk too. Though it would be a problem if it’s too frequent. What I want to talk about is how you enjoy alcohol. Good alcohol, especially, should first be appreciated for its aroma.”

At this point, Erdene decided it would be better to ignore Arkan’s talk.

As she reached for the bottle to pour another glass, surprisingly, Arkan snatched the bottle away faster than her.

Dumbfounded, Erdene glared at Arkan.

“What are you doing now, Your Majesty of Betor?”

Arkan placed the bottle far enough that Erdene couldn’t reach it without getting up, and continued speaking.

“I don’t know much about alcohol either. But I have a philosophy about enjoying it. Like good tea, good alcohol also has its own narrative in its aroma.”

He sure talks a lot. Erdene thought.

Philosophy, narrative—words from fields she detested and had no interest in.

But Arkan persistently expounded his ‘alcohol philosophy’ to Erdene.

“There was a poet from the inland named Scap. Perhaps some in the Empire have heard his poetry too. He was quite an eccentric who wandered here and there. This Scap once composed and sang such a song: ‘Good alcohol is like the fleeting peaceful morning before a storm. Those who do not savor it sufficiently will be engulfed in regret and sorrow’…”

Arkan’s melodious voice reciting the poem was suddenly cut off.

Something glinted as it flew vertically towards the table.

It was a well-sharpened stiletto. The blade was slender to the hilt, but the handle was blunt and looked quite heavy.

The stiletto had pierced through a plum the size of a child’s fist and was protruding from the other side.

Erdene picked up the plum skewered on the stiletto, took a bite, and nodded as if to show off.

“Sounds like an interesting story, please continue. I’m listening.”

Arkan finally felt his patience wearing thin.

It was a rare occurrence in his life… Except when listening to the endless pleading and bragging about her youngest daughter from the Marchioness Fiddlers.

He looked at Erdene, still sitting in a relaxed posture, and said, holding up a fork:

“This is what you use to eat plums.”

“I’ll eat however I want. It’s not like this fresh, sweet plum will immediately rot and crumble if I don’t use a fork.”

At Erdene’s brazen response, Arkan put on a more stern expression.

To Erdene, it was above all an amusing sight… but again, it wasn’t her concern.

Arkan said:

“Pulling out a stiletto is neither table manners nor particularly helpful hygienically. Besides, what if you cut your tongue eating like that?”

This time, Erdene smiled smoothly.

“I’ve cut many others’ tongues with this, but I’ve never cut my own tongue. Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary.”

Another moment of silence passed.

Erdene thought Arkan would have had enough by now, and that was exactly what she wanted.

Even if getting married was a fait accompli, she wanted to avoid sharing a bed with this sleek, dislikeable man forever.

‘Now he’ll storm out. Huh, these weak inland men trying to act broad-minded…’

However, Erdene’s prediction was spectacularly wrong.

“That doesn’t seem like much to brag about.”

She momentarily doubted her ears.

Arkan neither stormed off nor flew into a rage at Erdene’s words.

Instead, in an incredibly nonchalant voice, he was… asking Erdene what she meant to do about it, in a slightly refined manner.

Erdene put down the stiletto and frowned as she smiled.

“What did you say?”

Arkan shrugged his shoulders and replied:

“Anyone could cut a tongue if they had even a blunt knife, couldn’t they? Why threaten with something so unremarkable?”

Is this man truly mad?

Erdene’s eyes blinked a couple of times in bewilderment.

She had never, not once, imagined Arkan would respond like this.

Glaring at him with tension around her eyes, Erdene said:

“Your Majesty of Betor, for someone so dignified and peace-loving who has likely never even cut a chicken’s neck, you speak so easily. Isn’t preaching something anyone can do?”

“I wasn’t trying to preach to the Princess. I was just stating a fact. As you said, I’ve never cut a chicken’s neck, but I have caught a rabbit. The feeling of taking a living creature’s life was terrible. That’s why I don’t hunt. Perhaps the reason I dislike war is because of that memory too. Because of that chilling feeling I had when killing just one rabbit.”