Tristan's expression darkened. He was the crown prince, the one who commanded respect. Yet now, all eyes were on Grace. Of course, that didn't sit well with him.

If those plague-infected civilians had died, he could've sealed off the city and buried the truth along with the bodies. But now that Grace had stepped in, there was no covering it up.

Worst of all, she was the one who saved them. Compared to that, he seemed somewhat incompetent. No matter how bitter he felt, he had to keep up appearances.

The rain had just stopped, and a damp mist still clung to the ruins of Harbortown.

Tristan trudged through the mud toward Grace, wearing a warm smile.

"You must be exhausted," he said. "Come back to the tent with me. I had the chef prepare some chicken soup to help you warm up."

Raindrops slid down Grace's cheek, and she wiped them away. Her black field clothes were already soaked through with mud.

She glanced at the civilians huddled in the ruined church nearby. They'd just been resc