After all the twists and turns, the reason I left the count's camp so early was this:
To find Tristan before the banquet and hand him a handkerchief along with a letter.
Reaching into the pocket of my dress, I realized…
…I was doomed.
The pocket was completely empty.
The only thing I could feel was some damp dirt.
I must have dropped it while making a mess earlier.
I've lost count of how many times I've said this, but things that can go wrong will always go wrong.
Hahaha. I'm laughing now.
Noticing my expression, Tristan lifted one corner of his mouth—the very smile the world calls a smirk.
"You've lost it, haven't you?"
"…I'm sorry. I was sure I'd kept it safe, but—"
"No need for a long explanation. We've never exchanged gifts at any of the past tournaments, so there's no need for this time to be an exception."
"Well, that may be true, but…"
You didn't expect anything? Weren't you practically waving a metaphorical carrot at me just hours ago, asking for a gift?
Even though it was just a handkerchief and a hastily written letter, I'd wanted to satisfy that glimmer of anticipation I saw in you.
It was the first time I'd seen you genuinely want something.
Then Tristan asked, "What sort of amazing gift was it for you to look so regretful?"
"Huh? I… was I looking regretful?"
"To me, it seemed that way."
"Well, I do feel bad for coming across as unreliable… but the gift really wasn't anything special."
"And what was it?"
"A plain white silk handkerchief. I thought about choosing something fancier, but…"
"But?"
"…I didn't trust my own taste."
It had always been like this, even back in school. Whenever I showed my friends something I thought was pretty, they'd ask, "Did your grandma give this to you?"
Would I have developed better taste if I'd been able to experiment more?
But with my limited allowance, I couldn't afford trial and error. So I always played it safe—neutral colors, basic designs.
That habit still clung to me even now.
Tristan, who had probably never faced such trivial dilemmas, responded, "As long as it's something you choose for me, it doesn't matter. When giving me a gift, just pick whatever your heart desires."
"…What?"
"Whatever it is, it'll suit me perfectly."
How insufferable! But I can't argue with him.
Even now, as I looked at Tristan—his handsome face smeared with dirt from his work, his clothes and hair dusted with evidence of the outdoors—it somehow gave the impression of intentional embellishment, like sequins.
Moments like these make the world feel unfair.
Then, unexpectedly, Tristan smiled—not a smirk this time, but a genuine smile.
"I'm glad to see your mood has improved a bit."
It was then that I realized the corners of my mouth had lifted.
Why am I smiling?
Hurriedly, I tried to regain the elegant, model-student expression I usually wore, but Tristan stood up.
"Your Highness, where are you going?"
"Why? Would you like me to stay until you fall asleep?"
"No!"
"If you don't want to sleep, I could stay up all night with you."
"…Please stop joking."
Stop making inappropriate jokes. Especially with me.
As if considering another way to tease me, Tristan paused, but then he unexpectedly said something normal.
"Rest well. I'm going to deliver instructions regarding the patrols."
"Yes. …Oh, wait!"
Tristan, who had been about to leave the infirmary tent, turned back abruptly.
"What is it?"
"Please be careful of the roads, Your Highness!"
"Ha. Was that such an important thing to say?"
"It is important!"
"I see. You must not want to imagine me lying next to you after falling."
"Let's go with that."
Apparently pleased with our exchange, Tristan chuckled softly and left the tent. Just before stepping out, he thumped his chest with his fist once, as if to reassure himself.
***
Tristan still remembers the thrill of pulling the bowstring earlier today.
The satisfaction of overpowering a bow imbued with the strength of a bison, shooting an arrow with precision—it was a joy unmatched by any other.
From the moment his eldest brother shouted, "Advance!" the blood in Tristan's veins had boiled beneath his immaculate uniform.
His muscles rippled. He wanted to hunt to his heart's content. To pile up his game before his fiancée, who always seemed bored with the world. What kind of expression would Dory make then?
If Tristan became the champion of today's hunting competition, it would be fueled entirely by the anticipation of her reaction to his success.
But after hearing that the Count of Redfield had slipped on his hunting dog's droppings and tumbled down a hill…
Before the opening ceremony, Tristan couldn't get his fiancée's words out of his head:
"The road is so rough. I'm worried you might get hurt, Your Highness."
Dory was a woman who rarely asked for anything. For her to emphasize, "Please return safely," meant she was genuinely concerned. If Tristan somehow got caught up in some fool's accident…
That was absolutely unacceptable.
Calming his tensed muscles, Tristan gathered the servants, laborers, and foreman assigned to him as beaters and gave his order: "Inspect the slopes of the hunting grounds where the water hasn't drained properly and reinforce them to prevent landslides."
The workers were confused by the prince's sudden change of heart—after all, just yesterday, he had claimed, "Running on slippery roads is part of the thrill of the hunt."
But when the promise of additional wages was added, everyone enthusiastically picked up their shovels with newfound diligence as safety personnel.
…Well, not everyone.
One worker with brown hair stood out, visibly flustered. He even asked the foreman if he could skip the task without taking the extra pay.
Tristan recognized the man.
'Rick Rey. The guest from Baron Meyer's household I saw last time.'
Regardless, Tristan couldn't allow any exceptions.
When the prince approached, Rick, who had been pleading with the foreman to let him opt out, stiffened in panic, grabbed a shovel, and turned away. He clearly hadn't expected the prince to intervene personally.
The foreman declared confidently, "Don't worry, Your Highness. I'll ensure not a single worker slips away under my watch!"
Tristan returned to the hunting grounds but didn't completely let go of his responsibilities. He figured it wouldn't hurt to hear feedback from the hunters about ensuring the event proceeded smoothly.
"Surprisingly, this kind of task isn't too bad."
Though, to be fair, it wasn't nearly as fun as hunting.
Watching incompetent men who couldn't even handle a bowstring without injuring themselves boiled his blood.
Seeing top-quality arrows wasted in their hands only added to his irritation.
On one hill, he ran into his friend Alex, who was beaming with joy over catching a single rabbit. The rabbit, however, was still alive and flailing desperately in his hands.
Tristan frowned.
"You look immensely pleased. Do you think any lady would be thrilled to receive that instead of a deer?"
"Amateurs focus on giving extravagant gifts. A truly smart man makes a woman happy with even the smallest gesture."
'By 'smart' he can't possibly mean someone who makes knocking sounds when their head is tapped, can he?'
'Was he always this crude?'
Tristan nearly snapped back at him but decided against it.
The servants chasing rabbits were already panting heavily. It was better to call it a day before someone got hurt.
"If you're satisfied with your hunting, register your game back at the base and rest. I'm leaving."
"Tristan, stop pretending to be diligent. Why don't you at least catch a squirrel for your fiancée's sake?"
Tristan let Alex's mocking voice slide past him.
For now, he wasn't planning to return to his role as a hunter.
After years of wreaking havoc in hunting competitions, overseeing and managing the event in real time turned out to be unexpectedly enjoyable—
'Besides, why would I present a gift to my lady when I haven't received anything from her yet?'
Petty as it might seem, Tristan couldn't help but feel disappointed. He had thought Dory, ever the polite and principled woman, would at least prepare something like a handkerchief. But instead, there was nothing.
'Who was it that went through all the past hunting tournaments empty-handed, waiting for her gift?'
He often found himself touching the hairpin he'd taken from her, but it wasn't enough to fill the void.
If anything, it only made him want to run his fingers through her hair even more.
…As he entertained that thought, Tristan almost threw the hairpin away in frustration.
"What do I even want to do?"
Touching it wouldn't accomplish anything.
Her hair would probably be soft. If he grabbed a handful, it would likely smell like soap—a plain scent that suited her well, like a smooth pebble freshly picked from a stream.
And if her hair carried the scent of his cardamom and black orchid cologne…
Trying to push away the vivid images forming in his mind, Tristan stopped a group of workers who had just finished their task.
"You're done early."
"Oh, Your Highness! We just finished the north trail. Especially Rick—he worked really hard…"
"Check the west trail as well."
"Pardon? Oh, uh… Yes, Your Highness!"
Rick looked like he was about to cry, but that wasn't Tristan's problem.
This was his fifth year participating in the hunting competition. Not catching so much as a squirrel was a first for him, but he felt better than he had the year he caught a lone wolf.
'It seems I can find enjoyment even without hunting.'
Thanks to continuous monitoring, the infirmary was quieter than ever, and conflicts among the noble children had been minimal.
According to the head maid, the young ladies—especially the first-time participants—were in good spirits, though it likely had little to do with Tristan.
Still, he knew he'd have to go hunting eventually, for his fiancée's sake.
Since he'd be starting later than the others, he'd have to focus on quality over quantity.
If he were to catch just one animal, what should it be?
A stag? A roe deer?
'There were only three wolves released. If the alpha is still out there, that would be ideal…'
He was confident in his ability to catch it.
However, one obstacle remained before he could go hunting: He still hadn't received a gift from his fiancée.
Tristan wasn't the type to step forward empty-handed without any pride.
'She'll give me something for sure.'
There was no way she wouldn't.
'I'm a generous man. Even if I receive something trivial, I'll give her something even greater in return. …I'll get that chance, right? I will, won't I?'
But when he returned to his tent after completing his final pre-banquet patrol—
"Your Highness?"
The sight of his fiancée, covered in mud, tore every expectation he had to shreds.