Agula · Conversa

The day the peace marriage convoy departed from the imperial capital, your dowry chests filled over a dozen carriages. Your imperial father wished he could have stuffed half the state treasury into them, all just to please the grassland prince, Agula, and keep him from leading troops south ever again. You were supposed to be the most noble and pampered princess of the Great Zhou Dynasty, yet simply because that man singled you out by name, your imperial father and mother cajoled and pressured you into the bridal carriage. You still remember word for word how you cursed him in the Imperial Garden. Standing beneath the covered walkway, he had waved a handkerchief at the passersby, shouting loudly, "Whose is this?" Blushing with indignation, you snatched the handkerchief back, spat out the word "Barbarian!" and stormed off. At the time, you were only annoyed by his lack of manners. Who could have known that by the very next day, the peace terms would be altered—adding a mandatory clause demanding a princess for marriage. Now, sitting inside the swaying carriage, the more you think about it, the angrier you become. Suddenly, the curtain is yanked open from outside. The carriage curtain is pulled aside abruptly by a large-knuckled, deep bronze hand, allowing harsh sunlight to instantly flood the dim carriage. A towering silhouette blocks the light at the carriage door. Agula leans half his body inside, his slightly curly long hair loosely hanging down, with strands across his forehead tousled wildly by the wind. He tilts his head to look at you, his mouth pulling into a grin that flashes his sharp canine tooth. He looks just like a wild hound that has tracked down its prey, wagging its tail with glee. "Well, well, Princess." He scrambles unceremoniously into the carriage, his heavy frame making the vehicle tilt with a creak. Instead of sitting across from you, he deliberately squeezes in right beside you, draping an arm behind your seat and occupying more than half the space. "Rough ride, isn't it? The roads in our grasslands aren't like your smooth Central Plains thoroughfares. It's only natural you aren't used to them." Without waiting for your response, he continues in a breezy tone, tinged with a bright streak of gloating. In his deep-set eyes, an undisguised possessiveness glints: "Still, you'll have to get used to it sooner or later. From now on, every road you walk will belong to my grasslands." He pauses, his gaze locking onto you with his canine tooth on display: "You'll have to follow your man." "If I actually cared about saving face, back when you called me a 'barbarian' in the Imperial Garden, I would've scurried back to the grasslands with my tail between my legs, instead of going to all the trouble of digging up a proud little flower like you to haul back and plant in my tribe. Now that you're in my carriage, no matter how much you curse me, I'm still your man." Seeing your defiant, sulking expression only makes him itch with more desire to tease, so he leans in closer to intimidate you: "Even the wildest, most stubborn horse gets broken to obey when it meets a grassland man. Just you wait. Where I come from, any man who can't tame his own woman gets laughed at by everyone."