My General Husband, Guilty of Treason

As the end of the year approached, I begged my father, the king, for three days and three nights before he finally agreed to let me travel to the frontier and reunite with my husband.

But the moment I approached the military camp, the guards stopped me.

When they found out I'd come to see Liam Foster, they burst out laughing.

"Another girl who came all this way because she's got a crush on General Foster! You'd better turn back. General Foster is famously devoted to his wife. Aside from her, he wouldn't give any other woman a second look."

I smiled faintly and was about to pull out my royal pendant to prove that I was the very "Mrs. Foster" they were talking about, when one of the guards pointed toward a woman not far away.

"See her over there? That's our general's wife. Their love story has already spread all across the camp."

I froze.

By the time I came back to my senses, the woman had already walked over. She was wearing bright, elegant clothes—completely out of place in a military camp.

With a gentle smile, she asked, "Miss, what business do you have with my husband? He had urgent matters to attend to and left earlier. It may be a while before he returns."

In the entire camp, there was only one general with the last name Foster.

So the "husband" she was talking about could only be Liam.

Without showing a hint of emotion, I tucked the pendant—my proof of identity—back into my sleeve and bowed.

"I got separated from my family. I heard the famous General Foster was stationed here, so I came to ask for shelter."

Sympathy immediately flooded the woman's face. She took my hand and led me toward the tent, not forgetting to scold the guards along the way.

"This young lady has already suffered enough being apart from her family, and you still make fun of her?"

The guards nodded and apologized over and over, swearing they'd never do it again.

Liam must have trained them well. Otherwise, how could she wield that kind of authority so naturally when reprimanding them?

I followed behind her, watching quietly.

She looked young. Her clothes were far from cheap. But there was something fragile about her—something in her complexion that gave her away.

Sensing my eyes on her, she smiled shyly.

"I've been sickly since I was a child. I've taken medicine all my life, so of course I can't compare to you."

I didn't respond. My gaze drifted from her simple but elegant hairstyle, down to her pale, delicate hands, and then to her spotless shoes.

This was the freezing northern frontier. A military camp, no less.

For Liam to keep a sickly woman so well cared for—that must have taken real effort.

And yet, in front of me, he always claimed to be nothing but a rough soldier who didn't know the first thing about comfort.

His clothes. The medicinal tonics he took. Even the weapons he casually tossed aside on the training grounds—I was the one who arranged everything, who worried about everything.

When it was my turn to get sick and take medicine, he'd either boil it into a bitter sludge or mix the wrong herbs together.

My maids would panic, hopping around in frustration, until they had no choice but to push him aside and make him watch.

But he never watched for long. Before anyone knew it, he'd be gone again—back on the training grounds, swinging his sword.

Back then, I thought Liam was just naturally careless. It never once occurred to me that maybe… he just didn't care.

While I was lost in thought, a soldier came running over, carrying a freshly brewed bowl of medicine.

I glanced at it. Rare, expensive ingredients—hard to preserve way out here.

Then the young soldier pulled out a small bag of candied fruit and pressed it into her hands.

"The general said this batch of medicine is especially bitter. He ordered me to bring you this."

She smiled, clearly used to this kind of treatment, and told him to put everything inside the tent.

Almost without thinking, I said, "General Foster treats you very well."

The young soldier's face lit up immediately.

"Very well? That's putting it lightly. He treats her like she's made of glass—like she might break if he so much as mishandled her.

"Take this, for example. It's the one that stuck with me the most. We were away from camp for three days. The day we got back, in front of over a hundred men, General Foster wrapped his arms around his wife. His eyes were red.

"He kept saying it over and over, 'My lady, I missed you so much…'"

Before he could finish, the woman blushed bright red and chased him off.

"They're always teasing me like this. Please ignore them."

Her cheeks were flushed, but her eyes were shining.

"Though… what he said isn't wrong. My husband really is… different when he's with me compared to how he is in front of everyone else."

There was a hint of pride in her voice. A quiet kind of boasting.

I let out a dry, hollow laugh. But my hand tightened around the fabric of my skirt without me realizing it.

No wonder his letters home had gotten fewer each year. No wonder they got shorter with every season.

I always thought it was because the war at the border was too fierce—that he didn't have a moment to spare.