Chapter 26
JINGYI
Ulrik had just disappeared into his cottage when she and Tedric emerged from the lane behind the grain store. Alexander stood in the village square with Duskwane.
“How is Daan?” he asked.
“I used needle therapy. By the end, the needles had clouded—a sign the toxins were leaving. His breathing settled too.”
She met Alexander’s gaze, her voice firming with conviction. “The exposure must have been minimal. If it were chronic, I imagine the needles would’ve turned black.”
She could see the relief in the drooping of his shoulders.
“I spoke to Ulrik,” he said. “He had to get back to his workshop, but Annett’s sleeping now. He said there was no need to go.”
She nodded. “The rest of the villagers are doing well also. Shall we return to Parandor, then?”
He glanced at Tedric. “Ride ahead,” he said. “I’ll stay with Her Highness and Brisa.”
Tedric bowed and turned toward his horse, leaving them alone on the green.
The mist had burned away, leaving the sun blazing over the village as they turned for Parandor.
They rode side by side, the quiet between them broken only by the steady sound of hooves on the path.
Tedric was already a speck in the distance, and she wondered why Alexander had sent him ahead.
Was there something he needed to say in private?
After a while, she asked, “Did your talk with Ulrik go well?”
He nodded. “He’s never seen Daan or any of the young ones around the mines, but he promised he’d keep a closer watch.”
Then, he glanced over, blue eyes flicking over Brisa, then her.
“You’re managing well on a horse,” he said, then paused again. “Perhaps . . . to make it easier for you, you can ride during the Harvest Ritual.”
A jolt went through her. “Ride?”
“Traditionally, the Lady of the Keep leads the procession up the hill to light the first lantern at dusk—on foot.” He tilted his chin toward the hill far up ahead, the one they could see through the trees. “But it’s a steep climb. The path is uneven.”
She looked at Brisa’s mane and said nothing.
JingYi had once believed that being useful meant being safe.
To serve without drawing notice was the best armour.
But the Harvest Ritual demanded the opposite.
It required her to be seen. For a fleeting, hopeful moment, the duty had felt less like a burden and more like a belonging—a terrifying, exhilarating step into the light.
Until his careful suggestion cleaved that feeling in two.
“I only thought,” Alexander added, “since you’ve started riding, perhaps it would be easier on you to go up on horseback. Or let Yrenna lead the way. You’ve had a difficult journey, and there’s no shame in—”
“In staying back at the castle,” she finished for him.
Alexander fell silent. He exhaled slowly.
“No.” His tone was more careful now. “Not staying back. You’re welcome to join the procession, of course. I only meant . . . there’s no shame in altering the tradition. If it makes things easier on you.”
No shame.
Then why did heat flood her cheeks? Why did the familiar unwanted feeling curdle in her chest? He meant to be kind, but this kindness was a mirror. In it, she saw only the limp, the strain, the flaw he was so politely trying to hide.
She refused to meet his eyes. “I will defer to whatever is best for the ritual.”
Alexander exhaled. He obviously thought she misunderstood his intention. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” she said, her voice quiet. She did know. And the knowing was the deepest cut of all.
He hesitated, then said carefully, “If you’d rather walk, we’ll walk. If you’d rather ride, I’ll arrange it. It’s no longer about tradition. It’s about—”
“—what’s proper. What looks best,” she murmured. “I understand.”
Then she turned her head, her gaze catching his. For an instant, she saw a shadow in his eyes—a kind of stark frustration, as if she were a puzzle he’d assembled wrong.
The rest of the ride was spent in silence, the space between them feeling wider than the path they strode on.
She didn’t think he meant to be cruel. Still, the shame bloomed hot. Shame that walking would make her a spectacle of infirmity. Shame that riding would make her an alteration, the first Lady Wulfbane who broke tradition. There was no version of this where she did not feel like an inconvenience.
And beneath lay a deeper ache: she had wanted to walk beside him. As his wife. As his partner. His Omega.
She looked down at Brisa’s mane.
Here, on this path with him, she was still learning what she was allowed to be.
As the days wore on and festival preparations began in earnest, JingYi found her rhythm in Lornhelm.
Each morning brought the same ritual: mounting Brisa with Alexander’s or Tedric’s assistance, riding to the village, and moving between cottages where her presence was neither spectacle nor afterthought.
Some families still looked at her askance, but most welcomed her aid.
This morning, she swung down from Brisa outside Ulrik’s cottage. The mare snorted softly. Tedric fell in beside her, carrying the medicine chest as he always did on village rounds.
“You’ve come here every day this week, haven’t you, my lady?” he asked.
“Each visit gives me peace. And purpose.”
He glanced at the medicine chest, then at her hands. “Most nobles send words. You bring work.”
Her fingers flexed. Praise always caught her off guard, feeling like a garment that didn’t fit. Yet this—an acknowledgment of simple, honest work—slipped past her defences. Her chest loosened, accepting a comfort she hadn’t known she was allowed to take.
She spotted Ulrik, stacking firewood on the side of the house. He straightened when he spotted them and wiped his hands on his apron.
“Princess,” he said, dipping his head. “Didn’t expect you so early today.”
“The clouds smell like rain,” she replied. “I thought it best to come while the sky still favours us.”
Ulrik chuckled. “Then come in and warm your bones before the sky changes its mind.”
Inside, Annett had settled into her usual chair near the hearth, a thick shawl around her shoulders.
“I’ve brought another round of needle therapy,” JingYi said, sitting beside the girl.
“Whatever you think is best, Highness. That last one did ease the aches. I was able to rest well yesterday.”
“Then we’ll do it again.” She unrolled the leather sleeve holding her limyerite needles and began wiping them with a cloth as usual.
Ulrik pulled up a stool nearby. “You’ll be at the Harvest Festival, won’t you?” he asked.
JingYi’s hands stilled. The question was casual, but it landed with the weight of a formal inquiry. “The ritual climb?”
“Aye. The climb, the lighting of the first lantern, all that. Big thing for the village.” He gave her an intent stare. “Everyone looks to the Lady of the Keep to start the rites.”
She turned her gaze to the linen on her lap, her fingers smoothing an invisible wrinkle. “I’m not certain. Lord Wulfbane suggested it might be best if I didn’t . . . strain myself.”
Ulrik didn’t speak at first. “Because of your leg?”
She inclined her head, the admission bitter on her tongue. It was the truth, yet framing it aloud felt like surrendering to a verdict.
“If that’s the worry, we’ll get you up that hill,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Me, or any one of the lads. No shame in accepting a helping hand when the path is steep.”
She continued cleaning the needles. The offer was nearly identical to Alexander’s—the same practical solution to the same limitation.
Yet it landed differently. From Ulrik, it felt like support, plain and communal, with no pity in his weathered face.
Simply the straightforwardness of a man who solved problems with his hands.
From Alexander, that same consideration had felt like being managed. Redirected to the sidelines. His careful tone hadn’t felt like solving a problem with her. It felt like solving the problem of her.
The difference, she realized with a sharp pang, was in the foundation.
The villagers saw the healer first, the leg merely a fact.
But Alexander had first seen a liability.
Every kindness since, no matter how genuine, was filtered through that original verdict.
And part of her was terrified that accepting his help would only confirm it.
Annett rose with a small grunt and waddled over to the bed. “You needn’t be like the last lady. Just be you.”
If only she knew who that was.
JingYi managed a smile. “Thank you. I’ll . . . think on it.”
She performed the needle therapy in silence, her focus steady and precise. By the time the final needle was removed, Annett’s breathing had softened, her shoulders loosening.
Ulrik rose and crossed to the table. “More tea, Princess?”
JingYi had just finished cleaning her needles, wiping them carefully before placing each one inside a separate container for thorough cleaning later. “No, thank you, Ulrik. I better see if others need my assistance before that rain pours.”
Both father and daughter saw her out. The sun emerged just for a little while, drawing villagers out of their homes to make the most of the dry spell.
Before JingYi could bid her farewell, Annett jerked. Her face twisted, both hands flying to her stomach. She folded with a sharp, choking sound, then lurched two steps and retched violently into the garden bed.
Ulrik was on his daughter at once. “Annett—?”
JingYi rushed to the girl’s side, one hand on her shoulder, the other bracing her forearm. The world narrowed to the tremors running through the young woman’s frame.
“Breathe. Through your nose if you can—” Her own voice sounded distant beneath the sudden thunder of her pulse.
Annett gagged harder. A thin stream of bile spilled onto the ground, acrid and streaked with greenish yellow. The smell bit at the back of JingYi’s throat, a familiar, sour tang of illness that now carried a spike of alarm.
“She was fine this morning—” Ulrik swore, fumbling for a cloth.