Chapter 32 #2
“I’ll be back before the procession.” She shifted the weight of the basket against her hip. “You don’t need to watch the road. I said I’d come back, and I will.”
He blocked her path. He didn’t want to intimidate with an Alpha’s brute force, but he couldn’t bear letting her walk away again without saying what he hadn’t yet found the words for.
“I don’t send them because I think you’re weak,” he said, the words low, scraped from somewhere deep in his chest. “I send them because the thought of something happening to you—of not being there when it does—makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”
She froze, fingers curling around the basket. For a heartbeat, her shoulders softened, and her eyes held his with a look he couldn’t name. Not anger, not acceptance, but a profound, startled stillness, as if he’d touched a bruise she’d forgotten was there.
He could’ve said more. He wanted to. But the rest lodged in his throat, stubborn and inarticulate.
What was this, truly?
If it was only duty, then why did his chest pull tight each time she entered a room?
Why did the mere sight of her—bent over herbs or standing in firelight—leave a hollow, restless ache beneath his ribs?
Why had he been staring at that damn Nest in his room, night after night, and wondering why it was still empty?
JingYi turned and left without a word, disappearing into the hall.
Alexander shut his eyes, hands curling into fists at his sides. A raw urge burned through him—to call her back, close the distance, break this careful silence before it calcified into permanence.
He was good at holding lines. At saying just enough to settle tempers, end arguments, make men twice his size back down. But with her, nothing ever landed right. Every attempt to protect came out like control. Every honest word twisted into what wasn’t.
And maybe that was fair. Maybe she’d spent her whole life watching people dress domination in care.
He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers knotting at the crown.
Feelings weren’t something he was trained to speak aloud.
But the truth had broken loose anyway. And now, she was gone again, leaving him with words his stupid tongue couldn’t shape.
She was getting very good at making him feel like a wet-nosed boy—unsure, clumsy, too much in his own skin.
He let out an uneven breath.
And gods, if he thought it would help, he’d gladly ram his head into the nearest stone wall.
By dusk, the preparations had moved into their final phase. The golden hour painted the rooftops of Blackwood-Veyrde in fire and honey. From the terrace, he could see the hill that would host the evening’s feast—torches already planted, altar linens catching the breeze.
Yrenna directed the altar bearers. Darion stood with the perimeter guard.
The air smelled of clove, sweetgrass, roasted grain, and late-harvest apples bursting from their crates.
The keep pulsed with occasion. Everyone had their boots dusted, hair oiled, their sleeves trimmed in gold.
Meanwhile, Alexander walked through it like a ghost in full regalia.
He spotted JingYi near the front gates in her ceremonial plum gown, crimson sash across her torso, carrying an empty basket. She had returned from the village just as she said she would. Her braid was still neat, her gait measured.
She inclined her head in greeting. No smile, no scowl—just poise.
But he was getting good at recognizing the fatigue behind her dignity.
It was in the rigid set of her shoulders, the strain around her eyes.
Yet he knew she’d never ask to be excused.
Not when proving herself mattered more than her comfort.
When she moved to the head of the procession where his mother once stood, he fell into place beside her.
The procession began.
Low horns rolled across the valley, and Parandor’s gates swung wide.
The stone beyond was dusted with chrysanthemum petals.
Lanterns and wheat plaits hung from lintels, strung with copper bells and ribbons the colour of late grain.
Doors stood wide with offerings of braided loaves stamped with sun and moon symbols, jars of honey, and baskets of apples gone sugar-sweet from the season’s turn.
Children trotted ahead, scattering bright yellow marigolds and barley husks; elders touched fingers to brow and breast as she passed.
Jingyi moved beside Alexander, accepting gifts with both hands, bowing from the waist, meeting each gaze.
Each offering placed weight in her arms. With it, a little more of the air shifted—curiosity softening to welcome, reserve to recognition—until the valley’s cheer was no longer for a procession, but for the woman carrying their harvest to the gods.
Alexander kept half a step behind and to her right, windward, close enough to shield her scent if the crowd pressed in. The cheer of the castle thinned as the slope bit. Drums fell behind, leaving only the sound of their breathing.