Chapter 37
JINGYI
She had braced herself for another long and restless voyage, remembering the ornate X?en ship that bore her to Tremore—a stately vessel with silk-lined walls and ceremonial oars, drifting more than sailing.
That journey from Aethonia to Tremore had taken a full fortnight, but this rice barge slipped through the waves with startling ease.
‘Big ships fancy themselves queens of the sea,’ the old boatwoman had said with a grin, spitting over the side. ‘But they’re heavy with pride and hull. A barge like mine—slim and low—rides the current like a fish.’
By the middle of the fourth day, the misty coast of Aethonia already rose ahead.
For most of the journey, JingYi had remained tucked below deck, hidden among grain sacks and coiled hemp ropes. The woman had warned her several times: It wasn’t illegal to carry a lone traveler below deck, but an unclaimed Omega on board made Alphas hungry and Betas nervous.
Better to keep hidden. Better not to tempt fate.
When the woman finally rapped her knuckles on the plank above, JingYi stirred.
“Come up, girl. Land’s coming.”
She climbed the narrow ladder, her right leg sore from crouching for four days.
She blinked against the sudden spill of light.
The sky had split open into a wash of pale gold clouds smudging like brushstrokes on silk.
And there, rising from the sea like a giant pearl in the middle of the ocean, was Aethonia.
Not just cliffs now, though they came first, dark and cragged. Beyond them, sunlit terraces spilled down the coast, whitewashed houses clinging to the slopes. Domes shimmered in the distance, painted in all shades of blue. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp against the hush of the wind.
Her fingers curled around the railing. Fragile excitement warred with dread inside her.
I made it.
When the boat docked, JingYi bowed to the old woman and stepped off, clutching her medicine chest. Her right leg dragged, but the crowd flowed around her without pause. No one stopped her. No one stared.
Ahead, Nymaris unfolded like a painting brought to life.
The air, thick with salt and blooming jasmine, carried flutes and laughter—a festival, lighter than the solemn rites of X?en-Sarai or the hardy harvest feasts of Tremore.
Children wove through the crowd, crowns of olive leaves and honeysuckle on their heads.
On a makeshift stage of wine barrels, musicians played a tune that made the air seem to dance.
From every sandstone balcony, saffron and sea-green pennants fluttered, each embroidered with three interlocked crescents.
The market square was a tapestry of sun-gold lemons, twilight-blue silk, and glazed pottery.
And the smells—oh, the smells—were a delightful assault: fresh bread, spices she didn’t recognize, and the warm, comforting aroma of roasting honey pecans.
A deep ache tightened beneath her ribs. Her stomach growled. The boat passage hadn’t included food, and rations had been scarce. What little edible ingredients she had—dried lotus root, lily bulbs, kelp—was gone by the third night.
She passed an open-air eatery where trestle tables spilled into the street. Stacks of crusty bread sat beside steaming bowls of broth. The scents stopped her in her tracks. Her belly churned, sharp and aching.
“Hungry, dear?” a woman called from behind the table, her sleeves dusted with flour. She spoke in Isseric instead of the local Aethairis.
JingYi jolted but nodded.
“Come. Today, Nymaris celebrates the return of our princess and her husbands after a long journey. Eat, eat.” She smiled and gestured toward the cauldron. “Our traditional seafood broth, made fresh with sea bass and late-harvest clams caught just this morning.”
JingYi’s throat bobbed, hunger warring with caution. The only currency she had was the limyerite crystals. But how wise would it be to pay with a rare gem in an open market like this?
Her cheeks turned pink. “I’m sorry, I don’t have—”
“You’re alright to take a bowl,” the woman interjected kindly. “Today, no one is turned away, not in the princess’s name. The palace already paid us. Here.”
The soup bowl nestled into JingYi’s hands, fragrant steam curling beneath her chin. A fresh loaf, flour-dusted and still hot, was tucked into her arm. She bobbed in silent thanks, the kindness almost heavier than the food.
She found a seat at the edge of a sun-dappled table and cradled the bowl, whispering thanks to the faceless princess who’d made this possible, then dipped her spoon into the broth.
She lifted a mouthful of tender fish, clams, barley pearls, and slivered roots.
Her mouth watered at the aroma—salt, lemon, and bay—like sunlight distilled into soup.
But before the first bite reached her lips, a muffled cry fractured the market’s hum.
JingYi looked up.
Just across, a small crowd had gathered around a flower stall.
A woman had doubled over, one hand braced against the cart, the other clutching her rounded belly.
Sweat plastered her golden hair to her forehead as pain suffused her pale face.
Beside her, a tall, brown-skinned man hovered, murmuring something too low to catch.
Urgency rippled through the crowd.
“She’s hurting—”
“Fetch someone—”
JingYi was already rising, soup forgotten. With uneven steps, she wove through bodies, murmuring apologies in Isseric. The flower cart came into full view now—a riot of peonies, heliotropes, and pale oleander.
Even bent with pain, the woman possessed a stark, undeniable beauty—sea-blue eyes, full rosy lips drawn. But each shallow gasp stole another fragment of her poise, leaving her trembling with agony.
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
“No, you’re not,” the man replied. He crouched beside her, rubbing slow circles into her lower back with a tenderness that belied the tension in his shoulders. His eyes flashed as he scanned the crowd. “Call a healer!”
JingYi stepped forward, heart racing. “I can help, if I may.”
The man turned at once, his broad frame shielding the woman. Brow furrowed, his golden eyes snapped to JingYi’s—sharp, assessing, unmistakably Alpha. She met the scrutiny without flinching.
“Are you a healer?” he asked.
“I am, Sir.”
“Help her,” he said, voice softer now, but still edged with desperation. “Please.”
JingYi turned to a woman hovering near the flower stall with a handful of crushed blossoms still clutched in her fist.
“Is there somewhere private the lady can rest?” she asked.
The woman blinked as if waking from a trance, then quickly nodded. “Yes, yes, of course.” She turned to the blonde woman and her companion. “This way, Princess. Your Highness.”
JingYi’s steps faltered.
Princess?
She looked again at the woman’s blue gown—finely stitched with a gold-embroidered neckline, sleeves gleaming with the pearl buttons. The market people watched not with mere concern, but reverence.
They weren’t just any couple.
The woman was none other than the Princess of Aethonia, and the man beside her must be her Alpha husband—dressed like a warrior, not a prince, with a curved blade at his hip. His dark hair was half-tied at the top of his head, the rest spilling wild.
Unease unfurled in JingYi’s chest. She’d grown up watching those in silks and crowns, but every time she treated someone of royal blood, it earned her scorn. Here she was, again, about to step into that risk with nothing but her skills to protect her.
“Healer,” the prince called, voice tight with urgency.
JingYi swallowed and nodded. “Coming, Your Highness.”
Pain was pain. No crown could shield the body from its own imbalances. She would treat the princess as she would any patient.
Inside, the flower shop smelled of bruised petals and cut stems. Sunlight slanted through smudged glass, casting dappled gold on the floorboards. An armchair had been hastily cleared in the back room, where the princess now sat, pale and breathless, one hand braced on her belly.
Jingyi knelt beside her and took her wrist.
The pulse was thin and fluttering. JingYi’s brow furrowed. Vital energy and blood were both deficient. The signs were clear: dehydration, fatigue, excessive walking. Her skin was cool to the touch, heat trapped in the upper body, energy scattering instead of flowing downward.
“The baby is well,” Jingyi said, directing her words to the man hovering at the princess’s side. “But the womb is tense. The ligaments are straining from exhaustion and rising internal heat. Her channels are out of harmony.”
The man tensed. “What does that mean? Is she in danger?”
“Not as long as these conditions are managed.” Jingyi turned to the shopkeeper at the doorway. “Water for the princess, please. Cool, not cold. And something lightly salted.”
The woman vanished at once.
“Your body is overheated,” Jingyi told the princess. “The sudden pain comes from tension pulling where it shouldn’t—your muscles, your ligaments, even your digestion. But it can be soothed.”
She pressed a point just above the inner ankle, then a point along the outer thigh. “These release stagnation in the lower body and encourage your vital energy to descend.” She kept her touch light, drawing small, steady circles. “It will ease the tension in your womb.”
Jingyi moved to another pressure point along the wrist. “This calms the heart and eases anxiety. You may feel a shift. Let it come.”
Gradually, the princess’s shoulders dropped. Her brow smoothed. When she looked up at her husband, her eyes were clearer, no longer glazed with panic but wonder.
“Alarik, the pain is gone,” she whispered, as though amazed. Then, to her, “It’s like magic.”
JingYi offered a soft smile. “It is not magic,” she said, “only the wisdom of the body and knowing how to help it remember balance.”
“Thank you,” the princess said, reaching for her hand. “I didn’t know I needed help until I couldn’t stand.”
“That’s when most people notice,” JingYi replied gently. “It means your body is asking for a little kindness.”