Chapter 39
JINGYI
She found raised beds brimming with herbs. Gravel paths wove neat patterns between them, terracotta pots standing like little soldiers. Beyond, the sea stretched wide, deepening with each breath of evening.
Jing Yi knelt by a cluster of lemon balm, fingers brushing the fragrant leaves.
Its calming properties suited the princess’s tonic, but it lacked the cooling quality of the blueleaf variety she’d once read about in the Sunland Flora Compendium.
She shifted to the next bed, scanning the small wooden stakes with curling script, noting which herbs might serve not just Reiyana’s needs but also her own—yet another replacement for the Heat suppressants.
Her knees ached. She rose slowly, brushing her hands on her skirt, and moved toward the shaded row near the wall—still scanning the herbs—when she heard footsteps. Not the soft tread of a maid. Firmer, heavier.
The scents reached her first: saltwater and steel, clean spice from a soapcake, and the sharper undercurrent that marked him unmistakably as Alpha.
“Still at work, healer?” came Captain Marzius’s voice behind her, mild and amused.
JingYi straightened and turned to greet him. He looked more relaxed than he had in full regalia—his sleeves rolled to the elbow, leather armour but no plates. He stopped a few paces away, arms clasped loosely behind him.
JingYi inclined her head. “Captain.”
He returned the gesture, eyes flicking briefly to her basket. “You’ve found the gardens.”
“I needed a few herbs for the princess’s tonic.”
“Anything I can help you locate?”
She hesitated. There was an openness to his offer she hadn’t expected.
Her gaze swept across the beds. “If you have the inclination,” she said at last, “I’m searching for something called blueleaf balm. The underside should be tinged violet.”
He nodded and moved to the opposite bed, crouching low, hands already brushing through the foliage carefully. For a few minutes, they worked in silence, breathing the same air scented with lavender and lemon. Gravel crunched beneath shifting feet.
She should’ve left it there. But something about his presence—the lack of posturing, the lack of appraisal—felt disarmingly . . . safe.
“I’ve seen how the princes trust you,” she broke the silence. “You’ve served them long?”
He didn’t glance up, but his hand paused before brushing aside a stem.
“I joined the guard at sixteen, but I’ve known Prince Alarik since we were boys. Our mothers hailed from the same village. Mine used to take me to visit the palace.”
She studied his profile. He wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense, not in the way pampered court men were.
But there was something pleasant about the set of his mouth, the arch of his eyebrows, the steady way he held himself, as if he had long ago made peace with who he was and his place in the world and needed no validation for it.
“They’ve earned your loyalty,” she said. “That’s no small thing.”
“More importantly, they haven’t squandered it.”
JingYi’s fingers gently picked a bit of soil from the underside of one leaf. “Too many accept loyalty as their right until they discover it can be lost.”
He glanced at her—sharp, curious—but let the silence stretch, as if giving her room to take it back or finish it.
When she said nothing else, he said, “Prince Kaelendrin mentioned you might be continuing on to Bashkor.”
She blinked. “I’m considering it.”
“If you’d decided to do so, he already ordered that a team of escorts be provided for you.”
“That’s generous of him.”
“The princes treat their staff well, and the princess is a kind and fair mistress. You’d be better off as part of their household than trying your luck in Bashkor. It’s not an easy place, especially for an Omega travelling alone.”
She turned slightly, searching his expression, but there was no condescension in it, just a kind of steady, measured concern.
But his words roused curiosity. She thought of Reiyana—of the princess who’d nearly been spirited away.
Was that why Prince Kaelendrin had insisted on an escort for her journey?
“I’m learning,” she said, “that nowhere is particularly easy for an Omega.”
His jaw shifted, just barely.
“No,” he said. “I don’t imagine it is.”
Staying here—tending to Reiyana’s discomforts, monitoring her pulse, preparing tonics—these were tasks she could do in her sleep. There was safety in that routine. Dignity in serving a purpose. A level of ease she could expect for being part of the princess’s household.
It would be a comfortable life.
But what would happen when Prince Kaelendrin learned the truth? That she wasn’t just a wandering healer, but his cousin’s wife. Kin to his House by a marriage that, despite the annulment request, was still unbroken. Would her presence at the princess’s side become uncomfortable?
And when the annulment became public, would she be a disgrace to be quietly cast out? Or worse, would honour demand her return to Tremore as misplaced property? The herb basket felt heavier now, as if the weight of her uncertain future mingled with the lemon balm and ginger root.
As she adjusted the handle for a better grip, Captain Marzius reached for the basket. “Allow me.”
“That’s not necessary—”
“I didn’t offer to be polite.”
She studied his face, trying to read the shape of his intent, but it remained as composed as ever. If anything, he looked amused by her hesitation.
“Thank you.”
He took the basket without fuss and gestured toward the path. “You’re returning to the princess?”
“I need to brew these before supper.”
“Then, I’ll walk with you.”
She fell into step beside him—slowly, carefully, her step-drag rhythm more obvious over the gravel.
He matched her pace without fuss. They didn’t speak at first, but the silence felt different now.
Not the brittle quiet of strangers, but something that might one day become comfort or, dare she hope, friendship?
As they reached the foot of the steps leading back to the palace, the captain paused. She turned, expecting him to hand her the basket. Instead, he crouched beside a narrow plot of blue-white blossoms lining the stone path. He plucked three of the biggest flowers and straightened.
“For you,” he said simply, holding them out to her.
JingYi’s lips parted. The gesture was so simple, so devoid of the performative flourish she’d often witnessed at Peony Court. For a heartbeat, her hand almost lifted. The desire to accept something beautiful was a physical ache—a hunger for kindness that asked for nothing in return.
But her mind countered: the last hand that offered gentleness had also held the quill that ended her future. To accept this now felt like unlocking a door she’d sworn to keep bolted shut.
She didn’t reach for them.
“That’s generous of you, Captain. But . . . I can’t accept.”
His brow lifted. “Forgive me. Are you attached?”
JingYi didn’t know how to answer. She didn’t want to lie, but neither did she want to explain.
“In my homeland,” she said gently, “even a gesture like this might be misunderstood. I’m in no position to invite questions. Not when I’ve only just begun to find my footing.”
A long pause. Then, without a word, he lowered the blossoms—not into her hands, but into the basket itself, tucking them among the herbs as if they’d always belonged there.
“For your tinctures, then,” he said. “They’re also good for headaches.”
JingYi dipped her head in thanks, even when guilt stirred, wanting to be seen and not knowing how to accept it. But she did know this: She wasn’t ready to be looked at like that. Not when her heart still bore the shape of someone else.
They walked the rest of the way. Near the gate leading to the royal family’s wing, the hush of the palace grounds gave way to the low murmur of guards.
Prince Kaelendrin stepped through the gate, coat half-buttoned, the early evening sun catching at the edges of his hair. His eyes found her first.
“Healer, the princess is napping for a bit before supper,” he told her. “She said to wake her in an hour.”
JingYi curtsied. “Very well, Your Highness.”
His eyes then dipped to the basket in Marzius’s hand, then to the man himself. Golden irises glinted with amused recognition.
“I never imagined you the type to go around picking herbs, Marzius.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “Is this some new pastime you’ve taken up in this charming kingdom? Or has the new addition to the princess’s household proven . . . persuasive?”
The captain didn’t miss a beat. “Only thought to keep the healer’s hands free, Your Highness. She knows what to do with them. Mine aren’t as useful.”
Prince Kaelendrin’s smile deepened, clearly entertained.
JingYi dipped her head, careful not to betray the heat creeping up her neck. “These are all remedies for the princess. The palace’s herb garden is well-equipped.”
“And my captain of the guards insisted on carrying it? I’ll have to worry when he begins sprouting poetry next.”
Marzius didn’t rise to the bait. He gave the prince a rather droll look. “Are you finished, Your Highness?”
The prince only beamed. Then, the captain addressed her, “Shall I take this inside for you?”
She shook her head. “I won’t keep you any longer, Captain. Thank you.”
He handed back the basket without a word. JingYi bowed, then went inside. When she reached the princess’s corridor, she nearly collided with a man standing just outside her door.
Tall and regal, he was unmistakably cut from the same cloth as Princess Reiyana—his hair a paler gold, his eyes sharper. Even if she hadn’t recognized the resemblance, the authority in his stance gave him away.
An Alpha prince.
He looked her up and down. “This is the royal family wing,” he said, cool and clipped. “State your identity, and your purpose.”
JingYi dipped into a low curtsy. “I am JingYi, Your Highness, newly assigned as the princess’s healer.”
There was a pause before he responded, the edge in his tone easing. “I wanted to see my sister, but I’m afraid she is indisposed.”
The eldest brother, JingYi guessed. She could feel the weight of his presence—that particular gravity that came with being firstborn, with carrying a crown’s worth of expectation.
She curtsied again, keeping her gaze lowered. “Forgive me, my prince. Her Highness had a spell during her walk through the market. The rest will do her good.”
When she stole a glance, she saw his gaze had sharpened, jaw ticking. “I see the pregnancy has been . . . trying. She hadn’t seen a single healthy day since returning home.”
“It is nothing that cannot be managed,” JingYi said gently. “Now that I am here.”
A beat passed. Then: “You seem sure of yourself, Healer.”
“I am, my prince,” she replied, lifting her chin slightly, though careful to not be impertinent. “Otherwise, the princess and her husbands wouldn’t trust me with her care.”
His flaxen brows rose a fraction. The corner of his mouth twitched—something like reluctant amusement—before settling again.
“Few in this court speak so plainly,” he said. “Fewer still among the serving ranks.”
JingYi’s fingers curled. “I speak plainly when it concerns the health of my patient. Whether in a palace or a sickbed, there’s little room for pretty words when a mother and child are at stake.”
That drew a longer pause from him. Then, unexpectedly, he nodded. “Good.”
His stance shifted. Shoulders loosened, the frost seemed to thaw. After a moment, he added, “She was hesitant about marrying. One Alpha already unsettled her, not to mention two. We didn’t think she’d ever accept it.”
Before JingYi could respond, a harried-looking steward rounded the corner and bowed. “Prince Thorir, His Majesty asks if you’ve reviewed the final guest list for the ball.”
The prince gave a curt nod to the man. “In a moment.” He returned his gaze to her, the interruption seeming to crystallize his assessment.
JingYi glanced at the closed door beside them, then looked back at him. “If this eases Your Highness’s concerns, the princess isn’t just accepting her new life—she’s also thriving. She’s surrounded by those who care for her. Not all Alphas are tyrants, after all.”
That earned her a longer look. He didn’t smile, but she sensed a monumental change in his eyes.
“I suppose that statement carries more weight coming from an Omega,” he finally said.
JingYi sucked in a breath. So, he’d guessed. Before more could be said, he gave a brisk nod and disappeared around the corner.
That night, JingYi brewed medicines, set the remedies on the princess’s tray, and checked her pulse one last time before supper.
Her own dinner tray was set in her room, and she ate by the window, staring out at the dark Issoirea Sea.
Only when she finally lay down on her bed did she feel the weight in her bones—the deep ache of travel, worry, and too much held in.
She shut her eyes and tried not to think of a man with eyes bluer than the sea.
Of how easily someone could vanish from one’s life while still taking up space inside it.
But tomorrow, she told herself, was a new day.