Chapter 56
JINGYI
JingYi awoke to the gentle sway of a moving carriage. A dull, insistent pain pulsed behind her eyes, radiating through her head whenever the wheels bumped uneven ground. Curtains filtered the sunlight into pale gold, but even that faint glow lanced through her skull.
She tried to move. A hiss slipped from her lips as her temple flared. Her hand twitched and encountered warmth. A broad palm, calloused and steady, wrapped around hers.
“Don’t move yet,” came a low voice beside her. Rough. Familiar.
Alexander.
She turned her head—slowly, cautiously—and found him seated beside her, arm curled protectively around her shoulders. The scent of sweat, dust, and blood clung to him. His coat was torn near the sleeve, streaked with dried red, and the line of his jaw was taut with something far deeper than pain.
The memory of the fall was a blur of terror and rushing air, but the impact—the brutal, shuddering crash of her body against stone—never arrived. He had taken the full force of it. That he could move at all was a testament to his strength, or stubbornness.
“Sir Darion . . .?” she managed, the words tearing from her throat like shards of glass. A fresh wave of pain bloomed with each syllable—a deep, bruising ache where Tedric’s hands had been.
Alexander’s gaze snapped to her neck, his expression hardening at the dark, mottled bruise that must already be visible.
“Don’t speak,” he murmured, his thumb stroking her hand. “Save your voice.”
She shook her head, needing the answers more than she feared the pain. Her next question was another raw scrape of sound. “He took the arrow for me and Adelise. Is he—?”
“Alive,” Alexander said. “He damn well better be. Krystoff’s men took care of him. The healer in Niewberg will patch him up.”
JingYi shifted again, just enough to take in the rest of him. His face bore a shallow gash at the temple, dried blood crusting at the edges. But it was his eyes that undid her—dark, raw with guilt, fixed on her like she was the only anchor he had left.
Her lips trembled. “Adelise . . .?”
Alexander didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze flicked toward the opposite bench. She followed and saw Adelise sitting there.
A warm hand reached out and curled around hers, squeezing.
“I’m right here, Sister,” the princess said.
Relief flooded JingYi’s chest, sharp and overwhelming. She blinked through the sting in her eyes.
“Haorán?”
“Injured,” Alexander said. “We managed to stem the bleeding. He’s in the carriage just behind ours with Darion. He’ll also live.”
She let her head tip back against him, eyes closing as she nodded. Her voice thinned. “The Omegas?”
“They’ve all been freed from their cells,” he said. “Lord Reave and his men are guarding them until they can be transported to Niewberg. They’re safe, too.”
“The guards . . .”
“Ill, but alive,” he said. “They’ll be interrogated. Harshly.”
She drew in a shuddering breath. “Conrad?”
“He reached me just in time. He’s recuperating now at the inn.”
Her eyes blurred again. She blinked them clear, though the last question lodged in her throat was the one she dreaded most.
“. . . Tedric?”
The silence that followed told her more than any answer. She felt it in the stiffening of Alexander’s arm around her, the way his breath roughened before he spoke.
“Worry only for yourself now, Wife.” His tone had changed. A certain rawness threaded beneath the words, one he could not disguise. “Just rest. Everything else is taken care of.”
The carriage trundled onward, wheels rolling steady over dirt. Outside, dusk thickened into shadows. Adelise had slumped against the velvet curtains opposite, eyes closed.
JingYi let her head tip back against Alexander. As she shifted, he stiffened and a sharp, suppressed inhale hissed through his teeth.
“Your back,” she whispered, trying to pull away.
His arm tightened, gently but firmly holding her in place. “It’s fine.”
“You fell two stories.”
“You’re here,” he said, his voice rough. “That’s all that matters. Now, stop moving. You’re jostling my leg.”
A poor attempt at deflection, but it prompted her to look down. Her eyes widened at the sight of the bloodied bandage. She made a move to straighten.
“You should be sitting properly. Your leg—”
“Let me hold you.”
She stilled.
His voice was tender, but there was no give in it. “Please. I need to hold you.”
She yielded with a soft sigh, letting herself sink fully into him.
The warmth of his chest, the steady breathing—these were the only things that didn’t feel borrowed.
For a moment, neither spoke. There was only the rattle of wheels, the muted thud of hooves, the occasional groan of wood as the carriage rolled on through the deepening dusk.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Limyere Castle, where there are enough healers to look after all of you. A proper hospital. Security.”
She was silent for a while.
“Tedric escaped, didn’t he? With the archer.”
Alexander didn’t answer for a moment. “I had him. And then I didn’t.”
His voice cracked. The tension in his arm changed with a tremble, briefly, like the shock had caught up with him only now that she was awake.
“I saw you falling,” he said hoarsely. “Everything else vanished.”
She looked up, meeting his eyes. Her chest clenched—a sharp, aching tightness that made it hard to draw air. He was so close she could count the flecks of gold in his irises, could feel the warmth radiating from his skin despite the chill around them.
“But you caught me.”
His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I always will.”
His forehead came to rest against hers. Just for a moment.
Just long enough for her to feel the shudder run through him—a tremor that started deep in his chest and traveled through his shoulders, his arms, the hand that still held hers.
Then, his hand rose to cradle her head, fingers threading into her hair.
With a quiet murmur, he guided her down, coaxing her to rest against his shoulder.
She let herself follow the motion, her body sinking into him like she’d been waiting for permission to fall.
“Rest now, Wife,” he murmured.
“I’m afraid to close my eyes,” JingYi croaked. “I’m afraid . . . I might wake up back there.”
“You won’t. You’re safe now.”
“How long until we reach Niewberg?”
“Three or four hours.”
The silence that followed was full of things neither of them seemed ready to voice. But her head fit too neatly beneath his jaw, and the steady thrum of his pulse beneath her ear was almost too comforting to leave. She could feel each beat, a rhythm that told her he was here, alive, real.
“Back then, I thought I would die,” JingYi whispered.
His breath fanned her temple. “Don’t say that.”
“I did.” She said it again, softer, the words scraping against her throat.
“And all I could think about was whether you’d ever know what Tedric had done.
Whether Adelise would live to see ShunLi again.
Whether Haorán would die nameless and unrecognized.
Whether anyone would find us, or the Omegas, in time. ”
Her voice broke on the last word. She had held it together through the dungeon, through the escape, through the first waves of shock. But here, in the dark, in his arms, the cracks were beginning to show.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his thumb began tracing tender circles over the back of her hand—slow, deliberate, an anchor against the tide of memory.
“You’re not allowed to think like that anymore,” he said finally, his voice rough and raw. “You’re safe. No one will ever take you away again.”
She closed her eyes to keep the sting behind them from spilling over. Words like safe and never again always sounded easier from someone else’s mouth. Her fingers curled around his, gripping him like he might slip away if she let go.
She didn’t believe in promises. She had learned too young that they were just words, fragile as spun glass.
But for now—this moment, his warmth, his voice, his arm around her—was everything she’d ever wanted.
And for now, that had to be enough.
The gentle rhythm of the carriage slowed, then stopped.
The intimate dark gave way to the open space of the palace courtyard.
JingYi felt Alexander’s arm tighten around her for a final, fleeting moment—a private clasp before the world rushed back in.
Then he was moving, the careful mask of the lord settling over his features, though his hand lingered on hers as he helped her sit up.
Servants rushed forward, but it was the captain of the royal guard who opened the door.
Alexander disembarked first and assisted Adelise. His injuries forced him to move with a pronounced stiffness, the fluid grace of a soldier replaced by deliberate, careful motion. When the princess stepped out, a collective exhale of relief seemed to leave the small receiving party.
“Your Highness, you’re safe,” someone said as they all dropped into bows and curtsies.
He then turned to lift JingYi carefully down, bracing as he took her weight. Still, his arms were steady as stone. A few gasps rippled from the onlookers when the entourage saw her face, though she couldn’t tell if they were gasping at her birthmark, bruises, or both.
She was too tired to parse it, and even if she could, she didn’t care.
The palace loomed above them—austere spires and fortified symmetry, banners of deep red and black snapping in the wind. Arched windows inlaid with crystal caught the last of the dusk. At the gates, the sigil of Tremore: twin mountain peaks cleaved by a silver sword.
They were barely through the palace doors before a steward hurried over and bowed.
“Your Highnesses, Lord Wulfbane. His Majesty was informed of your approach an hour past. He requests your presence in the Great Hall at once.”
Alexander’s brow furrowed. “So soon? My wife has been injured and requires rest.”
“There’s urgency, my lord.” The steward dipped his head. “The accused—Lord Fortier—is already in holding. The king wishes to proceed with formal charges before the court this evening. Your testimony, and that of the princesses, are required.”
Tension coiled within the arm linked with hers, and she knew he was about to refuse the summon to afford her rest. She laid a hand on his. “Bertrand has shadowed your family long enough, Alexander. Let us put an end to it.”
Loudly, Adelise spoke up, “Princess Jing Yi needs time to change her gown at the very least. A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss either. You tell my brother she’ll be there, but not before she’s ready.”
The steward hesitated, torn between the king’s order and Adelise’s furious scowling. “Of course, Princess. I will inform His Majesty.”
He went. Adelise took JingYi’s hand, guiding her toward an area she assumed was reserved for the royal family, leaving Alexander to answer the king’s summons first.
“Take your time to prepare,” he told her. “I have much to tell His Majesty.”
The sun had sunk low enough to gild the windows in fuchsia, but inside the borrowed room, gauzy curtains softened the light.
JingYi sat on the edge of the bed, head still throbbing in pulses behind her eyes.
Adelise knelt in front of her, wringing out a damp cloth and dabbing at the corner of JingYi’s brow.
“I should be the one doing this,” JingYi mumbled, reaching for the cloth. “Or, perhaps, your maid . . .”
Adelise moved the cloth out of reach and gave a faint huff of breath—too light to be a laugh, too tired to be a reproach. “Oh, hush. You’ve trained me enough to clean wounds, haven’t you?”
She dipped the cloth again. JingYi flinched only slightly this time.
“The blood’s almost gone,” Adelise added, brushing a curl of hair away from her cheek. “Just one more rinse.”
JingYi glanced down at her fingers, at the blood and dirt caked beneath her nails. “I must look horrid.”
The looking glass before them was an adorned antique piece, its edges dulled by time, but it reflected the truth without gentleness. JingYi stared at the woman it revealed—hair tangled and blood-matted, jaw and cheekbones black and blue with bruises, eyes sunken from pain and exhaustion.
A stranger, almost. But breathing. Alive.
Behind her, Adelise dabbed at a cut on her own temple. Their eyes met in the mirror.
“At least no one will pay attention to your birthmark now,” Adelise said dryly, mouth twitching.
JingYi blinked, then snorted—abrupt, startled, unladylike. The sound scraped her raw throat. She winced, clamped a hand over her mouth, but another laugh escaped anyway, thin and wheezing.
Adelise grinned, and suddenly they were both laughing. It hurt. Every chuckle pulled at the bruises around JingYi’s neck, jarred her ribs. But they couldn’t stop. The laughter shook them both, more precious because of the ache beneath it.
“You look like someone who’s been through a horrifying ordeal and survived,” Adelise said, reaching for a dress. “That matters much more than a birthmark.”
JingYi met her own eyes in the mirror. Still laughing. Still alive. The bruises were dark and mottled.
But she was breathing through them.