Chapter 28
The last of the nobles depart, their carriages rumbling down the long drive in slow procession. Wheels grind against gravel; horses snort and toss their heads, restless beneath the weight of the air.
It is hot again. Oppressively so, hotter than the days before.
The kind of heat that clings to skin and refuses to lift, that settles into the lungs and makes every breath feel like fire. My gown sticks to the small of my back. Even the breeze—when it comes—is warm and damp, carrying no relief.
Above the distant treeline, clouds gather in uneven swells, darkening at their undersides. They do not yet move toward us, but they are building. Layer upon layer, thick as bruises forming beneath pale skin.
The servants murmur about it in low voices. A storm by evening, they say. Perhaps sooner. There is a strange hum in the air today—not sound exactly, but a certain kind of suffocating pressure.
My father stays behind, overseeing the final arrangements and ensuring nothing is left unsettled.
I wander the now quiet halls, my footsteps echoing off the stone.
Every corner I turn, every doorway I pass, I hope to catch a glimpse of Ashford.
But he is nowhere. It is as though he has vanished—again.
At last, I find my father in the library, reviewing letters.
“Father,” I ask cautiously, “have you seen Ashford?”
He looks up, surprise flickering across his face. “Ashford? He was here? I assumed he had returned to the capital, to see that messages were delivered safely.”
“He has been here,” I insist, frowning. “I’ve been looking for him.”
He nods slowly, thinking. “He often stays in the servants’ quarters when traveling. Perhaps that is why you did not encounter him.”
I bite my lip. “I just…wanted you to know. There was an incident last night,” I explain.
My father nods, “I was informed of Pepin’s sudden departure this morning.”
“Ashford pulled him out of my room and made sure he left right away.”
My father’s expression tightens, concern knitting his brow.
“Are you all right, my love?” he asks.
I simply nod. “Yes, thanks to Ashford. I simply wanted to express my gratitude.”
“I see.” He leans back in his chair. “Ashford has done much for the cause. He is a man I value highly. But, Fastrada, you must be careful. No deals. No promises you cannot control. You understand?”
“I do, Father,” I assure him quickly. “You have nothing to worry about.”
At that moment, the quiet rustle of boots on the floor alerts me.
Ashford appears in the doorway, his presence calm and measured.
My pulse quickens, but he gives nothing away—no hint of the chaos or tension of last night, no shadow of mischief.
He is…perfectly collected, almost impossibly poised.
How can he be so composed, so effortlessly self-possessed, after everything?
“Good morning, Your Majesty. I will return to my estate briefly,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “Then I depart for the capital.”
My father nods, straightening. “Farewell, Ashford. And Fastrada, I will see you when Charles returns from the Avars.” We hug, and he makes for the door.
Ashford bows slightly, then slides a small envelope across the table with a precise, practiced motion. Before I can speak, he turns and leaves, his departure punctuated by a courteous, “Goodbye, Your Majesty.”
The envelope rests on the polished wood. I stare at it, heart thudding. Inside, surely, lies something meant only for me—yet in that quiet moment, I am strangely scared to open it.
Meet me at the stables when your father has left.
Malric
I let my fingers glide over the parchment, excitement bubbling up inside of me.
Have I ever felt this way?
I get up quickly and make sure my father has left the estate.
Then I practically run through the kitchen, past the cook and the help, and stumble out the back door. The stable doors stand half open. He is inside, one shoulder braced against the wood, sleeves rolled to his forearms, sunlight slicing across his face in narrow bands.
He does not smile.
He watches me run toward him—and something in his gaze makes me slow, suddenly self-conscious about my joy. Did I misread the note? I look past him toward his horse. It’s already saddled. He is leaving.
“Why did you ask me to come?” I ask, trying to steady my breath.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“I wanted to see you,” he says evenly.
“That is all?”
He pushes away from the door then, but instead of closing the distance, he takes a step back, away from me.
The movement stings.
“You should not have come running like that,” he says quietly. “Not where anyone might see.”
“I thought that was the point,” I reply, confusion flaring into irritation. “You send me a note telling me to meet you here, and then you stand there as though I’ve inconvenienced you?”
His eyes darken. “That is not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” I press. “Because it feels very much like a game.”
I walk toward him, needing to look into his eyes properly when he inevitably breaks my heart.
His hand drags over his face. He looks at the ground briefly, then back at me. “It is not a game,” he says, lower now. “It is precisely the opposite.”
A gust of wind slips through the stable doors, lifting stray strands of my hair. The horses shift in their stalls.
“You kissed me last night,” I say. “And now you look as though you regret it.”
He steps closer then—but only one step. Close enough that I feel the heat of him. Not close enough to touch.
“I do not regret it,” he says. The words come rougher than before. “That is the problem. I pushed you too far too soon.”
The sky rumbles faintly in the distance.
I fold my arms over my chest. “What is that supposed to mean? I wanted you to kiss me.”
His restraint fractures for a second. I see it—the flicker of something fierce beneath the calm.
“You deserve more than to be pulled into something you do not understand,” he says.
“And you have decided that for me?”
Another rumble of thunder. Closer now.
His fingers flex at his sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for me.
“You do not know what you are stepping toward,” he says.
“Then tell me,” I challenge.
Silence.
The wind pushes harder, the scent of rain heavy in the air.
When he does not answer, something hot and wounded rises in my chest.
“Very well,” I say stiffly. “If this is some grand internal struggle you are determined to have alone, I will not interrupt it.”
I turn toward the open yard just as the first drop of rain strikes the dust.
“Ada—”
But I am already walking away.
The rain comes suddenly, sheets of it, drenching my hair and bodice within seconds. I make it halfway across the courtyard before I hear his boots pounding after me.
He catches my wrist, the force of it spinning me back into him. For a heartbeat, we simply stand there in the downpour, breath mingling, rain streaming down his face.
“This is exactly what I was trying to prevent,” he says, almost to himself.
“Then let me go. Do not toy with me. I do not deserve it.”
His grip tightens instead, and something in his expression changes. The careful control shatters, like the rain breaking through the clouds.
“Fuck it,” he breathes.
Then he kisses me.
A desperate kiss, as though he has been holding himself back for far too long, and finally stopped trying.
The storm breaks fully above us.