26. Ryewood
Ryewood
Every day I tell myself the same thing. Stay away from her. Don’t look too long, don’t stand too close, don’t give my father a single reason to notice her more than he already has. It’s the only way to keep her safe, and every day, I fail.
Not in big ways, not yet, but in small ones, ones that add up. The way my feet carry me toward her before I’ve decided to move. The way I can’t stop myself from making her laugh. I’m terrified of what it’s going to cost her.
Grier figured it out. He keeps his distance like it’s a discipline, like loving her and letting her go are the same act of will.
Even now, he’s across the clearing, standing apart from the group with his arms crossed and jaw set, controlled in a way that I know costs him.
He doesn’t look at Gemma. Not once. He’s stronger than I am, and I hate myself for it.
“All right,” Gemma calls out, clapping her hands. “Line up. Standard distance first, then we’ll push it back.”
She’s bundled against the cold in a thick-knit sweater, fitted pants, and a scarf wound around her neck. Her cheeks are already flushed pink from the chill. There’s no need for leathers today for archery, and she’s just…her.
She looks like I could take her for a walk through a winter market, buy her something warm to drink while making her laugh. It’s distracting in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
We spread out across the grounds, the frost-tipped grass crunching underfoot, and face the targets set against the thick oaks at the tree line. The winter sun is pale and cold overhead.
I grab a bow and test the draw. Beside me, Hayes is already nocking an arrow. His focus is sharp, just not on the target. Two spots down, Rosie is adjusting her grip, and Hayes keeps glancing over like he can’t help himself.
Hayes releases an arrow and hits the outer ring of the target, then immediately turns back to Rosie. She’s drawing her bow, lips pressed in concentration, completely unaware she’s wrecking my brother’s focus. Or maybe completely aware. It’s hard to tell with Rosie.
Rosie’s arrow hits dead center. She doesn’t even look at Hayes, but there’s a small smile playing at her lips.
“Show off,” he mutters, smiling.
She shrugs, nocking another arrow. “Maybe you need more practice, Your Highness.”
He raises an eyebrow. As she releases her next arrow, the ground under her shifts with a gentle ripple, making her arrow fly wide.
Rosie turns to Hayes. “You didn’t,” she says, half-laughing, half-offended.
“It’s strategy,” Hayes says, clearly enjoying himself.
A vine curls up from the frost-covered grass, wrapping around Hayes’s ankle, making him stumble, but he catches himself.
“Rosie—”
“Strategy,” she replies, sweet as poison.
I glance at Gemma. She’s watching them, with her expression soft and her eyes bright. She abandons her instructor stance entirely and drifts closer like she’s been pulled.
“How does it work?” she says, like she’s asking to see a secret room.
Hayes hesitates, like no one’s ever asked him that in plain words.
“It’s…” He considers. “It’s like asking.”
Gemma blinks. “Asking what?”
He crouches and presses his palm to the ground, not in a theatrical way. “The ground,” he says, “and anything rooted to it.”
The earth answers with a low tremor beneath our boots, rippling through the frost like the whole clearing just sighed.
Gemma laughs, bright and real, and my chest aches at the sound.
Hayes lifts his hand and flexes his fingers like he’s shaking off the cold. “Stone listens easiest,” he says. “It’s simple and doesn’t argue.”
“And plants?” Gemma asks quickly, excitement lacing through her words.
“Plants are harder,” he admits. “Living things push back. They have their own…will.”
Gemma frowns in concentration. “So you can’t make them do whatever you want?”
Hayes’s mouth twitches. “Father does. I don’t. I ask.”
My brother is smiling proudly, like he likes having someone look at him this way, like what he can do is wonder instead of weight.
“Show me your favorite thing to grow,” she says with pure joy.
Hayes hesitates, then presses his palm to the ground again. An apple tree pushes through the frost, and he picks an apple and gives it to Gemma.
“What about our favorite, Gem?” he says with a smile.
She takes the apple and bites it. A look flickers across her face, gone before I can name it.
Since when does my brother have a nickname for her? Since when are they close enough for that?
“More,” Gemma says, and there’s no trace of the guarded instructor now. She’s practically glowing. “Show me more.”
Hayes and Rosie exchange a look, then press their hands to the earth together. The clearing erupts with wildflowers pushing through the frost, vines curling up tree trunks, and moss spreading soft and green across the ground. Winter retreats in a perfect circle around us.
Gemma turns in a slow circle, wonder written all over her face, unguarded in a way she almost never lets herself be. My chest aches. She’s always beautiful, but this version of her, unguarded and glowing, is the one that undoes me.
Across the clearing, Grier is watching her like everything else has fallen away. Then his eyes meet mine, and the softness vanishes. His jaw goes rigid and his expression smooths.
The guilt settles heavier in my chest.
“Hayes, show us your stag!” Gemma demands, practically bouncing on her toes.
Hayes laughs, shaking his head. “Come on, Gem, that’s embarrassing.”
There it is again. Gem.
“Please?” Rosie adds, tilting her head. “I’ve never seen it either.”
Hayes hesitates, glancing between them, the two women he clearly can’t say no to.
But I’m stuck on the nickname. How long has this been going on? How did I miss it?
“Fine,” Hayes relents.
I step closer to her. “Since when does Hayes get to call you Gem?”
She glances at me. “Since we’re friends.”
“Friends.” I let the word hang there. “And what does a man have to do to earn that privilege? Grow you an apple tree?”
“Jealous, Ryewood?” She teases me with a grin.
“Wildly.” The word comes out lighter than I feel, because I am jealous. Stupidly, irrationally jealous of my own brother.
“If you call me Gem, then who will call me little fox?” she says playfully, still caught up in the delight of the magical show.
My heart stutters. She’s not just tolerating the nickname; she’s claiming it, claiming us, and my chest cracks open a little wider.
“Well,” I manage, voice rougher than I intended, “we can’t have that.”
Her grin softens into something warmer, something just for me, and for a breath, the whole clearing narrows to the space between us.
I grin back and let my eyes say what my mouth can’t. I’d risk everything for you.
Before I can say something stupid, Hayes steps into the center of the clearing and rolls out his shoulders.
The shift ripples through him, bones reshaping and skin giving way to fur.
It’s faster and smoother than I remember.
One moment my brother stands there, and the next—a stag.
Massive and proud. His coat is a deep brown, dappled with gold where the winter sun touches it, and his antlers crown his head like branches of an ancient oak, intricate and sprawling.
Gemma’s breath catches, and Rosie’s hand flies to her mouth.
He’s majestic. I forget sometimes that this is what lives inside him.
He turns, and those light green eyes, still Hayes, still my brother, find Rosie. He steps toward her slowly, carefully, something almost shy in the gesture.
“Hayes,” she breathes. “You’re beautiful.”
She reaches up, and her fingers brush his muzzle. He nuzzles into her palm, then lifts his head and scans the clearing until those light eyes land on Gemma.
He tosses his antlers. A clear command.
“I think you’re being summoned,” I tell her.
Gemma shoots me a huge grin and is already moving. When she reaches him, she hesitates before pressing her palm to his neck.
Hayes makes a low rumbling sound, content and happy.
“You’re so soft,” Gemma murmurs with awe in her voice.
Rosie grins. “He’s perfect.”
My brother stands between them, more at peace than I’ve ever seen him. I don’t know what it is about these two women, but they’ve unlocked something in him. Gemma looks up, eyes filled with joy.
“We’re doing this every day from now on. I don’t care about sword drills or archery; this is what I want.”
The stag makes a sound that’s suspiciously smug.
“Careful,” I call out. “You’ll give him an ego.”
“Too late.” Rosie laughs, stroking his muzzle. “Look at him. He knows he’s magnificent.”
The walk back feels different, lighter, like the magic in the clearing followed us home.
Gemma’s talking with her hands, describing something to Rosie, and her whole face is animated in a way I rarely get to see.
I want to bottle this moment and keep it somewhere safe. This is who she is when she’s not afraid.
Hayes catches my eye and grins because he sees what I see too.
We pass through the castle gates. My father stands silently waiting in the courtyard, his gaze finding our group and holding.
The warmth from the clearing dies between one breath and the next. Gemma’s face closes off, and Hayes’s shoulders curl inward like they always do when Father is near.
“Grier. Ryewood.” My father’s voice has a warmness I know not to trust, the one that makes people believe he’s kind.
“I need you to prepare for departure at first light tomorrow. Lord and Lady Willowmere are having a magical tethering ceremony in Briarwood; it’s only a few days’ ride.
I was planning on attending, but my attention is needed here. ”
Grier nods. “Understood, Your Majesty.”
“Finn. You’ll accompany them.”
Finn dips his head in acknowledgment, but I’m barely listening.
I look at Gemma, and the thought lands sharp and immediate. If I leave, she’s here alone within reach of my father, with no one between them. Every instinct is screaming that this place is dangerous and that leaving would be a mistake I would regret.
“The swordmaster should come as well.” I hear myself say. “For training.”
Grier’s gaze flicks to me with a sharp warning.
Finn talks first. “That’s not necessary. I can handle the training for a few days—”
“Bring the swordmaster if you wish, makes no difference to me,” Father says, waving a dismissive hand. “You should know there’s been word of unrest in the northern villages. I would like you to look into it while you’re there.”
“You should send Rosie as well then,” Gemma says.
Father turns and looks at her like he’s noticing a servant who’s spoken out of turn. “The trial winner? What for?”
The dismissal in his tone makes my fist clench.
“She’s an icon for the people,” Gemma says confidently. “She’s common-born. They see her as one of them. If the northern villages see her standing with the crown and supporting the princes, it will go a long way toward cooling tempers.”
Father’s attention sharpens on Gemma, his expression edged with calculation, the look he gets when he’s reassessing a piece on his board.
“Yes, that’s a sound idea,” he says slowly. “You think like someone who’s spent time around courts. Where did you say you trained again before coming to Terrath?”
Gemma doesn’t miss a beat. “Small towns, Your Majesty. Wherever work took me.”
Father’s eyes narrow. “And yet you move through my castle like you belong here.” He tilts his head. “Curious.”
Gemma holds his gaze, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. The careful stillness of someone trying very hard not to run.
“I vetted her credentials myself shortly after she arrived, Father.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Father’s gaze shifts to me, slow and deliberate, and he draws a slow breath in through his nose.
“Did you.”
“She trained in the outer villages,” I continue, because stopping now would be worse than pushing through. “Her references were impeccable.”
The lie burns in my throat. I don’t know where she trained. I don’t know anything about her past, not really. I just know I can’t stand here and watch him circle her like prey.
Father studies me for a long moment. The courtyard has gone quiet, and I can feel Grier’s tension behind me, Finn’s restlessness, and Hayes standing rigid at the edge of my vision.
“The outer villages,” Father repeats. “Interesting. I wasn’t aware you’d taken such a…thorough interest in our swordmaster’s background.”
The implication lands, and my pulse pounds in my ears.
“Very well,” he finally says. “I’ll trust your judgment, Ryewood.”
The way he says it makes it clear he doesn’t trust my judgment at all.
“I’ll talk to the stables about preparing the horses,” Hayes says with his voice deliberately easy, like he’s been waiting for the right moment to break the tension.
“Hayes, you won’t be attending,” Father says dismissively.
Hayes’s step falters. “Father, I’d like to represent the crown. If it’s a tethering ceremony, I should attend—”
“It’s far too dangerous for you to attend with the unrest,” Father says, almost bored.
Too dangerous for Hayes. But not for me. The familiar ache settles into my chest. I should be used to it by now, the knowledge that my father values Hayes more than me. I’m the spare. The expendable one. The son who can be sent into danger because losing me wouldn’t cost the crown anything.
I look at my brother and watch the disappointment ripple across his face before he smooths it away. He wanted to go, wanted to be useful, and Father just told him in front of everyone that he needs protecting.
I know we’re both hurting, just in different ways.