Chapter 8 Wren
Istir at the sound of retching. It’s muffled, but close—the bathroom between our chambers. I freeze, hand going automatically to the knife beneath my pillow before I realise how stupid that is. An assassin wouldn’t break in just to be sick.
It has to be the prince.
My first instinct is to ignore it. He’s not my responsibility in that way. He can call for the night guard outside his room if he needs assistance. Technically, I’m off duty. And anyway, I’m his guard, not his nursemaid. He probably just ate something that didn’t sit right.
But the retching doesn’t stop. And when it does, the silence stretches too long, too still. Unease prickles at the back of my neck.
He could’ve been poisoned. I’d probably get into trouble if I didn’t at least investigate…
I sigh and slip out of bed, padding to the door. I knock lightly. “Your Highness?”
No answer.
I exhale through my nose and push the door open. The air hits me instantly, thick with the sharp, acrid sting of bile. Cassiel is slumped over the basin, arms braced on the rim, head bowed. His breathing’s uneven.
I hesitate in the doorway, fingers twitching at my sides. “Are you—” I stop myself. Clearly, he is not all right. “Do you need help?”
A low sound escapes him, half a groan, half a miserable laugh. “No. Yes.” He swallows hard. “I don’t know.”
At least he’s honest. I step closer, crouching beside him. He flinches when my hand brushes his back, so I pull it away. “Should I fetch someone? A healer?”
He shakes his head. “I think I just ate too much. It’ll pass.”
He lurches forward again. I reach out instinctively, steadying a hand on his back. This time, he doesn’t pull away. His shirt clings damply to his skin, and I can feel every ridge of his spine, every strained muscle. His shoulder blades jut sharply beneath the fabric.
My jaw tightens.
As the retching subsides, Cassiel swallows. “Please don’t tell my mother.”
I scoff. “Why would I tell her? I’m your guard, not hers.”
His head turns slightly in my direction, though his eyes can’t find me. He nods once, as if that settles something.
“Are you done, do you think?” I ask.
“I… I think so.”
“Come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”
I slide an arm beneath his, guiding him upright. He’s shaky but doesn’t resist, letting me steer him toward the bed. He sinks onto the edge with a shuddering sigh.
I pour a cup of water and press it into his hands. He drinks slowly, fingers trembling around the rim. I find a bucket and set it beside the bed, just in case.
“There’s a bucket to your left,” I tell him, “tucked beside the nightstand.”
“Thank you.”
The words land heavier than they should. It’s the first time he’s ever thanked me, and this—this—isn’t something that deserves thanks.
I turn to go, but something in my peripheral vision makes me pause. His hand drifts to his stomach, fingers brushing lightly before curling in, his body tensing. His breath catches.
“Still hurting?” I ask, cautious.
He hesitates. “A little.”
I shift on my feet. “I could—” Stars, I sound ridiculous. But I force the words out anyway, remembering my grandmother’s advice: Befriend him. “I could rub it. If you think that might help.”
His grip tightens on the blanket, and I wait for the refusal I’m sure is coming. But after a moment, he exhales, giving the smallest of nods.
“All right.”
I perch on the edge of the bed beside him. I hesitate for only a second, then rest my hand lightly over his stomach. His skin is warm beneath the fabric of his shirt. Slowly, I begin to rub in gentle circles, careful not to press too hard, watching for any sign that I’m making things worse.
Cassiel lets out a soft breath, his body gradually unwinding. His head tips back against the pillow, and after a while, his breathing evens, the tension in his frame easing.
“Better?” I ask quietly.
“Mmm.” It’s somewhere between a hum and a sigh.
I swallow, caught off guard by how natural this feels, how easily he accepts my touch when he’s resisted every other kind of help. I stay a little longer, rubbing gently until I’m sure the worst of the pain has passed.
“Have you done this before?” he murmurs.
“No,” I say. “I think someone did it for me, a long time ago.”
“You think?”
“My mother died when I was very young,” I say quietly. “I don’t… remember much about her.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Who looked after you after she—”
“My grandmother,” I cut in.
“She didn’t help you when you were sick?”
“I have a very strong constitution.”
A ghost of a smile touches Cassiel’s lips. “Shame you can’t bottle that constitution and spread it amongst the rest of us mere mortals.”
“A shame indeed.”
The truth is, faeries have all manner of remedies to deal with illnesses like this. We can still be hurt, or poisoned, and there are a few sicknesses that affect us—but very little truly lingers.
“I was strong, once,” Cassiel murmurs. His voice is quiet, almost lost in the sound of his breathing. “Not quite like Evander, but I was strong. I could fight, I could handle pain. I could… I could do so much more than I can now.”
My fingers pause where they rest against him, a flicker of something tightening in my chest. There’s no self-pity in his words, only a quiet resignation that unsettles me more than despair ever could.
I’ve seen men rage against their limitations, fight tooth and nail against fate.
But this… this sad acceptance feels so much worse.
I remember sparring with him earlier, how he’d started to play against me, just a little. Perhaps, deep down, he’s more like me than I thought.
You were made to fight.
“You still can,” I say, steady and certain. “If there’s one thing true of most folks, it’s that they can do more. The future is full of possibilities.”
He exhales—too soft to be a laugh, too dry to be a sigh. “It probably is,” he admits, his fingers twitching slightly against the blanket. “But I have a problem seeing anything right now.”
I swallow. I want to say something to that, to push back against the quiet hopelessness in his tone—but what is there to say? That it’ll pass? That he’ll find his way? He already knows all the reassurances. He just doesn’t believe them.
I draw my hand back. “I think you’ll be all right now,” I say instead. “But I’m next door if you need anything.”
I rise carefully, trying not to jostle the bed, not to disturb the fragile quiet that’s settled between us.
His hand catches my sleeve before I can step away. It’s the lightest touch, but it stops me all the same.
“Thornvale?”
I turn, my voice softer than I mean it to be. “Yes?”
“Call a servant to deal with the mess in the bathroom, would you?”
For a moment, I just look at him. Then, with a small, almost amused huff, I dip my head. “Of course, my liege.”
I slip out the door without another word. But as I step into the hallway, I glance back—just once. He looks different to me now, fewer hard edges, softer and less sullen, undeserving of the pain he’s obviously in.
Undeserving of whatever my people have planned for him.
Fates help me, I really hope my grandmother doesn’t order me to kill him.