Chapter 33 Cassiel
Sleep does not come.
I lie on my back, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. I’m too awake to sleep. My body still hums with the ghost of Wren’s touch—the warmth of her, the taste of berries and something sharper beneath. It should have faded by now. It hasn’t. It twitches around the room like a ghost.
We shouldn’t have kissed. I know that. She knows that. It wasn’t appropriate. There’s a whole power imbalance, and we live together. It’s bound to make things awkward, however much we tried to spend the afternoon as normally as possible.
But I don’t need to close my eyes to see her. I play out the image in my mind, conjuring a vision of her against me. I see our lips meet, see her cheeks flushed with heat.
I remember how her breath hitched when I told her I might be all right with being destroyed.
She thinks she’ll ruin me.
She might be right, but I think I’m ruined with or without her.
I press my fingers against my temple, exhaling slowly. I understand why she said what she did. There are expectations, duties, and an entire kingdom watching.
But Saints, for a moment, I almost didn’t care.
A quiet sound carries through the thin walls. Just Wren, turning over in bed.
She has never felt so far away.
I want her closer. I need her closer or somewhere far away where I can’t feel her presence more.
Does such a place even exist?
I push back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The stone floor is cool beneath my feet as I stand, reaching for the robe draped over a nearby chair, and my cane propped against it. I need air.
Dain stands at his usual post outside my door, silent and watchful.
“Can’t sleep, Your Highness?” he asks as I step out.
“Brilliant deduction.” I tug my robe tighter against the chill and nod toward the stairwell. “I’m going for a walk. You should probably follow me—to make sure I don’t fall off anything.”
Dain exhales, sounding almost amused. “Very well, Your Highness.”
I start toward the steps, but pause. “Also, see if someone can fetch me a drink.”
“What kind of drink?”
“Something… strong.”
“As you wish.”
I hear him flag down another servant with my request as I continue toward the battlements. The night is crisp, the scent of rain lingering from a brief downpour earlier. The castle is quiet at this hour, save for the wind whispering through the stonework.
Maybe it will be enough to clear my head. Though somehow, I doubt it.
Dain appears beside me after a short while with a goblet filled with a heady, summery wine. It reminds me of velvet, which in turn reminds me of Wren.
“Tell me, Hollowbrook,” I begin, “have you ever made a mistake that you know you’d make again if you could?”
“A few, Your Highness.”
“Care to offer an example?”
“Entering into your service.”
I laugh. “That’s a good answer.” I sip my drink for a moment. “Why did you take this job?”
“Being a knight, or guarding you?”
“The latter. Were you ordered to, or—”
“I volunteered.”
“Right. Why?”
“Perhaps I find you attractive, sire.”
I shoot him a look. “This is supposed to be an incredulous stare. Is it?”
“It’s very incredulous, Sire.”
“Your real answer, Hollowbrook, if you don’t mind.”
“I like you,” Dain says. “Not in a romantic sense, just to be clear. I’ve always thought, if you weren’t a prince, that we’d be friends. I wanted to keep you safe.”
Friends. Friends are always an odd thing for royalty, even ones as casual as my family.
I had friends as a boy, of course, but as I grew up, the differences between myself and my peers became obvious.
I was expected to move in certain circles, amongst the nobility.
I’d only had a few I still considered friends, and even less that had tried to keep in touch after I lost my sight—which was likely my fault more than it was theirs.
I hadn’t minded how few friends I had in the past, for the most part.
I had Evander, after all, and the knights were always good for company. I’d had Sophia.
I didn’t miss anyone in the way I think I’d miss Wren if ever she left.
“Wren didn’t know me when she took the job,” I continue. “Why do you think she took it?”
“Well, your mother does pay her an awful lot…”
I laugh at that, but I don’t really mean it. It’s silly, but I don’t want to be a job to her.
“That’s not why she stays, you know,” Dain continues. “In case you were worried. Any fool can see that.”
I do see that. Sometimes, it’s the clearest thing in the world. But others…
Why did she come here? Why does she stay?
I’d destroy you.
“You don’t think she’s here for any nefarious purpose, do you?”
“Nefarious?” Now it’s Dain’s turn to sound incredulous. “There’s nothing nefarious about Wren except her skill with the blade… and sometimes the way she looks at you.”
“Don’t,” I tell him.
“Don’t what?”
“Flirt with me on her behalf. Not tonight.”
“All right,” says Dain solemnly.
I sip my drink. The night stretches long, its silence pressing in around me. The wine dulls the sharper edges of my thoughts, but only just. Dain stays beside me, neither pushing conversation nor withdrawing into silence. We stand like that for a while, watching the stars I cannot see.
Eventually, I speak again. “Go back to your post, Hollowbrook. I doubt I’ll be falling off any parapets tonight.”
Dain hesitates. I expect him to argue. He turns I think, glancing at something. “As you wish,” he concludes. “Try not to do anything too reckless.”
I hear his footsteps fade, leaving me alone in the hush of the castle walls.
A breeze drifts past, carrying the scent of damp stone and distant roses.
I brace my hands against the parapet, pressing my fingers against the rough, familiar grooves.
How many nights have I stood here, willing clarity to come?
Usually, I was seeking the answer to some political skirmish or battle problem.
I don’t think I’ve ever stood here before thinking about women.
Footsteps approach. Not Dain’s. Lighter. Quieter. I do not turn towards it. I know who it is before she speaks.
“You’re not sleeping.” Wren’s voice is soft, but not questioning.
“Neither are you.”
She steps closer. I feel the space between us shift, a weight that tilts everything.
“I heard you leave,” she admits. “I thought…”
“That I might be falling off parapets?” I offer dryly.
“I thought you might be… trying to get away from me.”
Never. “I just needed air.”
She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she comes to stand beside me, close enough that I catch the faint traces of leather and sweat, of something distinctly her. I tell myself not to focus on it. I fail.
“I can leave you to it,” she offers after a moment.
I don’t know what possesses me to say it, but the words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “No. Stay.”
She does.
A long stretch of silence unfurls between us, but it is not uncomfortable. We listen to the night, to the wind shifting through the castle. I shift my grip along the stone, fingers trailing a slow pattern.
“Tell me what it looks like tonight,” I say.
She hesitates only briefly. “The clouds have cleared,” she begins, her voice softer than before. “The stars are bright, but the moon is only a sliver. The garden below still glistens from the rain.”
“I thought I could smell roses,” I murmur.
“You can.”
A pause. Then, before I can stop myself— “And you? What do you look like tonight?”
I feel her still beside me.
“The same as I always do,” she says at last.
I turn my head toward her, something like a smirk tugging at my lips. “You’ll have to describe it for me, then. Indulge me.”
I expect her to deflect, to change the subject or scoff at my request. But she does not.
Instead, after a small breath, she says, “My hair is braided back tonight. I’m wearing my only nightgown—it was once white, but it’s a bit grubby-looking now, if I’m honest. It’s got lace cuffs.
It’s the only thing I own with lace, so I’m keeping it.
My boots are unlaced—I threw them on in haste.
My expression…” She trails off, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “I don’t know how to describe it.”
“I do.”
Another pause. “And how is that?”
“Like you’re standing too close, but not close enough.”
I don’t know why I say it. Maybe the wine has loosened my tongue. Maybe I am simply tired of pretending. The silence that follows is thick, and for a brief, terrible moment, I think she might walk away.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she shifts, and I feel the whisper of her presence draw nearer. Not touching, but there.
“Cassiel—”
“I know,” I cut in, before she can say it. “I know why we shouldn’t.”
Another pause. Then, softer, “And yet?”
I exhale. “And yet.”
Neither of us move. The night stretches onward, and I let myself exist in this moment, with her beside me, closer than she should be.
Tonight, I pretend that it’s enough.
I do my best to return to normalcy with Wren and pretend the kiss never happened.
It is easier in motion, when my body is occupied and my mind can follow—when the clash of blades demands my focus, or when Wren’s voice guides me through another pattern of footwork.
We train as we always have, falling into familiar rhythms. My form improves, my reactions sharpen, but the air between us is not the same.
We practise our whistles, too, adding to our list, developing the ones we already have.
Where are you?
I’m here.
Stay close.
Follow me.
Obstacle ahead.
Surrounded.
Lay low.
Retreat.
Attack on my signal.
Distract them.
Are you alright?
I need help.
Come to me, now.
Keep going.
I listen for the sound of Wren in the dark, tracing her shape in the air. A signal to let me know she’s there. She always is.
We still play chess. She still takes her time with her moves, still flicks the captured pieces idly between her fingers.
I still frown when she catches me off guard, still find satisfaction in the rare moments when she outmanoeuvres me.
But the game stretches longer now, lingering.
Sometimes, neither of us seem in any rush to checkmate the other.
We go out more, too. I walk through the market with Wren at my side, the sounds and scents of the city pressing in from all sides.
At first, it is disorienting—the noise, the jostle of people, the shifting ground beneath my cane.
But I do not have to navigate it alone. Wren is there, her voice steady in the storm, and I find that it is less difficult than being alone in her presence and trying not to think about the kiss.
So I do not think about it. I do not think about the warmth of her, or the shape of her name in my mouth.
I do not think about berries and something sharper beneath.
I do not think about the way she felt against me, or how her breath hitched when I told her I might be all right with being destroyed.
Instead, I walk. I fight. I play. I force her to buy a new nightgown, just as lacy as the last, and a robe of her own so that she doesn’t keep borrowing mine. I spend more time with my siblings. I go to dinner with my family.
I try to avoid my headaches, and rely on her less, and use my cane instead of her arm.
And always, always, I listen for her whistle in the dark.