Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
REIYANA
A t dawn, Reiya stirred to the call of distant seagulls and the rhythmic crash of waves—sounds so familiar they almost lulled her back to sleep. But the hard ground beneath her and the coarse wool blanket scratching her skin were stark reminders: this wasn’t her feathered mattress in Nymaris.
This was the wilderness. Luxury had no place here.
Her muscles ached as she sat up, still stiff from yesterday’s ordeal.
She glanced at the empty space beside her.
Mei Mei was already up, her cheerful voice carrying from somewhere near the centre of the camp.
Guilt churned in her stomach. She’d meant to rise early, to show the Xians she could pull her weight.
Instead, she’d slept in.
Her gaze drifted to the smouldering embers in the fire pit—a sharp reminder of last night’s failure. Su Lian had asked her to help with dinner, and Reiya had jumped at the chance. How hard could making stew be? She’d supervised cooks before, hadn’t she?
As she’d soon learn, watching chefs in the royal kitchen wasn’t the same as cooking a meal over an open fire. The stew had burned—charred into an inedible sludge clinging stubbornly to the bottom of the pot. She’d stirred too little, added water too late, kept the fire too high.
Simple mistakes. Obvious mistakes. The ones others would’ve known better than to make.
During supper last night, Xian Jun had spooned up a portion without flinching.
‘It has . . . a nostalgic taste,’ he remarked dryly, chewing on a piece of leathery meat with exaggerated thoughtfulness.
Ru Rong had chuckled. Su Lian had playfully swatted his arm, hinting she’d burned a pot of stew or two herself in her early days as a wife.
Their warmth hit harder than any scolding could have.
It burned, because it laid her bare—the truth she hadn’t wanted to name. She wasn’t ready, never had been.
Every step she’d taken had leaned on someone else’s strength, someone else’s choices. And now, with nothing to hide behind, she felt small. Exposed.
Foolish.
Here, failure wasn’t a minor misstep brushed away with charm or gentle chiding. It had real consequences. A ruined dinner meant no food, their precious resources wasted. In this way of life, a single mistake could be costly—even fatal.
Reiya flexed her hands, the skin still raw from scrubbing the ruined pot long after the others had gone to bed. She’d insisted on cleaning it herself, though every scrape of the washing rag made her fingers throb.
How long would she keep letting others fix what she had broken?
Some damage ran deeper than a spoiled pot of stew—wounds that clung like shadows, impossible to mend.
Like the hurt she had caused her family.
The truth pressed down on her: She hadn’t just misjudged Castiel—she’d clung to a lie of her own making. She’d believed running would loosen the knots binding her, that distance alone could break chains.
But running hadn’t freed her.
It had only carried her into another kind of trap—one woven with her own blind hopes .
Castiel had betrayed her, but she was the one handing him the knife.
A sigh slipped from her lips. She rose and folded her blanket carefully, smoothing every wrinkle. Dwelling on Castiel and the decision that brought her here wouldn’t help. Regret wouldn’t make her useful, earn her a place with the Xians, or guide her home.
The past was done . . . but she could learn from it.
Today, she would do better. For the Xians. For the people she’d betrayed.
For herself.
Reiya straightened, tugging at the tunic Su Lian had lent her.
Her own clothes had been ruined beyond repair, torn by the ocean’s fury.
The Xians had given her a pleated brown cotton skirt and a matching tunic, embroidered along the hem with tiny beads catching the morning light.
A simple ochre belt hugged her waist. The outfit wasn’t silk, but it was clean and warm—comfortable in a way that mattered more than luxury.
She adjusted the scarf tied over her head, tucking in loose strands of golden hair. Standing out wasn’t an option. The fewer questions she invited, the better.
Across the camp, Mei Mei spotted her and bounded over, eyes bright with excitement. “You’re awake! I wanted to wake you earlier, but Níang said to let you rest.”
Reiya smiled. “I’m awake now. Are there any chores I can help with?”
“We still need more wood for the fire. Want to come?”
The eagerness in the girl’s voice teased a smile from Reiya. “Lead the way.”
They walked toward the tree line not far from the beach, the cool morning breeze carrying the scent of damp leaves and sea salt.
Mei Mei skipped ahead, basket in hand, her small fingers expertly testing branches, snapping twigs, checking for dryness with the kind of ease that betrayed her expertise.
Confidence laced the child’s movements—not arrogance, just familiarity.
Reiya followed her example, selecting and snapping wood, a flicker of satisfaction sparking with each addition to the pile. Mei Mei grinned, dimples deepening.
“Yours is almost as big as mine,” she whispered, as if sharing a secret.
“Almost,” Reiya teased, winking. “But not quite.”
“Still, it’s quite good!”
“That’s because I have the best teacher.” She brushed a lock of hair from Mei Mei’s brow.
The girl beamed. “L?o lao says I always find the best firewood.”
Reiya smiled despite herself, some of the tightness in her chest easing.
When they returned to camp, they set about arranging the wood. Mei Mei crouched beside her, patiently guiding each step.
“You gotta breathe on it,” she said, puffing gently at the embers. “Like this.”
Reiya mimicked her, watching the sparks catch, flames curling around the kindling.
“See? Not so hard.” Mei Mei grinned.
Relief and pride mingled as warmth chased away the morning chill. The task was simple, yet it felt like something she should’ve learned long ago.
The girl tilted her head. “You’ve really never done this before?”
Reiya hesitated. How could she explain the life she left behind—one of luxury, where servants handled every need? Instead, she shrugged.
“No. Where I come from, someone else always did these things.”
Mei Mei blinked but didn’t press. “Well, now you know,” she said cheerfully. “Soon you’ll be doing it all the time.”
Su Lian approached, with a kettle in one hand and a cooking pot in the other.
Reiya stood. “May I help, Su Lian?”
The woman paused, perhaps remembering last night’s disaster. For a moment, Reiya thought she’d refuse.
But the woman smiled. “Of course.”
She handed her a clay pot filled with water. “We make porridge for breakfast. Grains, goat butter, herbs, and sea salt. Simple, but it keeps us going.”
Su Lian guided her through the process—when to add the grains, how to season without overwhelming the delicate flavours.
“Not too much salt,” she warned. “A pinch is enough. The herbs already carry the sea’s brine. Too much will ruin it.”
Reiya nodded, stirring carefully. The fire’s warmth seeped into her hands, and the fragrant steam rising from the pot was oddly comforting.
When the porridge was finished, it gleamed with a velvety sheen, thick and inviting, its aroma a blend of creamy butter and wild grasses.
As the others ate, their quiet satisfaction struck something deep in her—an epiphany.
Meaning wasn’t found in grand gestures or lavish feasts, but in the simplest acts: A fire. A bowl of porridge. Small efforts that connected people and kept them moving forward.
For the first time in too long, she felt grounded .
Not as a princess bound by duty, but as someone contributing—however small the task.
Across the fire, Xian Jun set his bowl aside and rose. “We’ll pack soon. It’s a day south to Vhalis Thorn, the first outpost. We’ll stay a couple of days, set up a stall to trade, then continue along the Great Salt Road.”
The mention of the outpost lit a spark in her chest. Outposts had Wingmasters—those who bred and trained the Sparos to carry messages across the kingdoms. If she could send word to Aethonia, her family would know she was alive. She could warn them of Castiel’s betrayal.
But messages weren’t free, and she had no means to pay.
Her fingers found the winged pendant at her throat, the crystal cool against her skin. Limyerite was valuable enough to buy her passage, enough to carry her far from here.
But value wasn’t meaning. Castiel’s lies had dimmed its light, but not snuffed it out. It still felt heavier than it should, full of memories she wasn’t ready to surrender .
There had to be another way to survive—one she could claim for herself.
Squaring her shoulders, Reiya rose and hurried after Xian Jun.
“May I . . . help with the stall?” The words felt strange in her mouth, but she pressed on. “Or make something to sell?”
Xian Jun stopped, turning to her. Heat prickled beneath her collar, but she didn’t waver. “I need coins. For . . .”
His gaze sharpened—not unkind, but assessing. “For passage to Asadia.”
She nodded.
His eyes drifted toward Ru Rong and Su Lian, still cleaning up breakfast. “Speak to my mother and Su Lian. We’ll find where your talents lie.” His mouth curved faintly. “Cooking’s not it, but we’ll try something else.”
Reiya’s cheeks burned. Xian Jun wasn’t unkind, but neither was he the type to extend trust easily. His approval, she sensed, was something to be earned, not given—and certainly never out of pity.
In Nymaris, people smiled too easily, smoothing over discomfort with hollow courtesies. But Xian Jun’s bluntness, though jarring, was honest. He wasn’t here to coddle her.
And strangely, as daunting as it was, she respected that.
Her gaze drifted to Ru Rong and Su Lian, their hands moving with swift, practiced confidence as they packed up the camp.
Doubt flickered. Could she keep up with them?
She shoved the thought aside.
If she wanted to reach Asadia—if she wanted to make it home—she’d have to learn. Not by running. Not by wishing.
But by staying, trying .
By taking each step forward until the road led her to where she truly belonged.