Chapter 17 #2
“Very well,” he says at last. Then, more thoughtfully, “The journey will not be without danger. There are reports of bandits in the woods preying on travelers. To ensure my investment returns in one piece, I will grant your favor only if you allow me to send someone with you.”
Investment. A reminder of exactly what I am to him. But I nod at once. That seems reasonable enough. I picture one of the riders who first came to our farm, men I now understand belong to Atilia’s court, judging by their colors, by the same silver and blue worn by the Fae rebuilding the Aurevault.
“I accept,” I say.
“Then the bargain is struck,” Luceran replies, and a shiver slides down my spine. “Pack what you need. You will depart in the morning.”
I force myself to remain composed, to keep the smile threatening to break free firmly in check. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to run from the hall, tear the boards from my windows, and scream the news across the frozen lake.
But I do none of those things.
Instead, I bow my head, heart racing, hope burning dangerously bright in my chest.
“Thank you, my lord.”
I turn at once, still holding the smile firmly in place as I walk toward the doors. I do not look back. I do not give myself the chance to falter.
Only when I cross the threshold, only when the cold wind sweeps through and the great doors thunder shut behind me, do I finally break.
I fold forward, bracing my hands on my knees as a long, shuddering breath tears free of my chest. It bursts out of me in a quiet, disbelieving laugh, joy flooding through my veins so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
Finally.
At long last, I will see my father again.
The hours between now and dawn suddenly feel impossibly long, and I have never wanted time to move faster than I do now.
I wake before dawn, too restless to lie still, and throw myself into preparation, excitement buzzing through me. I fill a trunk with warm clothes, not only for myself but extra furs and coats for Father as well.
From there I move to the stores, drafting tonics from the well-stocked shelves, grinding herbs and setting brews to bubble. With such high-quality ingredients, these will be far more potent than anything I have been able to make for him before.
When that is done, I gather bread still warm from the kitchens, dried meats wrapped carefully in cloth, packing as much as I can fit into the trunk.
It feels real now.
As I pass the throne room, my steps slow. I pause just beyond the doors, fingers curling briefly at my sides, and for a moment I consider going in. Saying goodbye. Thanking him again.
But the thought feels… presumptuous. As though I imagine myself more important than I am. As though he would care whether I came or went. This is merely an arrangement to balance the scales between him and his investment.
So I keep walking.
Outside, the carriage waits, breath puffing from the horses in pale clouds as the morning frost clings to the stone. I climb inside, settling onto the seat while the sprites flit around me, chattering excitedly as they load my luggage onto the back with exaggerated effort.
I wait.
I expect a rider to join me soon. One of Atilia’s men.
Instead, the carriage door opens.
Cold air rushes in.
And Luceran climbs inside.
He is dressed plainly, in dark trousers and a heavy navy blue tunic, his boots worn and practical, his hair pulled back into a simple ponytail at his nape.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out at first. I sit there in stunned silence as he takes the seat opposite me, settling with quiet finality as the door closes behind him.
Finally, I manage to speak.
“What are you doing?”
He exhales slowly. “Apparently, I am going to see your father.”
I know the words he’s using. I understand the language perfectly.
And yet their meaning refuses to settle.
“You’re going to see…” I blink at him. “Wait, what?”
He bows his head slightly, a loose strand of ivory hair slipping free to fall across his blue eye before he straightens again. “I am your escort.”
No.
I shake my head at once, the denial instinctive and immediate. That can’t be right.
“You said…”
“I said I would grant your favor if I could send someone with you.” His mouth curves, just faintly. “I am that someone.”
I stare at him, still unconvinced, still half-expecting the carriage to dissolve around us and reveal that I’m still asleep in my bed, dreaming this entire exchange.
“But what about the Aurevault?” I manage.
He shrugs, entirely unconcerned. “Atilia will handle it. She seems to be enjoying the additional responsibilities.”
“She’s your mother, isn’t she?” I ask.
He leans back in his seat, resting one arm along the back of the carriage with casual ease. “Yes. She mentioned to me that she had told you. You have clearly made an impression on her.”
I smile, about to reply.
“I didn’t say it was a good one,” he says dismissively.
My smile falters.
“Shall we?” he continues. “The sooner we arrive, the sooner we return.”
He raps his knuckles once against the roof of the carriage. Outside, the sprites shout something unintelligible, a whip cracks sharply, and the horses surge forward into a run.
Brunemar unfolds around us in rolling swathes of white, snow-draped pines, wide fields softened beneath drifting frost. Snow falls steadily now, thick enough to blur the distance, while the wind whistles and moans alongside the carriage as Castle Frostwyn disappears behind us.
Beyond the open land, the road carries us toward the forest.
It looms vast and ancient, dense with gnarled, twisting trees whose branches knit together so tightly overhead that snow slips through only in soft, scattered flakes, never the heavy downpours common elsewhere. Because of this, there is green here. Dark and damp, but green all the same.
Possibly the last green in all of Brunemar.
Roots snake across the uneven path, jostling the carriage with every turn.
Luceran wipes the condensation from the glass with his sleeve and peers out, his eyes sweeping the forest with sharp attention, tracking every flicker of movement between the trees.
“This is where they say the bandits are?” I ask.
He nods. “They attacked several Elarium transports last month. They didn’t manage to take much, but enough to become an irritation.”
I scoff lightly. “If you’ve come all this way to protect me from bandits, I think you’ve wasted your time. Elarium is far more valuable than I am. They would have let me pass without a second glance.”
“Value comes from what is needed,” he says, still watching the forest slide past the window. “And you are needed.”
The words hollow me out, only to fill the emptiness with a hundred flurrying butterflies.
A sudden stillness settles over him, his breath catching as though he has only just realized what slipped free. His head turns sharply toward me, eyes wide.
“To balance my accounts,” he adds at once. “That is your value.”
I nod too quickly, too emphatically. “Yes. Of course.”
That is obviously what he meant. He could not have meant anything else.
And yet, for a fleeting moment, goosebumps ripple across my skin.
We travel for hours after that, eventually breaking free of the forest without incident. I am deeply grateful. I have had enough adventure for several lifetimes in the past few weeks. I have no desire to add a bandit attack to the list.
As the carriage settles into a quieter rhythm, the windows fogging softly with our breath, the blanket across my lap growing dangerously comfortable, I reach into my coat and pull out a book.
The book.
The one Luceran tore cleanly in half.
At first he only glances over with disinterest, but then recognition flickers across his face. His gaze fixes on the book, as though the sight of it has reopened an old wound.
Neve, you idiot.
I slide the book back into my coat before his rage has him throwing me from the carriage and ordering the sprites to turn around and return to Castle Frostwyn, but instead he lifts a hand and shakes his head.
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s fine. I would not have mended it for you if I did not want you to read it.”
I nod my thanks, then draw it out again and open it, flipping through the pages to find my place. I can feel his attention on me as I search.
“It seems you require a bookmark,” he remarks.
I tilt my head at the observation. Odd, but accurate.
His gaze drops to the silver-braided tassel edging the hem of his cloak. Without hesitation, without even pausing to consider it, he grips it and tears it free from the fabric.
Then he holds it out to me.
I startle. Did that really just happen?
I reach to take it, but he doesn’t release it immediately. He holds it a fraction longer than expected, and I don’t know whether he means to brush his thumb against my hand, but he does.
The contact sends a cool shock through me, racing up my arm, through my chest, and settling warm and low in my stomach.
Then he lets go.
The tassel falls loose into my palm.
I swallow hard. The air is always colder when he’s around, so why does it suddenly feel as if I’m sweating? Why is the collar of my dress choking me?
When I find my place, I lay the braided cord down the centre of the book, ready to hold my place for next time.
Then I read.
I curl into the velvet seat, tucking my legs beneath me and pulling the blanket higher over my lap, letting the gentle sway of the carriage lull me into stillness. Before long, I brace an elbow against the wall and rest my cheek in my hand, entirely absorbed in the tale unfolding.
My eyes widen when the story turns perilous. I catch my breath as the tension mounts. I blush, unrepentant, when the hero and heroine steal a moment together in an abandoned barn, and all the while, even without lifting my gaze, I am aware of him.
Of Lord Luceran sitting across from me in complete silence, watching without intrusion or impatience, granting me the rarest kindness of all.
The space to lose myself in a story. And somehow, that quiet allowance, that unspoken permission to simply be, feels like one of the greatest gifts he could offer.