Chapter 13
ChApter
Thirteen
Sir Holden walks a step behind me as we head for the stables, the path before us golden from the early morning sun.
Despite the king’s suggestion that we take a carriage to Delasurvia, my uncle and I both declined.
The journey will be much quicker on horseback.
While Mylo and Uncle Kormak gather last-minute provisions, Sir Holden and I have the task of fetching the horses.
When the stables come into view, I spot a familiar figure moving about near the doors, and a small smile ticks up the corners of my mouth.
Dante’s hair is windswept, his cheeks slightly flush, and the sight of his broad shoulders stirs a fluttery feeling in my stomach.
He’s accompanied by an unfamiliar guard, and my smile is replaced with a frown.
I should have guessed that the king doesn’t trust his own son.
Dante appears to have just returned from a ride, and the new guard tagging along watches every move he makes.
Though I’d very much like to talk to Dante before I leave—even just to say a chaste goodbye—I’m not certain I’ll be able to get near him without butting heads with this lurker.
I glance over my shoulder at Sir Holden. “Do you recognize that guard?”
Sir Holden nods once. “The king appointed him to trail Lord Stregasi as his Royal Ward. Name’s Sir Donovan Greystone.”
A Royal Ward. I suppose that makes sense. Silas no doubt wants to make sure his only remaining son is protected, especially during the upcoming tour.
When we’re a couple of yards away, Dante spots me and does a double take. Our eyes lock, and in that moment, I can tell he wants to swallow up the distance between us. Instead, he takes in a long breath before he averts his gaze, pretending to be highly interested in removing his riding gloves.
Sir Donovan regards us, his back straightening.
Broad-shouldered and built like a fortress, his strawberry-blond hair is clipped short, and his brown eyes assess me with a cold, impassive stare.
He doesn’t bow, doesn’t offer a greeting.
Just stands there, arms rigid at his sides like a sentry carved from stone.
I steel myself for his disapproval of my appearance at the stables when Dante happens to be here, but how else am I to retrieve my horse?
“Donovan,” Sir Holden says, breaking the silent tension. “Allow me to introduce you to Her Royal Highness, Celeste Westergaard, heir to the Delasurvian throne.”
I almost smirk. It doesn’t escape me that Sir Holden has used my full title on purpose to get a rise out of Dante’s guard.
Probably realizing a proper response is expected of him, Sir Donovan blanches before greeting me with a bow. “Oh, yes. Of course. Pleased to meet you, Your Highness.”
I nod my greeting. “Sir Donovan.”
His focus returns to Sir Holden. “I was told the princess and Lord Stregasi are to avoid being seen together.”
“We need to grab our horses,” Sir Holden explains, “and then we’ll be on our way.”
“It will just take a minute,” I put in before he has a chance to argue that a princess could send someone else to the stables for her. “Paul was instructed to prepare them for us ahead of time.”
Sir Donovan’s eyes go between me and Sir Holden before he nods.
“Have you been told about the wood paths?” Sir Holden asks him, walking closer to the guard and clapping him on the back. “Very important to keep your eyes on.” He uses the position to turn Sir Donovan to face the woods—and away from me—and then points toward the trees.
I take this as Sir Holden’s way of giving me a moment with Dante. The man is no fool, and it occurs to me now that under all that muscle and armor, he also has a heart.
I slip into the stables, and Dante takes my cue, following me into the dim hall that leads to the horse stalls. The stable smells of fresh hay, oiled leather, and shit, and the lanterns lining the wooden beams cast flickering shadows.
In the next moment, there’s a firm but gentle hand on my elbow. The touch sends a thrilling shiver up my spine.
“How long will you be gone?” he asks.
There’s no trying to talk me out of it. No telling me it’s too dangerous to leave the castle.
He doesn’t even insist on coming with me.
And though I wouldn’t mind being able to spend time with him and wouldn’t argue if he did want to come along, it lifts a weight off my chest knowing he respects my decision.
That he knows my strength and skill and doesn’t question if I’m capable of heading off without him.
It’s not a squad mission; it’s a mere escort and return. Though one never knows what could be waiting out there, ready to strike.
“Before the week is up,” I respond, checking over his shoulder to make sure we’re still alone.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll keep Sir Holden safe,” he teases.
“If he doesn’t annoy me,” I tease back. “So that’s your new watchdog.”
He lets out a sigh. “The king couldn’t be dissuaded, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
His hand drifts down to mine, and our fingers brush against each other, slow and soft, a whisper of a caress igniting something deep in my chest. For a moment, I forget where we are, forget that we’re supposed to be careful.
There’s only the sound of our breathing, the distant chatter of stableboys, and the way his gaze locks on to mine with something longing to be said.
The sound of boots crunching on gravel causes us to take a step back from each other. I turn toward Thora’s stall, where Paul emerges, leading my horse toward me. Another stablehand brings Mylo’s horse along with two others, and Sir Holden appears beside me to take their reins.
“Thank you, Paul,” I say while admiring by raven-black mare.
Paul gives me a nod. “Your Highness. May the gods watch over your journey.”
When we exit the stables, Sir Donovan stands beside Dante. The Royal Ward steps aside to give us room, but not before allowing his gaze to linger on me, assessing my every move. It makes my skin itch, but I don’t let it show.
“I wish you a safe journey,” Dante says, “and a safe return.”
I hate that our conversation has to be this short.
I would love to ask him what’s going on behind the closed doors of the council chambers, to ask him how he’s handling this impossible situation he’s been forced into.
I want to tell him about my powers, even about the pain it causes me. But there’s no fucking time.
I force the emotion out of my voice and incline my head. “Thank you, Lord Stregasi.”
Though I know I should avert my gaze as I pass him, I can’t break the hold he has on me.
He shifts, as if he’s about to turn to head in the opposite direction, and it takes every ounce of control I have not to run up to him and throw my arms around him, to capture his face in my hands and press my lips to his.
But I don’t. He gives me one more long look—a look laced with a plea to be careful—before he turns and strides away.
As Sir Holden and I head toward the castle gates to meet with Mylo and my uncle, I brush a hand along Thora’s neck.
Her coat is warm, the rise and fall of her breath steady beneath my palm.
The morning air carries the scent of damp hay and old wood, and a breeze whispers a cool greeting against my cheeks.
As the soft thud of hooves against packed earth echo behind us, I peer up at the sky, feeling positive that we’ll have good weather for our journey. The sunlight has brightened to a pale gold, gleaming against the dewy grass.
By the time we reach the gates, Mylo and my uncle are already waiting with all our gear.
Uncle Kormak wears a thick riding cloak, the hood pushed back to reveal the shadowed hollows of his cheeks.
His uniform was ruined, bloody and torn, and had to be disposed of, so he now wears borrowed clothes from the Hederan court.
His skin is less pallid now, but there’s a rawness behind his eyes that speaks of how recently he was near death.
Still, he takes the horse’s reins from Sir Holden with his usual authority, chin high, his gaze sharp as it flicks toward me.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
I glance up at him, then tilt my head. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? I’m not convinced your lungs won’t collapse halfway to the border.”
Mylo, already on his horse, smirks. “I told him that. As the interim commander,” Mylo says, pausing to emphasize the title, “I take my job to look after all regiment soldiers seriously. But he just grumbled something about being harder to kill than a weed in spring.”
Uncle Kormak’s brows rise in a gesture that lands somewhere between amusement and warning. “That weed still outranks you.”
Sir Holden checks the cinch on his saddle with quiet focus, but when I glance at him, I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
He meets my gaze briefly, and I catch the faintest gleam in his eye before he looks away.
The man’s carved from stone, but even the granite of his demeanor can crack under a well-aimed joke.
I swing up onto Thora’s back with practiced ease, adjusting the fall of my cloak so the wind doesn’t rip at the hem. Mylo takes the lead, urging his horse forward. The guards at the gate give Sir Holden a nod, clearing the way without ceremony, having been informed of our departure ahead of time.
The sound of hooves on stone fills the air as we ride through, a steady rhythm that thrums through my bones. The castle looms behind us, ivy-strung and towering, its high ramparts casting long shadows over the road. I don’t look back, but a part of me remains behind.
A day and a half later, the gates of the Garrison rise into view just as the sun tips behind the hills, casting long, bronze shadows across the earth. Familiar banners ripple in the breeze—a brilliant, gold phoenix, its wings spread wide against a bronze backdrop.
Home.