Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
Needing to feel like myself again, I go back to where peace first found me. It’s been so long since I’ve had dirt under my nails.
Soria may scold me later—insisting on helping me scrub them clean—but for now, she seems content to work beside me, hands just as stained.
Nestled deep within the mountain, the High Hold offers few chances for this kind of labor. The soil here feels precious. Alive.
“You haven’t seen the greenhouses at the Hold yet, have you?” Soria asks. She knows my patterns better than most, but even to her, the past weeks must be a blur.
I shake my head, and she smiles faintly.
“Many have been repurposed,” she says. “I’m told the fruit gardens were once a place for parties and spectacle. Now they serve something greater.”
She works the earth in front of her, loosening the freshly cleared bed with practiced ease.
“There are still pocketed communities, deep in the hills,” she murmurs.
“Long-standing settlements, sheltered like this valley. The ones near the borders bore the worst after the Fade. But the hidden ones… they endured. They support us all now. That’s why a butcher earns more respect these days than some of the so-called nobles. ”
I brush the soil from my palms and reach for the jar of seeds we brought with us.
The gardens are beautifully kept. We’d eaten breakfast among the floral beds near the manor, but now we kneel behind the staff quarters, in the vegetable plots. It’s an odd indulgence they’ve granted me—the simple ritual of placing seeds in the ground. But I don’t take it lightly.
I breathe in as I open the jar, already imagining the scent of parsnip soup—sweet, nutty, warm.
A memory from my youth, made richer by hope than spice.
Perhaps the mountain frost will make them even sweeter than anything I managed in the village.
That first bite always lit something in me.
A quiet spark. A whisper of spring, still tucked beneath winter’s weight.
“The women you see at court,” Soria says, drawing me gently back, “most are there for one of two reasons. Either their families held power long before the Fade—political, martial, or otherwise—or they come from the households that kept Caerhollan alive.”
She creates a small opening in the soil and holds it steady for me. I lean in and begin to place the seeds.
“They tend the land,” she says, softer now. “And in return, their sons and daughters have a place at court.”
We move in tandem, smoothing soil over the seeded bed.
I press a palm to the earth, pausing to acknowledge its quiet promise—a ritual I’ve carried with me in every place I’ve ever called home.
But as I move to lift my hand, Soria already bundling the small tools to be cleaned, something shifts beneath me.
A subtle tremor—almost imperceptible. I still.
I expect a burrowing creature, a vole perhaps, stirred by our presence. But then I gasp.
Green pierces through the soil—fresh sprouts unfurling where only moments ago we’d laid the seeds.
Soria returns to my side just in time to witness it. Her eyes widen, not with fear, but with a kind of hushed reverence. “I almost suspected it might,” she says, voice low. “But I didn’t dare speak it aloud. I should have known, with how magic flows through you already.”
She kneels swiftly, gathering the tender shoots. Roots dangle from her fingers—full, thriving, weeks too soon. “We won’t waste what’s been given,” she murmurs, “but no one else can know.”
Carefully, she ensures each sprout is removed, scattering a few fresh seeds in their place before covering them once more.
“The rabbits will enjoy these,” she says, tucking the gathered greens into her apron. “They, and we, will be the only ones to witness what just happened.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
She protects more than just me—she honors the gift. To discard the sprouts would’ve torn something in me. Something sacred.
Back inside the manor, we wash up. I leave the day dress folded over the edge of a chair and rinse my hands in the cool water of the basin before slipping into something soft and clean—linen that doesn’t carry the earth’s weight on its hem.
Nerves prickle as I know the courier ought to arrive soon. I worry how I will occupy the time until then, so I make my way to the parlor to see if Ace is waiting, ready to entertain.
I barely have a moment to settle on the settee when I hear the rustle of movement at the front of the home.
I venture down the hall cautiously and find Vale addressing a figure, leading them toward the formal study.
He turns and sees me there—tentative warmth spreads across his face, stirred by the mix of the arrival and my presence.
A slight but welcoming smile forms as he offers me his hand.
He closes the door behind us. Just myself, my king, and the guest we’ve been waiting for.
Vale moves behind the desk, and a man in simple clothes turns toward me.
“Your Majesties,” he says with a bow. Simple clothes, yes—and an unremarkable face too—but one I would never forget, even without the scar currently hidden under a dusty neckerchief.
“Daerin!” I start to move to hug him. Though we’ve never interacted much, I feel a closeness from Vale’s trust in him. But the man turns rigid. He doesn’t back away, but the signal is clear. I temper my enthusiasm.
I take my seat, remaining on the very edge. Vale plants his palms on the desk, towering over it, while Daerin stands across from us both, satchel at his side.
“The wine’s been sent directly to the kitchen, m’lord,” Daerin says, his eyes flicking to the door.
“Good,” Vale’s voice booms, then softens to a hush. “I’m not surprised Odrin sent you. If the matter is too sensitive for scroll, and too urgent to wait, you must have found something.”
“Indeed.” He reaches for the satchel, pausing only a moment to receive Vale’s prompting nod. “They searched the merchant’s belongings—everything on him, the room where he was staying—and turned up nothing amiss. But—”
He produces a piece of parchment, tightly folded, its edges worn soft from handling. A faint stain of broken wax, long since fractured, marks it.
“I’ve learned to check where others don’t bother—under bench slats, behind buckle linings… once found a ledger tucked in the stuffing of a sleeping mat. You never know who thinks they’re clever.”
“And this merchant…” I struggle to reference the now-dead man who attacked me. “Was he a clever one?”
Daerin loops a thumb behind the strap of the satchel, casually leaning back.
“No, ma’am, he was not. I mean—m’lady. Erm—Your Majesty.”
He harnesses a natural swagger to bury his discomfort, his voice taking on increasing formality.
“Guards searched, but they didn’t really look. It wasn’t even hidden—not really. Just buried in a stack of ledgers, invoices, and orders.”
“So it hid the way you do, my old friend—in plain sight,” Vale adds. “We do so tend to overlook the things right in front of us.”
Vale reaches for the letter, inspecting the words before reading them aloud and turning it toward me to see.
The wedding proceeds as planned.
The bride takes the aisle alone.
She is intended to ascend.
Then, below the instructions—as if it were the signature itself where no name stands—the words rise darkly from the page:
Long live the Ironborne Flame.
I shiver at the sign-off.
Vale’s white-knuckled fist tightens and flexes above the desk.
“Odrin already told me the merchant was here bringing in goods for the celebration, as were many who travel the roads between settlements. But this…”
“He was sent,” Daerin finishes the thought, leaving me to ask the question at the forefront of all our minds.
“By who? Who would want me dead?”
Silence hangs in the air until Daerin moves again.
“There was this too.”
Reaching into his shirt pocket this time, he sets a wax seal on the desk.
Chipped and broken, the mark is hard to make out, but it bears the same dark crimson that marred the letter with subtle flecks of ochre cast throughout it.
I lean in to see it more closely. Despite the damage, the symbols are just visible:
A male symbol. The alchemical sign for iron. Set inside a triangle—fire.
The mark of the Ironborne Flame.