Chapter 25
JINGYI
The next morning, dawn was only a faint blush in the sky when JingYi stepped into the stable yard.
The air was damp from the lingering fog, smelling of hay, leather, and wet earth.
She drew her cloak closer, soft wool shifting against the skirt Aliz and Yrenna had altered—designed specially for riding, with slits for trousers beneath. Practical and proper.
Alexander was already there—a tall, steadfast figure in the grey morning. The sight of him struck her with a sudden, physical clarity. Suddenly, the ground didn’t feel as solid anymore.
Last night, after supper, he’d found her on a bench in one of the window alcoves, a book on her lap.
‘Do you still wish to learn to ride?’ he had asked.
She’d looked up, startled. ‘I . . . yes, I do.’
‘Then, I’ll teach you.’ The words were simple, final. ‘Tomorrow at dawn. Be ready.’
Aliz and Yrenna had worked through the night to alter the riding outfit.
Now, here she was, at the stables. The logical part of her mind, the strategist from last night’s study, understood the sequence.
They were now allies. This riding lesson seemed a logical extension of that alliance—a practical skill for her autonomy.
Yet, beneath that, an older, more bruised instinct persisted.
After the distance, after the unflattering words spoken behind closed doors, her body still braced for his indifference.
This stark, patient follow-through was disarming.
It belonged to the man who caught a rabbit and listened in the study, not the one who had turned to ice at the altar.
It felt . . . dangerous to let hope float. Still, a tentative flame warmed her chest—a need to see if this version of him could be real.
Alexander took her to a stall near the entrance where a grey mare stood, her coat dappled like frost on cobblestones. She lifted her head, ears flicking forward, calm as a creature at rest.
He stroked the mare’s neck. “This is Brisa,” he said, his voice quieter here among the horses. “She’s steady, not easily startled. A good place to start.”
JingYi smiled at the horse. “More chaise than horse, Conrad called her.”
A sound, very much like laughter, came from him. “He’s not wrong.”
“Will I be riding alone?”
“I’ll be at your flank the whole way.” He tilted his head toward the back of the stable where Tedric stood, brushing his horse. “And Tedric will ride behind us. You won’t be without guard.”
JingYi’s gaze shifted to the mare again, whose eyes were dark and placid, reflecting the lantern-flame without judgement. She reached out a hand and let Brisa nuzzle her palm.
“I’m counting on you, then,” she whispered, already fond of the horse.
As if sensing her hesitation, Tedric’s voice carried lightly from behind. “His lordship rides like a shadow, but I can play net should you tumble, Highness. Between us, you’re safer than any queen in her throne.”
She smiled at him. “That is reassuring. Thank you, Tedric.”
Alexander walked Brisa out of her stall. “Come. Best to start. I know you are worried about Daan.”
He led the horse alongside a sturdy mounting block, and reached down to adjust the stirrup, shortening it several notches. Then he offered his hand to help her up onto the block.
“Left foot here,” he said, steadying the left stirrup. She slid her boot in, her right leg already tensing for the awkward lift.
Before she could brace for the painful swing, his hands came to her waist—firm, sure. “Don’t swing. Just step up with your left and let me guide you over.”
She pushed up with her uninjured leg, and he lifted, turning her body with a controlled strength that bypassed the need for her right leg to bear weight or flex sharply. In one smooth motion, she was seated.
“There,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact as he checked the length. “Comfortable?”
She nodded, a flush of gratitude warming her cheeks. He didn’t call attention to her limitations. He’d simply shaped the lesson around her body, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Leather creaked. Brisa shifted under her, warm and alive, nothing at all like the promised chaise.
Heart thudding in her ears, JingYi focused on the mare’s slow breath until other details surfaced.
The smell of horses. Oiled leather. And beneath it all, something distinctly Alpha threading through the damp morning air, making the fine hairs on her arms rise.
Alexander stayed close beside her. His voice was low as he looked up at her. “Hold the reins lightly. Too tight and she’ll fight you. Too loose, and she’ll wander where she pleases.”
He placed one hand at her waist to steady her. His thumb brushed over the hollow just above her hip, and her breath caught. Swiftly, heat flushed across her neck.
She was achingly aware of him this morning.
The substitute suppressant inside the pouch at her waist—mixed from the herbs in the castle garden in place of her precise recipe—was nowhere as potent.
Her control felt thin, her senses raw. A low, persistent warmth coiled deep within her, answering a rhythm her mind was trying desperately to ignore.
“Balance is in trust,” Alexander said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel straight through her bones.
She looked down at him, trying to school her face. His gaze held hers. His nostrils flared, almost imperceptibly—and a cold thread of panic wound through her. Had he caught it? The subtle, sweetening edge of her scent cutting through the herbs?
But he said nothing. Did nothing.
Except that he looked at her a moment too long, eyes darkening, before he turned and mounted Duskwane in one fluid, powerful motion that never failed to make her belly go soft. The stallion tossed its head but responded instantly to his hand. He barely had to pull anything to be obeyed.
“I’ll stay here,” he said as he drew alongside her. “Close enough to reach you, should you need me.”
He clicked his tongue. Brisa stepped forward, and the world opened before them.
Morning mist clung low to the earth as they rode, fallen leaves muffling the sound of hooves along the narrow trail.
Trees rose on either side, their branches webbed with crystalline dew, and the path ahead curled toward the waking village.
Brisa’s gait was smooth and sure beneath her. She sat tall, hands loose on the reins, but her senses remained taut—attuned less to the horse’s motion and more to the presence riding beside her.
Duskwane matched Brisa step for step. Alexander rode as though the beast were part of him, every movement seamless.
And though he said little, she felt him.
The heat of him. The weight of his gaze whenever it drifted to her.
His scent was as present as the cool morning air, and her blood thrummed in response.
“You’re keeping your seat well,” he said finally, voice light beneath the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. “Brisa likes you.”
“I think she’s just patient,” JingYi replied, patting the mare’s neck. “More than I expected for a warhorse.”
“She’s retired. The fiercest ones often make the gentlest companions, once they choose peace.”
His words struck her oddly—like something said in jest but meant more than he let on.
She dared a glance at him. The early light softened his features, caught his lashes, his cheekbones, the furrow between his brows that hadn’t yet eased with the morning.
He was too handsome—impossibly so—not in the delicate way of palace courtiers, but in the carved certainty of someone who belonged entirely to this rugged countryside he moved through.
And she . . . she was too aware of herself. Of her thighs pressing against the saddle. Of Brisa moving beneath her. Of the air between them—thin, almost suffocating.
She adjusted herself, trying to ease the unfamiliar strain in her right thigh. It wasn’t true soreness, but a tense, burning fatigue from gripping too hard, from fighting her own body’s instinct to melt into the motion.
Alexander noticed. “You’re holding your breath and gripping with your knees. It’ll wear you out faster. Try to relax into her stride.”
She forced an exhale, willing her muscles to loosen. “It’s harder than it looks.”
“Everything is at first.”
Another few seconds passed before the words slipped out of her mouth, “And I’m already sore in places I didn’t even know exist.”
Alexander blinked. His gaze caught on hers, and for once, he had no reply. In the space of one breath too many, she realized how she’d sounded.
Her lips parted. A sharp inhale—too sharp, too loud. Why did I say that? What possessed me? She snapped her eyes to the trees above, pretending to watch a pair of birds chasing each other. Fascinating. Truly. This was completely normal behavior. All the while, her cheeks burned.
Behind her, Tedric let out a cough that was absolutely a smothered laugh. She refused to turn around. She would simply become one with the forest.
Alexander cleared his throat. “That’s . . . common,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “You’ll feel it more tomorrow.”
She ducked her head and didn’t trust herself to reply.
They continued riding, not speaking much until they arrived at Daan’s home. He helped her dismount slowly. Her legs were sore from the ride, but the pride from having done it overrode the pain.
The cottage door swung open. Elsa stood with sleep still clinging to her face, yet her eyes shone with a vigour she didn’t have yesterday.
“Brother’s awake,” she reported. “He’s still a bit warm, but Mam said his fever’s broken.”
The relief was a balm on her spine. JingYi smiled at the young girl. “That’s good to hear.”
Inside, the hearth smouldered low. The cottage smelled of boiled herbs and damp cloth, but the sharp edge of sickness had dulled. Daan lay on the mattress propped up by a few pillows. His face was still pale, but the fever’s flush had ebbed, and the sores around his mouth had dried out.
Elswyth stood as JingYi and Alexander entered.
“He drank the tonic,” she said. “Didn’t fight me. Said it tasted awful and then fell back asleep. He woke up again, just now.”
JingYi offered a smile and knelt at the boy’s side. “That’s promising.”
Daan blinked up at her. “Highness.”
Then his gaze flicked—once, then again—toward the doorway where Alexander stood. He didn’t hold the look. His eyes dropped quickly, and he pulled the blanket higher over his chest.
“My lord,” he croaked his greeting.
Alexander nodded. “Good morning, Daan. It’s good to see you awake.”
He moved to crouch near the foot of the bed, lowering his height.
He tried to make his posture easy, but JingYi saw the inherent tension in him—the broad shoulders that couldn’t help but look powerful, the focused stillness that felt more like a predator’s patience than a man’s relaxation.
To a sick boy, it must have seemed like being watched by a wolf.
“Her Highness believes your illness came from exposure to purple limyerite,” Alexander began, his voice deliberately softer.
Daan’s shoulders drew up beneath the blanket, a defensive curl that did not escape her healer’s eye. His gaze stayed fixed on his lap.
“You know it’s dangerous,” Alexander continued. “Most folks in these parts do. And you’re smart. Careful. I remember that.”
“I never meant to get sick,” Daan rasped.
“I know. But even small exposure can do harm. Have you been near the mines? Or carried anything—stone, dust, supplies—that might’ve come from there?”
The boy’s throat worked. “Not the mines. I don’t go in.”
“Have you been near anyone who does?”
Daan hesitated, his eyes flicking once more to Alexander’s face and away, fast as a startled bird.
“I do small errands,” he said at last, the words rushed. “Run water, the miners’ lunches. Sometimes I carry messages. That’s all.”
“You’re sure?”
A jerky nod. “I don’t go near the crystals. I’m not allowed. Honest.”
JingYi’s heart ached. The boy was terrified of the lord in his home. She watched Alexander’s face, saw the moment he recognized it, too—a tightening around his eyes, a subtle withdrawal as he stood up, creating more space.
“That’s enough for now. Thank you, Daan,” he said, his voice gentler than she’d ever heard it. The boy didn’t speak again.
JingYi dipped a cloth into the water basin, wrung it out, and brushed it across his temple. “You’ve done well. Rest now. Your body needs calm.”
Alexander moved to the doorway where Tedric waited. He glanced back at Daan, then at JingYi, his expression unreadable. “I’ll go and speak with Ulrik. Tedric will remain here with you.”
He didn’t wait for her acknowledgment, striding out into the lane where Duskwane was tethered. JingYi watched him go, then turned back to the boy on the cot, her thoughts lingering on Daan’s averted eyes and the careful, wary distance Alexander had just placed between himself and a frightened boy.
“I will perform needle therapy to purge more poison from your body,” she told the boy. “Can you lie down completely for me? Be at ease. You’ll feel a tiny prick, but there shouldn’t be any pain.”
Daan swallowed, nodded, and did as she asked.
She inserted the limyerite needles behind his ears, at his chest, and below his inner knees—drawing fever and toxins from his tissues. By the time she finished, Daan’s breathing had steadied. His body was finally working with her.
Twenty minutes later, she withdrew the needles. Each crystal tip, once clear, now held a faint cloudiness—the physical sign of impurities pulled from his blood. She wiped each point clean and set the used needles aside for proper cleansing later.
“Rest now,” she said, rising, Tedric stepping inside to assist. “You’ll feel exhausted today, but that means the treatment is working. I’ll return tomorrow for another round—if that’s acceptable.”
Elswyth nodded quickly. “Please. Thank you, Highness. You’ve given him a chance.”
JingYi inclined her head, said her farewell, and went outside. The light had brightened, the mist lifting in thin ribbons across the lane. Tedric fell into steps beside her, the medicine chest in his hand.
“I’ve seen you perform the needle therapy twice now, Your Highness. Still looks like magic.”
She nearly chuckled. “It isn’t.”
“No?” he asked, half-smiling. “Then how do you know where to place them? Every point seems . . . intentional.”
“It is. The body speaks, if you learn to read it. Breath, blood, where heat gathers. The pathways shift depending on the illness. At the beginning of treatment, I have to listen to the pulse, to the body, to know where to insert the needles.”
He blinked. “And you learned all that from books?”
“Books.” A pause. “And years of watching people suffer.”
That silenced him.
They walked on.