The Opened Dispatch
? Ivy ?
The fortress doesn’t change for the capital in any way the court would notice, but it tightens around us.
Before noon, a kitchen clerk finds the seal on the eastern dispatch cabinet lifted and pressed back while the wax was warm. Nothing obvious is missing, which means whoever opened it knew enough to copy rather than steal.
Guards stand where they used to pass. Servants lower their voices before turning corners. Doors that normally sit open are closed, and Dane’s men appear in hallways with the casual timing of wolves who want everyone to think they wandered there by accident.
I notice because I was raised in a house where danger rarely raised its voice.
After breakfast, Nora gives me one hour with the western-pass copies and makes it clear she regrets the generosity already.
“One hour,” she says, setting the papers on the table in the Luna suite. “Not two. Not one and a half because you forgot time exists. One.”
“I understand numbers.”
“You understand how to use them as an excuse.”
“I’m reviewing medicine movement.”
“You’re avoiding feelings.”
I look down at the first page. “Can’t both be useful?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
She leaves tonic, water, and an oat cake beside the papers. I distrust the oat cake because Nora put it there, but I eat half before I touch the first report.
The western-pass relief convoy cleared the second toll point before dawn.
It’ll help, though not quickly enough to solve Eastmere’s shortages by itself.
The records still show medicine delayed, patrol schedules shifted, and too many route reports passing through hands that should never have touched them.
Some of the older Brooks freight copies use the household shorthand Wade preferred, colors and trunks and rooms standing in for things no one was meant to say plainly.
I’ve seen the same kind of language on pantry lists and notes left for Marissa, but I learned long ago that asking why a delivery needed a second name only earned me a colder answer.
I mark three entries that don’t match the toll times and set them aside for Holt.
A knock sounds at the suite door.
“Come in.”
The guard opens it after I give permission, but remains at the threshold.
“Luna, Healer Nora requested you walk after your hour.”
I glance at the papers. I’m halfway through the third page.
“She sent you to collect me?”
“She said if I returned without you, I’d spend the afternoon learning how to scrub boiled linen properly.”
I stand at once. “A terrible fate.”
“Yes, Luna.”
The hall outside the suite is cold enough to wake me fully.
My guard walks several paces behind me, close enough to reach me without making me feel herded.
I tell myself I’m only walking because Nora ordered it, but by the time we reach the glassed winter corridor overlooking the lower courtyard, I know I came here because Roman is below.
He stands near the outer gate with Dane and a court officer, speaking to two riders while the wind catches his dark hair and presses his coat close to his shoulders. Even from here, I can see the pale scar along his face.
The guard near me shifts as another soldier approaches with a dispatch folder.
“Message from Holt,” the second guard says quietly.
They step a few paces away, still within sight and close enough to reach me.
That’s how Jace finds me.
His reflection appears in the glass beside mine before I hear him. Court polish. Clean leather. A faint trace of winter perfume from whoever prepared his cloak.
“Lady Ivy.”
I freeze before my mind gives permission.
I don’t turn right away. Outside, Roman says something to Dane, and Dane nods as the riders move toward the gate.
“Prince Jace,” I say.
“I hoped we might speak.”
“Then speak.”
The smile in the glass thins.
When I turn toward him, he looks polished even in Northern light. Dark blue coat. Silver clasp. Golden hair arranged as if the wind would apologize for touching it. His face carries concern with the same skill Sloane uses sweetness.
“I wanted to apologize,” he says.
“For what?”
A flicker crosses his face and disappears. “For the pain caused by the ceremony.”
He names the pain as if the ceremony caused it on its own, never what he did to me.
I wait for more, but he steps closer instead, still leaving enough space between us that anyone watching could call it respectful.
“The council was pressing. My father had expectations. Sloane complicated things.”
“Sloane’s presence.”
“I never wanted you hurt.”
I should want those words to mean something. Proof that he finally sees the altar the way I do. Instead, they feel like a cup held out with nothing inside it.
“You did hurt me,” I say.
His jaw tightens. “I know.”
“No.” My voice stays low. “I don’t think you do.”
Outside, a horse stamps in the yard.
Jace’s gaze sharpens. “I’ve thought about that night often.”
“Have you thought about it as my humiliation or yours?”
For one second, his mask falters. Then it returns.
“I deserved that,” he says, offering the words like a polished coin and expecting gratitude.
I glance down the corridor. The guards are still speaking in low voices, but one has angled her body toward us.
Jace follows my glance. “I’m not here to trouble you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Concern.”
He lowers his voice. “Roman keeps you close, surrounds you with his people, and calls it safety. You should at least ask what that costs.”
“Has he pressured you?” Jace asks. “To defend the vow? To act as though this arrangement is easier than it is?”
Every answer he offers me leads to the same conclusion: Roman is dangerous, and I can’t know my own mind.
“You aren’t asking whether I’m safe,” I say.
His expression shifts. “Of course I am.”
“No. You’re looking for a reason to call him unsafe.”
Jace’s eyes cool, though his mouth remains gentle. “I see he has taught you suspicion.”
A laugh almost leaves me, but there’s nothing funny in it.
“No,” I say. “You did.”
For a heartbeat, I see something beneath the prince’s polish. It isn’t remorse or love. It’s pride wounded badly enough to show. He steps closer.
A folded scrap protrudes from his glove. I recognize Holt’s narrow column marks before Jace closes his hand. The copy came from the eastern dispatch cabinet.
My guard turns fully toward us, but Jace reaches first. His fingers close around my wrist just above the sleeve hiding the vow mark. The touch is careful enough that anyone watching from a distance might mistake it for concern.
The mark burns, sharp and cold.
Frosted glass. Gray sky. Jace’s hand. Roman below in the yard.
The old rules lock around my spine before I can stop them. Don’t make a scene. Don’t embarrass the family. Don’t pull away too quickly.
Jace’s thumb shifts near the mark.
“Remove your hand.”
Roman’s voice is quiet. Jace lets go slowly, far too slowly, before turning with a faint smile already in place.
“Uncle.”
Roman stands at the corridor entrance with Dane behind him and both guards suddenly alert. He doesn’t look at Jace first. He looks at me.
The question is there without being spoken.
Where do you want to stand?
My wrist burns. My heart pounds.
I step away from Jace, not behind Roman, but toward the window where there’s space on every side.
Roman sees it. Only then does he look at Jace.
“I was speaking with Lady Ivy,” Jace says.
“No,” Roman replies. “You were touching my wife after she didn’t invite your hand.”
“Concern can look different in the North, I suppose.”
“Concern asks.”
The words land harder than a shout.
Jace glances at me. “I meant no harm.”
The old answer rises before I can stop it. It’s fine. No harm done. I swallow it.
Roman reaches the corridor and stops. He leaves Jace where I can answer him, but his attention goes to the copied paper in Jace’s hand.
“With all the people you could touch,” I say, “you chose the wrist you publicly refused.”
Jace’s eyes sharpen. “Ivy.”
“You refused me in front of everyone. You don’t get to touch me now.”
Roman goes motionless beside the corridor entrance. The mark burns again, but warmth moves beneath the cold this time. Jace’s polish thins. “You’ve changed.”
“Yes.”
His gaze flicks toward Roman, then returns to me. “You sound like him now.”
“And you sound like someone who has been reading records that were never offered to you.” I look at his glove. “Give it back.”
Behind him, the disturbed cabinet seal is still waiting for Holt. Jace’s apology hasn’t made the fortress safer; it has only shown me what he came looking for.