Chapter 21
Cora POV
Garrion helps me out of the bath, his hands steady as he wraps a thick bath sheet around me.
He dries me with a care that feels almost foreign, each touch deliberate, each gesture gentle.
I wonder at his attentiveness, why he chooses this moment to be so tender.
But I dare not ask; to question it might shatter the fragile sweetness that hangs between us.
He guides me toward the bed, pulling back the covers with a quiet efficiency. As I watch him, the truth settles over me, he hasn’t slept. He rode through the night, relentless, just to bring us here, to this place he calls home.
I slip beneath the sheets, their coolness a balm against my overheated skin. Garrion joins me, lowering himself beside me, and immediately pulls me into his arms. His chest rises and falls, and he exhales slowly, the sound heavy with fatigue.
“Rest, Garrion” I murmur, my voice soft but insistent.
His lips curve faintly, teasing even now. “Are you ordering me around, Cora?”
“You rode through the night” I reply, firmer this time, settling into the warmth of him. “You need to rest.” The words are not a suggestion but an order, and I feel his body relax against mine as the weight of exhaustion finally begins to claim him.
Within minutes, Garrion is asleep, his breathing deep and steady beside me. I lie there restless, unable to quiet my thoughts. Carefully, I slip from the bed, moving softly so as not to wake him.
The room is already filled with my belongings.
I open the first chest, and there on top rests my blue gown, neatly folded.
I draw it out and slip it on, the fabric familiar against my skin.
The chill of this place bites sharper than I expected, and I search for a cloak, but find none.
I’ll have to ask a seamstress for one. For now, I reach for Garrion’s cloak.
It smells of him, earth, leather, and something uniquely his, and I wrap it around me before stepping into the hall.
I walk slowly, memorizing each turn, each corridor, determined to find my way back. When I reach the stairs, I pause. The fortress is alive with movement, servants and workers bustling about, busy with their daily chores.
“Are you alright, My Lady?” a voice asks. I turn to see a grey-haired woman, her brown eyes warm, her smile gentle.
“Lord Garrion is asleep,” I explain softly. “So I thought I would look around, if that’s alright?”
“It is your home, My Lady,” she replies with quiet certainty.
“What is your name?” I ask.
“It is Tara, My Lady,” she answers.
The title grates on me; I’ve never been called My Lady so many times in my life, and it feels strange, heavy, almost undeserved.
“Do you mind showing me around?” I ask, hoping to shift the moment.
“Absolutely. Please,” she says, extending her arm with kindness.
Together we walk through the great hall.
Stone walls rise high, adorned with paintings that tell stories I do not yet know.
Long tables are arranged neatly, their orderliness speaking of discipline and tradition.
It is simple, unadorned, yet there is a quiet strength in it. And to my surprise, I like it.
“What do you do here, Tara?” I ask, curious about the rhythm of life in this place.
“I cook, clean, anything his lordship requires,” she replies simply, her tone steady, without complaint.
I nod, studying her face. “Do you like living here?” The question slips out, born of my curiosity. Everyone seems so content, so different from what I’ve known.
“It is the only life I have ever known,” she says, her smile gentle. “But it is honest. Lord Darkmoor treats us as people, not servants. We are free to do as we wish, so long as the needs of the people are met.”
Her words strike me. It is so different from the South, where every person is bound to a role, a duty, a place in the order of things. Here, they care for one another, not just themselves.
Tara leads me into the kitchens, vast and bustling even at this hour. The air is warm, filled with the scent of bread and herbs, and the clatter of pots echoes against the stone.
“How many people live in the fortress?” I ask, marveling at the scale of it.
“There are about a thousand of us here,” she explains. “And the city itself holds another six thousand, not including the soldiers.”
I nod, absorbing the weight of that number. So many lives intertwined here, so many depending on Garrion’s leadership.
“I heard Mika mention that you often run out of candles during winter,” I say after a pause. “I know how to make them. I would like to start with that.”
Tara’s eyes widen slightly. “That is not a job for a lady,” she says, hesitant.
A flicker of annoyance rises in me. “Am I not free to do as I wish?” I counter, my voice sharper than intended.
“Yes, yes, of course, my lady,” she replies quickly, bowing her head. She leads me outside, eager to smooth the moment.
The garden stretches before us, bare and stripped, preparing itself for winter’s grip. The earth lies quiet, waiting for spring’s renewal. I pull Garrion’s cloak tighter around me, the chill biting at my skin, and wonder what role I will carve for myself in this place.
“Is there a seamstress here? I’ll need proper winter clothing. It’s colder here than in the South,” I ask.
“Yes,” Tara replies with a spark of pride. “Bira is the finest in all of Nordvaar.”
“Can you take me to her?” I ask.
“Now, my lady?” she checks, tilting her head.
“If that’s alright. I don’t want to pull you away from your duties,” I assure her.
She nods, and I fall into step behind her. Already I’m thinking of what I’ll need, new boots, certainly. These thin slippers will never hold warmth against the bite of northern snow.
We walk through the streets, and I feel the weight of eyes upon me. People pause in their work, wide-eyed, curious. Some bow their heads respectfully, others call out softly, “My Lady.” The words catch me off guard. They don’t even know me, yet they accept me as one of their own.
The air is crisp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the faint clang of a blacksmith’s hammer.
Children dart between doorways, laughter echoing, while women carry baskets of bread and men haul timber.
Life here feels vibrant, communal, and I cannot help but marvel at how different it is from the South.
We arrive at a shop where bolts of fabric are displayed in neat rows, furs, leathers, and heavy wools in muted shades suited for the North. Tara gestures me inside.
“This way,” she says, calling out, “Bira?”
A round woman with dark hair braided neatly around her head ducks out from behind a corner. Her eyes sweep over me, widening in surprise. “Lady Darkmoor? What are you doing here?” she asks, bowing quickly.
“I need winter garments,” I explain, steadying my tone. “Tara said you were the best.”
“My lady, I would have come to you,” she insists. “You needn’t have troubled yourself by coming here.”
“Well, I’m here now,” I reply lightly, unwilling to let her fuss over it.
“Yes, of course,” she says, bustling to the shelves. She begins pulling out furs and leathers in varying shades, laying them across the counter for me to see.
“I’ll need a winter cloak, boots, gloves, dresses, and riding leathers,” I list carefully, thinking of the cold that already bites at me. “Perhaps three of each? Or is that too much work?” My voice softens, not wanting to overwhelm her.
“No, my lady,” Bira assures me. “I have cloaks and gloves already made for sale. But for the rest, I will need to measure you.”
We spend hours sorting through fabrics, the time slipping away unnoticed.
I choose simple colors and designs, practical, understated.
Lavish gowns have never suited me, much to Bira’s surprise.
She studies me as though she cannot quite reconcile the title of Lady Darkmoor with my preference for plainness.
Tara waits patiently nearby, her hands folded neatly in her lap, content to let me take my time.
“I will have everything delivered to you as soon as it is ready, my lady,” Bira says at last, bowing her head.
“Thank you for your help,” I reply, meaning it.
Tara rises and leads me back toward the fortress.
The streets hum with life, but my thoughts are elsewhere.
As we approach the gates, my steps falter.
Garrion is there, standing tall, his presence impossible to ignore.
His lips are pressed into a firm line, and though the mask conceals his expression, I feel the weight of his gaze.
Something in me twists, I know, without words, that I am in trouble.
Garrion POV
I wake to emptiness. The bed is cold beside me, Cora is gone. My chest tightens as I sit up, scanning the room. No trace of her. I rise quickly, pulling on my clothes with practiced haste. My cloak is missing. Did she take it?
The thought gnaws at me as I stride into the corridor, my boots echoing against the stone. Each step is heavier than the last, urgency clawing at me. I search the halls, my eyes sharp, my mind restless.
In the dining hall, I spot Mika and Soma. They straighten as I approach, sensing the storm in me.
“Have you seen Cora?” My voice is clipped, sharper than I intend. “I woke, and she was gone.”
They exchange uneasy glances, then shake their heads.
A cold panic grips me. Where has she gone? Did she slip away from me, flee this place, flee me? The thought burns, twisting into something darker, fear, anger, desperation.
I turn from them, my jaw tight, my mask concealing what I cannot. But inside, the question echoes louder than any command I’ve ever given: Did she run away?
One of the men approaches me, bowing his head. “We saw Lady Darkmoor walking the halls with Tara, my lord. She was showing her around. Last we saw, they were heading toward the kitchens.”
I nod curtly, a flicker of relief tempered by unease, and stride in that direction.
The moment I step into the kitchens, the room falls silent. Pots still, hands pause, and voices drop to whispers. “My lord,” several murmur, bowing.
“Have you seen my wife?” My voice cuts through the hush, sharp and demanding.
A young girl steps forward, her eyes wide. “I believe Tara took her toward the gardens, my lord.”
I waste no time, pushing past them, desperate to find her. But the gardens are empty. My pulse quickens, frustration gnawing at me.
Mika finds me there, his tone calm, almost careless. “Relax, Garrion. She can’t have gone far.”
I grunt, the sound low and edged with impatience.
Then Soma approaches “I’ve asked around. She was seen with Tara… heading into the city.”
The words strike like a blade. “What?” I snap, the force of it echoing off the stone.
Mika bristles, his own temper flaring. “Seriously, Garrion, you need to relax.”
But I cannot. The thought of her wandering the city without me, exposed, vulnerable, it coils inside me, a storm I cannot quiet.
I stride toward the fortress gate, Mika trailing quietly at my heels, his presence steady but unspoken. My pulse is a storm in my chest, each step heavier with dread.
Then I see her. Cora walks beside Tara, their heads bent in deep conversation. She is wrapped in my cloak, the dark fabric draped around her shoulders. The sight strikes me, something inside loosens, a knot I hadn’t realized was strangling me. Relief washes through me, sharp and sudden.
I stop, rooted to the spot, and watch her. For a moment, I allow myself the quiet of simply seeing her safe.
As if sensing me, she lifts her gaze. Her eyes meet mine, and concern flickers across her face. That look unsettles me more than her absence, it tells me she knows. She knows I am not merely watching, but waiting, and that I am far from calm.