35. Kaedryn
Kaedryn
By the time I return to the upper floor, the corridor outside Adelina’s suite has changed.
It is quieter now, which is somehow worse.
The servants are gone. My guards stand at both ends of the hall, shoulders squared, hands near their weapons, every one of them wearing the expression of men who know something unforgivable happened under a roof they were meant to secure.
The estate captain has been detained. The guard who entered Adelina’s room is locked below under Merritt’s watch, alive only because I still have questions and because killing him would be too quick to satisfy the part of me that wants blood.
Rowan passes me near the stairwell, face grim.
“Alric is in custody,” he says. “Claims he misunderstood the message.”
“Of course he does.”
“He also claims he did not know the guard intended to enter her room.”
“Do you believe him?”
Rowan does not hesitate. “No.”
“Neither do I.”
Maybe Alric did not give the precise command. Maybe the message from the North was worded deliberately enough to let every guilty man pretend he misunderstood. Maybe the guard chose the worst interpretation because men like that hear that a woman is vulnerable and call curiosity duty.
It does not matter. The result is the same.
Adelina was attacked in a room where I told her to remain.
I look toward her door. It’s closed now. No sound comes from inside.
That silence reaches for the ugliest parts of my memory, and for a moment, I am back in Dravaryn, in my room, knowing something is wrong and having no proof strong enough to break the door. I did not break it then. I let ceremony hold me in place.
This time, I had every guard in the estate ready to tear down the walls within seconds.
It still was not enough.
Soren steps out of the suite with Maelin behind him, and the look on his face stops me before I reach the door. “She is alive,” he says first.
“I know that.” I run a hand through my hair in a desperate attempt to calm my nerves.
“You need to hear it anyway,” Soren says.
I drag in a slow breath through my nose.
Maelin closes the suite door behind her, then turns to me with a healer’s calm that does nothing to hide the strain beneath it. “I gave her a calming draught. Mild. She agreed to it after Sylas explained it would not make her sleep.”
My gaze sharpens. “She let you give her something?”
Maelin nods. “She drank it herself.”
“Did you examine her?” I ask. “Was she injured anywhere else?”
Maelin’s chin lifts. “She refused.”
My temper flares at once. “She was attacked.”
“Yes.”
“She was held down by a guard, and you did not examine her?”
Maelin’s eyes harden. “Do not take that tone with me, Your Highness.”
Soren shifts.
I stare at her. She does not lower her gaze.
Good. One of us should be brave enough to keep from flinching in this corridor.
Maelin continues, each word measured. “She refused. Clearly. Repeatedly. She allowed me to check her pulse, look at her face and arms, and use a shallow healer’s scan to confirm there was no active bleeding near the surface.
She would not permit anything deeper or a full examination, and after what just happened, I will not be another person who ignores her no. ”
My jaw locks. The reasonable part of me knows she is right. The rest of me imagines invisible injuries, hidden damage, old bruises she has already lied about, wing pain she has not named, and a guard’s hands on her while she fought hard enough to drive a knife into him.
“She could be injured,” I argue.
“I know,” Maelin answers.
“Then we need to know.”
Maelin’s expression gives, only slightly. “You want to force her to be examined. Order her to lie there while someone else touches her against her will?”
The words sound vile when spoken aloud.
I look away. The corridor feels too narrow. “I want her safe,” I say.
“That is not always the same thing.”
Soren’s voice is quieter. “Kaedryn.”
I hate that tone. The one everyone uses when they know I’m standing at the edge of becoming the very thing I claim to despise.
“What?” I snap.
He does not react. “We know there is more wrong than the bruises. And the past few days may have exacerbated it.”
My whole body goes rigid. “What does that mean?”
Maelin glances toward the door. “Her movement is guarded in a way the abdominal bruises do not fully explain. She protects her back and shoulders. She avoids deep breaths. When she panicked, her wings flickered and collapsed almost immediately. There may be injury to the wing channels or magical trauma from before the Varrow attack.”
Soren’s face is grim. “That might explain why she said she could not fly.”
The words land with sickening precision.
“You had space.”
“Up.”
“Any direction would have been better than standing there and freezing.”
I feel her on the floor again, knees striking polished wood, the apology pouring out of her like blood.
I close my eyes for half a breath. When I open them, the corridor is still there. Maelin is still watching me. Soren stands rigid.
I have not escaped what I did.
“Can you treat her without examining her?”
“To a point,” Maelin says. “Restoratives. Anti-inflammatory potions. Bruise salve if she uses it herself. Pain easers if she trusts them. Gentle wing-channel stabilizers, but I would prefer not to administer those blind and I will not push healing magic blindly.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because healing magic guides the body toward repair. It does not tell me what is wrong. If I guide it incorrectly, I could force damaged tissue or magic to mend in the wrong way.”
“Then convince her.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder!” My voice rises and I have to take a breath.
Soren’s voice cuts in. “You cannot command trust into existence.”
“I am aware.”
“You are not acting aware.”
Maelin steps closer, lowering her voice.
“She is frightened, Your Highness. Not only of the guard. Of all of this. Of us. Of you. Her body expects care to turn into punishment. If we press too hard, she will give us whatever answer makes the pressure stop, and then we will have learned nothing except how to make her smaller.”
Smaller.
The word is an accusation, and I do not get to argue it.
“She needs treatment,” I say, but the anger has left it now.
“She is receiving treatment. Not enough, perhaps, but more than she would if we pinned her down in the name of healing.” Maelin’s gaze does not waver. “Give her calm. Give her consistency. Let her see that no remains no. Then perhaps, when she believes us, she will let us look.”
Calm.
Consistency.
I nearly laugh.
I have given Adelina neither.
Soren seems to hear the thought anyway. “We continue the restorative potions. We watch for fever, weakness, wing instability, dizziness, pain spikes, and signs of lingering Varrow drain. We get her to the castle, where we have better tools and more trusted staff. And you do not frighten her into compliance because fear already taught her too well.”
I look toward the closed door again.
Inside, Sylas is still with her. He refused to leave until she asked him to, and because she has apparently not asked, he remains.
That should not bother me.
It does.
Not because I resent him comforting her. Not truly. I am grateful she has someone she trusts enough not to recoil from.
But gratitude does not stop the jealousy. It only makes it uglier.
“She needs to know we are leaving,” I say.
Maelin nods. “She knows. Sylas told her.”
“And?”
“She nodded.”
Of course she did.
“She said she was ready,” Maelin adds.
Something in my chest knots.
Ready.
That word, from Adelina, no longer means prepared. It means resigned.
I step back before I can put my fist through the wall.
“Make the carriage ready,” I tell Rowan. “Full escort. No estate guard near her. No one who was on shift last night stays in royal service until I have answers.”
Rowan bows once. “Already begun.”
“Kellan?”
“Outside the suite,” Rowan answers.
“Have him ride near her side of the coach.”
Rowan’s expression shifts slightly. “He will take that seriously.”
“He should.”
Kellan still carries guilt from moving on the ridge when she fled through the moonlight.
“And Alric?” Rowan asks.
“Transport him separately to the castle holding cells. The wounded guard too, if he survives the road.”
“He will.”
“Unfortunate.” I respond flatly.
Rowan’s mouth does not move, but his eyes agree.
I dismiss him, then spend the next hour turning fury into logistics because logistics are safer than emotions.
The estate is stripped of its authority in my presence.
Its guards are disarmed and replaced with my own.
Messages are sent ahead to the castle through Astral Stone, one to my father, one to my mother, one to the commander of castle security.
Captain Alric and the wounded guard are loaded under guard into a supply carriage.
Soren has stopped the bleeding and stabilized the wound, but he has deliberately left the deeper healing for the castle.
They have enough medicine to survive the journey and not enough comfort to forget why they are bound.
Merritt returns from the holding room with blood on one sleeve and no apology in his face.
“He gave us more,” he says.
I turn from the terrace where the pegasi are being harnessed. “What?”
“The guard. Before Rowan took over transport.” Merritt glances toward the estate doors, ensuring no servants stand close enough to hear. “The message from the North used a cipher mark. Not royal, but high court. It said the princess’s untouched status mattered to the legality of transfer.”
My hands stop.
Sylas, who has come down sometime behind him, goes cold beside me. “Untouched status.”
Merritt’s expression says exactly what he thinks of the phrase. “Yes.”
“And this guard took that to mean he should…” Sylas stops.
“See for himself,” Merritt finishes grimly. “Or attempt more and claim he was acting in the South’s interest if caught.”
My vision narrows.
Varek’s plan grows teeth in my mind.