Chapter 15
Reis watched as Mirielle tried to stay awake.
She had been fighting sleep for over an hour. Her chin dipped once, but she caught herself, blinking indignantly at the lights before her as if they had betrayed her personally. Her fingers tightened on the blanket around her shoulders, but even that grip was weakening.
"You can sleep," he reminded her.
Reis knew she was not fully recovered from her illness, her body was still regaining its usual energy. He was eager to get to a tavern where he could tuck her in bed. He knew her illness returning was unlikely but not impossible.
"I just wanted to see it." Her voice was almost sad.
"We will spend at least a week here. You will see all of it," he promised.
Her brows furrowed in sleepy confusion, too tired to fully comprehend him.
Reis wrapped his arms tightly around her shoulders. His warmth seeped into her cloak, warming her, promising safety. She didn't argue, she just accepted his warmth. He felt her melt into him, her tension loosening by one fraction at a time. Finally her eyes drifted shut and her breathing evened.
"Stubborn thing," he murmured.
*
When they finally passed the guard post that marked the border an hour later, Reis's relief was palpable.
Kaldyr had its fair share of dangers but they were familiar dangers. Dangers that had made him, that he had conquered, and that he worked rigorously to keep in check.
They rode over wet cobblestones still slick with snowmelt.
The stones gleamed gold beneath the lanternlight spilling from nearby buildings.
Thin streams of water ran through the cracks in the road, hurrying toward gutters before the coming night could freeze them solid.
Smoke curled from chimneys into the darkening sky.
They passed several villagers, their heads bowed beneath cloaks against the cold damp night.
Lettie was fast asleep against Kellan’s chest, buried deeply in his cloak as Maisey carried them steadily forward. She had eased throughout the ride. Her exhaustion overruling her fear of Reis and turning it into quiet acceptance.
They rode in measured silence through the streets, the sound of hooves ringing softly over wet stone bathed in firelight spilling from houses settling for the coming night.
At last they reached a large oak building nestled between narrower storefronts. Warm light glowed from its windows, golden against the deep blue of evening. Woodsmoke curled through the midnight air from the chimney, carrying the scent of burning cedar.
A thick wooden sign creaked above the door.
The Lantern’s Rest.
When Reis entered the tavern, conversation seemed to die mid-breath. Tankards lowered slowly to tables.
Snow clung to the heavy fur lining of his cloak. Meltwater dripped from his boots onto the floorboards. He looked carved from the cold outside—grim and exhausted.
But it was what was in his arms that held the room captive. Not the king himself, not the sword on his back or the brutal reputation that followed him.
The woman.
She rested against his chest, utterly unaware of the silence she had caused. Her face was buried in his throat, black hair tangled from travel and sleep.
But it was how he carried her that was so alarming. There was nothing careless in his hold. He carried the woman like she was something precious, one massive arm supporting her gently against his chest while the other shielded her body beneath his cloak.
Even exhausted and half frozen from the road, the king held her with a kind of reverence that felt almost wrong on someone like him.
Because everyone knew what the Blood King was.
They knew the stories whispered over campfires and ale-stained tables. The battles. The slaughter. The terrifying things he could do to a human body. Mothers frightened children into obedience with tales of him. Soldiers spoke his name with respect edged in fear.
Men like that were not supposed to look at anyone softly.
Yet every time the sleeping woman shifted against his chest, his attention snapped back to her as though the rest of the room had ceased existing. His expression changed in those moments too. The brutality in him quieted. Not vanished, but leashed entirely for her sake.
And that only made it all the more terrifying. Because a monster that cared about nobody was predictable. But a monster that loved someone? That was catastrophic.
Then another sandy-haired man stepped through the doorway behind him, carrying a woman of his own. However, unlike the woman in the king's arms, this one was very much awake.
"Put me down, Kellan!" she hissed beneath her breath.
"You fell asleep standing against the horse five minutes ago."
"I did not."
"You started snorin' too."
"I do not snore!"
Someone chuckled and Mirielle stirred. Reis gave him a look that could actually kill.
"Alright, you don't snore," Kellan admitted.
The tavern keeper was the first to recover. He was a gruff man who looked like he had seen entirely too many tavern brawls. His beard was more grey than brown now and his voice sounded like gravel dragged over stone.
"Long day?" he asked in a low voice.
"The longest," Kellan replied.
The tavern keeper grunted. "Rooms then?"
This time Reis replied with a firm nod. His eyes moved briefly over the tavern and the room grew even stiller beneath that cold glance. "Food sent up," he said quietly, "and hot water."
Mirielle stirred faintly at the sound of his voice. Dark lashes fluttered once before she settled deeper against his chest.
Reis softened again. It was subtle, barely there. But the entire room saw it happen. Saw the Blood King's face ease the moment she nestled closer to him. Saw his hold on her become slightly tighter.
By the time Kellan reached the stairs, Lettie's protests had gone quiet, all of her effort reserved for fighting the sleep against the warmth of his chest.
Kellan looked down at her for the briefest moment.
Saw her eyes fluttering closed as her breathing evened against his chest. Something gentle flickered across his face.
Then he adjusted her slightly higher in his arms and followed Reis into the warmth above while the tavern slowly remembered how to breathe again.
*
Mirielle woke to the smell of cedar and wool blankets. The mattress below her was soft and thick against her skin. Soft morning light poured from the windows, illuminating dust that clung to the air.
Then she realized she was alone and something hollowed in her chest.
She sat up and looked around the empty room.
A warm bowl of water steamed in the corner, towels folded neatly beside it.
A heavy light-blue wool dress and cloak were laid out for her on the bed, softer than what she was used to and lined with white rabbit fur.
Gifts still made her nervous, but then she remembered that Reis had done it all. Something in it made her chest ache.
She washed slowly, soothing her aching muscles with the warm washcloth over her skin. She carefully untangled her hair with her fingers.
Her body was growing hale again. The bruises on her ribs had faded, the marks on her neck vanished over the last few weeks. She had managed to regain some of the weight that she had lost due to the care of Reis, Marta and Lettie.
After dressing, she headed for the door and hesitated. The tavern was awake downstairs. She could hear the dull mumble of conversations drifting through the halls. But she was hungry, so she resigned herself to hoping she would find her party below.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, the tavern went quiet.
The gazes of patrons drifted to her. Conversations fizzled into quiet murmurs.
Reis was nowhere to be seen. Neither were Kellan and Lettie.
Faced with the overwhelming pressure of the stares, she almost retreated upstairs, but she was painfully hungry.
She bowed her head, rubbed her thumbs and pushed herself forward to an empty table.
The gruff tavern keeper had disappeared and in his place was a small young woman with chestnut hair and warm cheeks. She approached with a tired smile.
"Breakfast, miss?"
"Yes, please," she said sheepishly.
"What'll it be?"
Mirielle hesitated. "Whatever is easiest."
"That's not an order."
Mirielle rubbed her thumbs again. "Then... bread and... tea?"
"Coming right up." The woman disappeared towards the kitchens.
Several of the patrons were glancing her way curiously.
Mirielle shrank beneath the weight of their stares.
She wasn't sure why people were looking at her.
Maybe they knew who she was and maybe she was unsafe alone down here.
Just when she was considering retreating upstairs, the waitress returned with fresh bread and jam and a cup of steaming tea.
While she was eating, she noticed the man sitting in front of the window across the tavern, arms crossed, feet spread out in front of him.
He had dark curly hair that brushed over his forehead and heavy black lashes that rimmed striking blue eyes.
He was young, caught somewhere between a boy and a man.
There was something dark about him and also something almost familiar.
Not in the features of his face but in the heavy air that seemed to surround him.
And he was staring directly at her.
Not glancing. Not friendly.
Mirielle quickly buried her gaze into her mug. She continued her breakfast in quiet unease, trying to ignore him, and focused on the warmth of the tea. She picked at her food slowly, painfully aware of his gaze boring into her.
Before she finished, the waitress returned. "That'll be two lahr, miss."
Mirielle blanched.
"I... I don't have any money."
The woman blinked.
Mirielle’s stomach dropped.
Of course.
She had lived her entire life surrounded by servants. Meals simply appeared. She had never once needed to think about paying for food herself.
“I can work for it,” she said quickly. “I could clean or—”
A chair scraped across wood and heavy bootsteps approached.