Chapter 4
The Race
The rest of the day belongs to work. I scrub floors until my arms ache, carry baskets until my hands burn, and run messages for servants who do not bother to look at me.
Upstairs, Yvara laughs with seamstresses.
Fabric rustles. Perfume drifts down the corridors.
Every sound reminds me of what I am not meant to have.
By late afternoon, I am sent to the stables with a list of supplies. The moment I step outside, the air feels different, cleaner against my skin. I draw my cloak tighter and walk faster, boots crunching over gravel, the manor shrinking behind me with every step.
Torsin is already there, leaning against the fence, tossing an apple between his hands. “You look like hell,” he says cheerfully. He cannot see my face beneath the veil, but he knows my voice, my posture, the way my shoulders sit when the house has taken too much.
“I look the same as always,” I say.
He grins. “Exactly.”
I help him saddle the horses, the familiar motions calming me in a way nothing else does. When we ride, the manor disappears entirely, replaced by fields and wind and the even rhythm of hooves.
“So,” he says, once we are far enough that no one can overhear, “is it true?”
“That I’m leaving?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow,” I say.
He whistles softly. “Then we’d better drink tonight.”
I glance sideways at him. “I won’t be allowed out.”
He laughs. “There’s always a way. Notes travel faster than orders in this place.”
I shake my head, but I feel something loosen in my chest anyway. “We’ll see,” I say.
He nudges his horse closer to mine. “You never lose at cards,” he adds. “I can’t let you leave without giving you one last chance to take my coin.”
I smirk beneath the veil. “Suit yourself,” I say. “I won’t lose, no matter how much ale you give me.” The road curves ahead of us, open and quiet. For the first time all day, the future does not feel entirely closed.
Torsin grins at me and leans forward in his saddle. “Race you to the river bend.” He does not wait for my answer.
I urge my mare forward, the wind tugging at my cloak as the ground rushes beneath us. Hooves strike hard and fast, breath burning in my chest as we tear across the field. I pull ahead just before the bend, reining in hard and laughing as dirt sprays beneath my horse’s hooves.
Torsin reins in beside me, swearing under his breath. “You cheat.”
“I win,” I say.
He is still smiling when his attention shifts, his eyes lifting toward the cliffs beyond the fields. “Do you see that?” Torsin asks.
I follow his line of sight. Dark ships rest at the river’s mouth, their hulls low and heavy, banners snapping faintly in the wind.
“Vaelor ships,” he says. “They’ve arrived early. Goods for the Baron’s ball. Wine. Silks. Spices.”
“They always come when nobles gather,” he adds. “Trade first. Curiosity second.”
I watch the ships a moment longer. Lanterns already glow along the decks. “I won’t be there,” I say.
Torsin shrugs. “Still. Means something interesting is in town.” We ride back as the light fades, the manor looming ahead, tall and unwelcoming.
By the time we return, the air feels thick. I have just finished tending my horse when Mysin’s voice cuts across the yard. “You,” he snaps. “Bring me whiskey.”
I lower my head and obey. The bottle is already open in his chambers. Smoke hangs low in the room, the scent of it clinging to the walls. Mysin lounges in a chair with his boots on the table, a cigar smoldering between his fingers.
I pour carefully, steadying the glass as I set it down.
He shifts. The cigar presses against my wrist, pain flaring instantly. I gasp and jerk back, but he only laughs.
“Oh,” Mysin says mildly. “Sorry. Didn’t see a place to put the ash.”
Power comes before I can think. It rises like it always does, waiting just beneath my skin.
I could stop him. I could shatter the glass in his hand, send him choking to the floor, make him remember this moment for the rest of his life.
But power seen is power hunted. If I break him here, the house will break me louder. So I let it quiet.
He presses it again, just long enough to make sure the lesson sinks in. I do not cry out. “Careful,” he adds, watching my face. “You’ll need both hands where you’re going.”
I bow my head, my wrist already throbbing beneath my sleeve. “Yes, my lord.”
He waves me away.
Later, alone in my quarters, I unwrap the cloth and stare at the mark forming on my skin. Angry and impossible to hide. I bind it again, slower this time. Tomorrow, I will leave this house.
Tonight, the veil comes off.