Chapter 5 The Night Without a Veil
The Night Without a Veil
Night comes quietly in Veynar as the manor fades into its familiar hush.
When I am certain the halls have emptied, I change quickly into my usual tavern outfit: trousers borrowed from the laundry room, a loose shirt, and boots that do not fit quite right.
I tuck my veil into my pocket, feeling lighter the moment it leaves my face.
The glamour comes easily. A small, careful thing. I draw it over my eyes and hair until the gold dims to brown, ordinary and unremarkable. Then I unwind the cloth from my wrist and leave it behind. Ale and gambling require both hands.
When I climb out the narrow window and drop to the ground below, I smear dirt across my cheeks and jaw, dulling what little softness remains. I look like no one worth noticing.
Lanterns glow along the street. Telly’s is the best tavern in Veynar. The ale is quality, the bets are high and the music loud. Tonight it spills from the tavern door in uneven waves, laughter riding the sound. I hesitate only a moment before stepping inside.
Freedom smells like ale and sweat and smoke.
Torsin spots me first, already flushed and grinning, his arm slung around Emva’s shoulders. She works the kitchens, and despite being the biggest gossip I know, she has kept my secrets safe since childhood. She raises her mug in greeting, eyes bright.
“You made it,” she says.
“I said I would.”
“I need every bit of gossip on the Rathmors.”
I don’t have any, but it doesn’t matter. She’s always the one in the know, the source of the juiciest news. It’s one of the best things about being her friend.
“They’re quite enigmatic, I hear,” Emva says, leaning closer across the table as if the whole tavern might be listening. Her voice drops a little. “Apparently King Sevrin likes his women to fuck other men in front of him.”
I smirk, wondering if Yvara would do such a thing. Probably.
Torsin snorts into his ale. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” he says. “Half the stories about that man sound like something dragged out of a brothel.”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Suni down the road says our King has a sex dungeon and conducts trade meetings down there while the lords enjoy his various paramours.”
“Disgusting.” I pour myself more ale.
“Delicious,” Torsin corrects.
“And apparently,” Emva says, taking another gulp of ale, “Prince Colsar is impossibly cruel and dismisses women if they moan too loud.”
“But Gira from the stables says he’s such a good fuck that her mistress used to bring a muzzle to his chambers just to make sure she stayed quiet enough to remain welcome.”
“There is no cock in all of Veynar that could make me wear a muzzle,” I say dryly.
“Bold words from a veil-wearer,” Torsin says.
I stick my tongue out at him.
Torsin snorts. “You know, one day we should try having a respectable conversation.”
Emva lifts her mug. “Why ruin a good tradition?”
She reaches for the deck of cards at the center of the table and starts shuffling. “The other day I heard Yvara in the gardens, prancing around with her friends, telling them all how deformed you must be under that veil.”
Torsin throws his head back and howls with laughter. “God, I hate the rich. But I do wish I could be there when they take that veil off at your wedding, Asha.”
Emva grins, dealing the cards between the three of us. “You should do it in the most dramatic way possible. Pull it off and then unglamour yourself for everyone to see. Golden eyes. Golden hair.”
She waves her hands theatrically. “Then twirl and shout, ‘Who’s the whore’s daughter now, fuckers?’”
I can’t help laughing at the thought. Everyone knows what golden eyes mean: legitimate birth, royal bloodline, no exceptions. And mine are brighter than the sun.
Perhaps I’ll burn the whole court with them. Yvara first.
We play cards. We drink. We dance. Someone pulls me into the spinning crowd and I let myself go with it, my laughter loud and careless, my body light in a way it never is at home. Emva sings badly. Torsin stomps his feet to the rhythm. I forget to watch my posture. I forget to keep my head bowed.
For a few precious hours, I am not veiled. Eventually I make my way to the bar for another ale and find my pockets empty. I wonder if I can charm the barkeep when a voice beside me says, “It’s on me.”
I turn, ready with my thanks, and stop short.
He is handsome, far handsomer than the men I usually see in Veynar.
He is watching me with open curiosity. Dark hair pulled back, loose strands brushing his collar.
Broad shoulders beneath a sea-worn coat, salt and smoke clinging to him like a second skin.
His accent is wrong for here, edged with something coastal and rolling.
His eyes travel over me, from the borrowed trousers to the loose shirt hanging wrong on my frame. One brow lifts. “You’re no lad,” he says.
My face heats instantly. “I—thank you for the ale,” I manage. “If you give me your address, I can bring coin tomorrow.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “You can pay me with a dance.”
Perhaps I should refuse, but I don’t. The tavern floor is packed, the music quick and reckless, boots and skirts tangling as we move.
He dances easily, guiding without crowding, close enough to feel but never pressing.
We spin and laugh until my lungs ache and sweat clings at my neck, until the noise becomes something distant and harmless.
When the song ends, I’m breathless and unsteady, and he looks entirely pleased.
“I’m not ready to say goodbye,” he says.
“I’m too tired for another dance,” I admit, brushing damp hair from my face. The weight of sword practice this morning, the day’s chores, and the afternoon’s beating have begun to wear on me.
“Then what do you like to do?”
I laugh. “Do you gamble?”
He studies me for a moment, then shakes his head. “It’s no fun gambling with someone who has no money.” He pauses, wiggling his eyebrows. “Unless you plan to pay another way.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Fine. One game. If I win, I get everything in your purse.”
“And if I win?”
“You get a kiss.”
His eyes brighten. “Bold.”
“I don’t lose.”
I lose, and badly. Naturally, I accuse him of cheating. He denies it with dramatic offense, hand to his chest, swearing on honor I suspect he rarely uses. We’re still grinning when we finally spill out into the night, the tavern door swinging shut behind us.
The street has gone quieter, lanterns burning low, stars bright above the rooftops. He takes my hand, warm and calloused, and lifts it toward his mouth. “I’m a gentleman,” he says lightly. “This can count.”
His attention drops to the burn on my hand. The humor leaves him. “Who did this?”
“I’m clumsy,” I say too fast.
He doesn’t argue, but the moment stretches, heavy with things unsaid.
“And,” I add, quieter, “that doesn’t have to count.”
Torsin’s voice carries from the tavern door, laughter riding the music.
He glances past me, then back again. “Not here,” he says quietly.
“Too many people.” His hand comes to my elbow, guiding rather than pulling.
We step away from the street and into the space between buildings, where the noise dulls and the air feels closer.
The walls rise on either side, the sounds of the tavern fading until there is only the faint scrape of boots somewhere beyond us.
I pull him toward me. The kiss is slow, unhurried, his mouth warm and tasting faintly of ale and smoke. It leaves me dizzy in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
My cheeks warm. I hope he didn’t realize this was my first kiss. I stop, and so does he.
He stares at me intently, and for a moment I wonder if he can see through the glamour. “You shouldn’t be hidden,” he says softly.
“I don’t belong anywhere,” I reply.
He steps closer, close enough that I feel the warmth of him. One hand lifts and braces beside me, blocking the view from the street. The other rises slowly, giving me time to move away if I want to.
I don’t.
His fingers brush my jaw, then my throat, finding the pulse I can’t quiet. My breath catches, traitorous and embarrassing.
“If I tell you to stop,” I whisper, “you will?”
“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. His hand moves lower, unhurried, and I press my shoulder back as someone passes nearby, close enough that voices drift toward us before fading again. I bite down on a sound, my heart racing too fast to hide.
I look up at him, nodding once.
His eyes hold mine as his hand slides down from my throat, tracing my collarbone before dipping lower, over the fabric of my shirt. The touch is light but firm. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, voice low, vibrating in the tight space between us.
“I will,” I reply, throat tight.
His fingers pause at my shirt’s hem, giving me a chance to pull away. I don’t. My breath is quick, hands clenched at my sides as I wait. He lifts the fabric just enough, his rough palm grazing my bare stomach. A shiver cuts through me.
His hand stays braced on the wall, shielding us. His touch dips lower, skimming my trousers’ waist. My heart races wildly, and he glances at me, checking. I give a small nod. “Relax,” he says, voice gruff but soft. “I’ve got you.”
His fingers slide beneath the waistband, slow, finding the slick warmth between my thighs. I gasp, head tipping back against the rough brick. His touch grows bolder, circling with a patience that shakes my knees. I grip the brick to stay standing.
“I like this,” I whisper, voice breaking.
“I can tell,” he says, lips near my ear, breath warm. “I could sail a fleet of ships with what you’re giving me.”
I laugh once before the sound breaks into a moan.
He laughs softly. “If I had known a ship joke would make you wetter, I would’ve said it sooner.”
I am too far gone to give a clever response. “It’s…too much,” I stammer, though I don’t mean stop. I don’t know what I mean. Something’s building, heavy and unknown, and I can’t control it. My hips move, pressing into his hand.
“Let go,” he says, voice rougher. His fingers match the frantic pace of my racing heart. A tension builds inside me until I’m trembling, breath coming in short gasps. “I’ve got you,” he says again, and then it breaks.
A raw cry catches in my throat; I bite my lip shut.
My body arches, a warm surge throbbing through me, stealing everything.
His hand slows, easing me down as I shake, legs weak.
I slump forward, forehead on his shoulder, gasping.
He pulls his hand free, fixing my clothes with careful hands, slower than necessary, as if giving me time to recover.
“What… what was that?” I ask, voice shaky.
His brow lifts slightly, realization dawning. “Your first time feeling that?”
I nod, barely. He brushes a loose strand of hair from my face. “There’s more, if you want it.”
I do want it. But tomorrow comes the purity check, and after that the marriage contract with Prince Colsar. Nothing can go wrong.
The Prince sounds despicable, but he is my way out of the Baron’s house. And when the contract is sealed, I will be a Princess. Yvara and Mysin will bow whether they wish to or not. The thought sends a wicked thrill down my spine.
His voice interrupts my thoughts. “Do you have a name?”
“Yes.” I don’t give it, and he doesn’t press. That, more than anything, I don’t know what to do with. Most men push. He simply watches me for a moment longer, as if weighing something privately, then lets out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh.
“All right,” he says. “Then I’ll tell you something instead.
” The humor fades from him, replaced by something earnest. “I may not know your name, but I know enough to know you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be,” he continues.
“I know enough to know you came out tonight because you’re trapped, not bored.
” His eyes move across my face, not lingering, not intrusive, just observant.
“You speak like someone educated. You smell like soap and lavender, not tavern smoke.”
My throat tightens.
“And,” he adds, quieter now, “someone hurt you today.”
I swallow. “How do you know?”
He shrugs slightly. “Because people don’t come out dressed like boys and laughing too hard unless they need air. And because no one gets burned like that by accident.”
I follow his eyes to the burn on my hand without thinking.
He waits a moment, then says, “I’m Eravic Vaelor.”
Everyone knows that name.
Vaelor ships dock where they please. Their trade decides which ports thrive and which starve, and they are known never to lie. House Vaelor claims loyalty to no crown, and yet every royal court still bends over itself for Vaelor favor, including ours.
I wonder if perhaps he will be at the upcoming ball. For a brief, unwelcome moment, I imagine Yvara turning her charm on him, measuring him the way she measures everything. The thought tightens something in my chest before I can dismiss it. I tell myself it does not matter. That it should not.
I look at him again. At the way he stands, relaxed but alert. At the strength shaped by wind and travel rather than halls and titles. At the way he has spoken to me all evening without once asking who I belong to. He does not seem like the sort of man who would want someone like my sister.
“When my ships are docked,” he continues, his voice carrying that same sea rough cadence, gentler now, “you’re welcome. No questions. No debts.” He says it like an offer he expects to be accepted.
I look back up, startled.
“If you need work, I’ll find it,” he goes on. “If you need somewhere safe to stand for a while, you can stand with us. No harm will come to you. I don’t offer that lightly.”
The flirtation is gone now, his tone serious.
He hesitates, then lets the edge of humor return, just enough to soften the moment. “And if you keep looking at me like that, I might even marry you.”
I laugh, warmth rising to my face despite myself. “How could you read me so well?” I ask.
His expression changes. “I had a sister,” he says. “I grew up with privilege but she did not. She was treated like she was nothing worth keeping. I saw what it did to her.”
“What happened to her?”
He shrugs, then winks. “You won’t tell me your name. I won’t tell you my life story.”
Before I can answer, Torsin calls for me from the door. I glance back once more, then lean in and press a quick kiss to Eravic’s lips.
“It was nice to meet you, Lord Eravic.”
He groans. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just call me Eravic.”
I run, my legs still trembling. Behind me, his laughter follows, warm and bright. For the first time in my life, I am seen.