Chapter 62 The Return
The Return
The carriage wheels have barely ground to a halt before the gates swing open.
Guards bow lower than required, their movements carrying a quiet acknowledgment rather than simple formality.
Servants who once moved past me with casual familiarity now pause and incline their heads with something quieter, something weighted.
The story has outrun me. A woman who survives a Thren does not return unnoticed.
Colsar walks at my side, not touching me, though I feel him in the space around my body as surely as if his hand rested against my spine. His presence stretches outward, commanding without declaration. No one speaks too loudly in his wake.
Inside, the corridors are alive with suppressed urgency. Advisors move in clusters. Messengers hurry with sealed parchment. The air tastes of metal and unease. Whatever happened in that tavern did not remain contained within its walls. It traveled.
At the foot of the staircase leading to my chambers, Maridale waits.
She lowers herself into a deep bow. “Your Highness.”
Her voice carries the careful composure of someone who has rehearsed what must be said. She stares at me for a moment, as though confirming that I am truly standing before her and not some rumor that walked through the gate.
“The Moon Chambers are being prepared as the Prince instructed,” she says. “Until they are ready, each of your chambers has been prepared.”
Colsar inclines his head to her and then turns slightly toward the end of the corridor where Arthen approaches, his senior advisor, robes gathered in one hand as he walks with long, purposeful strides.
“Prince Colsar,” Arthen says, dipping his chin as he reaches us. “His Majesty has called the war council. Your presence is requested.”
Colsar’s expression does not change. “I will not attend the council today,” he says. “I have been away from the capital too long to walk into a chamber half-informed. Brief me first.”
They move a few steps aside, their voices lowering, and I do not strain to listen.
I know the cadence of such exchanges now.
Reports of outer watchtowers reinforced.
Of roads being patrolled through the night.
Of villages along the river refusing to light hearths after sunset.
Fear spreads more efficiently than any army.
They return, and Arthen bows. “Princess.”
I incline my head in return.
I turn to Colsar. “The documents,” I say quietly.
He nods and reaches inside his coat, withdrawing a narrow leather folio sealed and bound with cord darkened by travel.
“Before council,” he says to Arthen, holding it out but not yet releasing it. “These require discreet handling.”
Arthen accepts the folio with both hands. “From the Baron?”
“Signed and witnessed,” Colsar replies. “Land transfers. Oaths. A full accounting of the Baron’s holdings.”
Arthen’s brows lift faintly at that.
“They are not yet to be discussed,” Colsar continues, voice level. “File them under restricted record. No copies. No mention in open chamber.”
“And His Majesty?”
“He will see them when I choose.”
Arthen considers him for a moment, then inclines his head. “They will be secured, and you can trust in my discretion, Highness.”
Colsar releases the folio at last. “I would not have placed it in your hands otherwise.”
Arthen bows once more, deeper this time. He inclines his head toward me again before turning back to Colsar. Their conversation continues in measured tones while I ascend the staircase.
The court will be told that the Baron is on holiday, the papers filed in secret.
I do not know what I will do after that, only that Colsar has told me he will follow my lead.
For now, I feel relieved. Calm. For all of my suffering at the hands of my father, justice has finally been served.
The wealth he so values over everything else is mine.
My chambers open as they always have. Nothing has been moved. My gowns hang where I left them. My books remain stacked beside the narrow window that overlooks the inner courtyard. My writing desk sits untouched, ink still sealed in its glass well. It is as though the palace has refused to presume.
I step inside slowly.
The Moon Chamber waits somewhere deeper within the royal wing.
I find myself anticipating the moment I will finally cross its threshold, not only for its comforts but for the promise of a space that will belong to both Colsar and me.
My life feels suspended between two rooms, between what I was and what I am becoming.
Maridale draws a bath without asking. The palace is gentle around me now. No one mentions blood. No one asks how it felt. They assume that whatever allowed me to survive is not something that should be prodded.
When I undress before the mirror, I pause only long enough to confirm what I already know. The wound has been sealed so seamlessly that only tenderness remains beneath the skin. To those who did not witness the blade, it will appear as though I emerged untouched.
They will decide for themselves what that means.
The water is warm. It eases the lingering soreness through my hips and thighs after the past few days with Colsar, loosening muscles I had not realized how thoroughly he exhausted. I sink beneath the surface and allow the quiet to wrap around me, if only for a moment.
By the time I dress again, the palace has shifted further.
A soft knock touches the door before it opens.
Emva slips inside and closes it quietly behind her.
For a moment she simply looks at me, as though measuring the distance between the girl she has always known and the woman the palace now insists on calling Your Highness.
Then her mouth lifts into the small, familiar smile that tells me she has decided the difference does not matter very much.
“Asharin,” she says.
I finish tying the ribbon at my sleeve and turn toward her. “What have you done?”
“Nothing yet,” she says, though her hands twist together in a way that suggests otherwise. I don’t believe her.
“But I have been granted leave. My grandmother has taken ill in the Southern Valley. My family sent word while you were away.”
“You should go,” I say without hesitation.
Relief passes through her expression. “Torsin is coming with me,” she continues. “He claims someone has to make sure I don’t wander into a river or trust the wrong road companions.”
“He also said he was not leaving you here unless he was certain you were safe.” She glances toward the corridor beyond my door, where the royal wing stretches deeper into the palace. “After seeing how things are with the Prince lately…he decided he could survive a few weeks away.”
I laugh softly.
“Torsin deciding something is survivable is practically approval.”
“He’s already in the courtyard with the horses,” Emva adds. “If he came upstairs he would start another lecture about how you ought to sleep with a knife under your pillow.”
“That is because he assumes I don’t already.”
Her smile widens.
I frown slightly. “Given the state of things lately, he may not be entirely wrong. I do hope you two travel safely.”
Emva smiles. “Torsin has been sharpening blades since dawn. If any Thren cross our path, they will regret the decision.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
For a moment neither of us speaks. The silence between us is not uncomfortable, only thoughtful, as though we both understand that our lives have shifted slightly and we are still learning where everything fits.
“I’ll go down and see him,” I say at last.
Emva nods. “He’ll pretend he isn’t sentimental about it.”
“He always does.”
She steps forward then and pulls me into a quick embrace, fierce enough to make me laugh when she releases me again.
“Take care of yourself,” she murmurs.
“You too.”
She slips back through the door, leaving the chamber quiet behind her.
By the time I enter the courtyard, Emva and Torsin are already mounted.
Torsin leans down from the saddle when he sees me. “Before I forget,” he says, “you should visit my horses while I’m gone.”
I laugh softly. “You have an entire stable full of people to look after them.”
“Yes,” he says grimly, “but I trust none of them.”
“That seems like a personal problem.”
His mouth twitches. “Just make sure the stablemaster hasn’t braided Storm’s mane like he’s some parade pony. The horse has dignity.”
“I will inspect them personally,” I say solemnly.
“Good.”
He swings down and pulls me into a brief, bone-crushing embrace before climbing back into the saddle, grumbling something about the palace gates closing before nightfall if they linger any longer. Emva laughs at him for it as they ride out through the outer gate together.
By the time I return to my chambers, the palace has grown quieter. The corridors are not empty, but voices carry lower now, movements more contained.
I have barely closed the door behind me when a knock sounds.
“Your Highness,” she says, hands folded neatly before her. “His Majesty requests your presence in the throne chamber.”
I expected no less.