Chapter Four
Wynessa
Lilac and gold were bleeding together in the sky like watercolors left out in the rain. The travel cloak clung to my shoulders, a familiar burden. Yet, a colder, heavier dread, born of the coming storm, settled deep within me as I surveyed the imposing palace courtyard.
Stone steps gleamed beneath the dawn. The air was cool, edged in the quiet hush of servants watching from balconies, guards posted like statues. This was no longer my home. It was a gilded stage for goodbyes.
My mother stood at the top of the marble steps, dressed in a pale silver gown. As ever, she swept her hair into a high, immaculate twist. She looked down at me, her eyes cold, like those of a gardener critiquing a hedge, assessing my every detail: trimmed, sculpted, and merely useful.
“You will make a good impression,” she said, her face remaining carefully blank.
“You will speak with grace.” She stepped forward and fastened my brooch—a sunburst wrought in gold and garnet, glinting too brightly for the gray morning, to my collar.
Her fingers were like slivers of frozen glass against my neck.
“You are not only a daughter.” Her words emerged in a calm, precise monotone. “You are a promise.”
“I understand,” I said, though my voice was barely a whisper.
She lingered a moment longer, studying me like a statue she wasn’t quite proud of. “Keep your shoulders back. Chin high. Do not babble when spoken to. And for mercy’s sake, keep your hands still. You fidget like a child.” She shook her head disapprovingly.
I clenched my hands at my sides, every muscle straining against the urge to fidget.
My father, King Theron, stepped forward next, reaching out to me with his hands. His beard was white as winter ash, eyes shadowed with weariness. His grasp, unexpectedly gentle, seemed to transmit a quiet warmth, a silent offering of comfort as his fingers closed over mine.
“Trust your instincts, little star,” he mumbled. “They’ve always been kinder than mine.”
His touch lingered. Then, as always, duty called him away before his comfort settled enough to take hold.
Footsteps rang on the stone, louder, more dramatic, and then: “What, no goodbye for your favorite brother?”
Alaric walked toward me with a swagger; his copper-blond hair was windswept, and his fitted riding leathers looked more suited for a parade than a journey. Bran padded beside him, his tail flicking lazily.
My heart leaped with joy. “You’re coming?”
He threw his arms wide. “Of course, I’m coming! What kind of big brother lets his little sister waltz off to enemy territory with nothing but her plants for company?”
I laughed, throwing my arms around him. He pulled me close and rested his chin on my head with exaggerated tenderness.
“You’re not allowed to cry,” he warned. “That’s my job. I’m the dramatic one.”
“You’re the reckless one.”
“Reckless, charming, and essential. I’ll be serving as your ‘advisor,’ which is a formal way of saying I’ll argue with every noble who so much as frowns at you. Also, I’ve decided the most important diplomatic tool I’m bringing is my lute.”
“You didn’t?” My grin felt like it might split my face.
“I absolutely did. Can’t represent Elyrien properly without a serenade or two. Might even charm a duke,” he joked while wiggling his eyebrows.
“You’ll charm someone, alright.”
Jasira appeared beside us, adjusting the satchel on her hip.
Despite pulling her dark curls back behind her ear, a few strands had already escaped to frame her face.
She wore a soft green tunic embroidered at the cuffs, which was both practical and pretty.
She smiled when she saw me and reached out to squeeze my hand.
“You’re doing better than I thought you would,” she whispered.
“I’m just pretending not to be terrified.”
“That counts as better. Do they have my horse ready yet?”
I blinked, surprised. “Wait…you’re coming with us too?”
Jasira gave me a look. “Of course I am. Did you think I was going to let you travel halfway across the continent with nothing but guards and your brother for company?”
“But you said nothing!”
“You were already worrying yourself breathless,” she said with a shrug. “Besides, someone has to make sure Alaric doesn’t insult the wrong kingdom, and you don’t fall off a horse.”
The cobbled path led us to the looming gates, where the small company had already assembled.
Three guards awaited us: Corren, an older man with sharp blue eyes and a weathered face.
He looked like he’d survived more battles than were countable.
Lark, barely older than me. His fingers constantly adjusting his grip on the reins, his hands never quite still.
Tyren was tall and silent, with a jagged scar stretching from his jaw to his ear.
He looked like he’d seen one or two things I’d rather not imagine.
Then there was Sir Gideon.
He had a lopsided grin, armor slightly mismatched, and a dent in one pauldron like it had seen more tavern stools than swords. His skin was rich brown, and his eyes sparkled with warmth and mischief beneath a head of cropped black curls.
He bowed with exaggerated flair. “Sir Gideon, at your service. Hero of one tavern brawl, three broken chairs, and at least five unintentional insults to nobility. But I ride true and fall with flair.”
Jasira raised her eyebrow. “That’s...oddly reassuring.” A smile tugged at the corners of my lips, surprising even me. “I’m glad you’re coming.”
“Prepared and ready for the journey, my lady,” he said brightly. “Though I should warn you, my horse bites.” I was unsure whether that was meant to be a joke. Either way, I would stay clear.
A sliver of light caught the polished edge of a dark mare's saddle, then brightened, insistent, demanding attention.
Only then did I see him.
Erindor. He stood beside his black mare, armor catching the sunrise like old bronze.
His hair curled slightly around his ears, wind-tossed and unbothered.
He looked carved from storm clouds and silence, with broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and a sword at his hip that looked like it had never left him.
There was something about the way he stood, still and steady, that made everyone else seem to fade into the background.
I had seen him before, of course. Quiet in the corridors.
Sharp at council practice sparring. He was always on the edge of things, like a shadow that obeyed light but never belonged to it. But I’d never spoken to him.
Now, facing him in the unfiltered daylight, a knot tightened in my stomach, stealing my breath.
A flush crept up my neck, scorching my cheeks with the raw memory of my humiliation in the stables just moments before.
When our eyes locked, for just a heartbeat, a single, sharp nod came from him. I forced myself to swallow, the gesture rough against my dry throat, and in an instant tore my gaze away, the heat in my face burning.
Bran trotted over to me, distracting me from myself. He nudged my hand, and I gratefully scratched behind his ears.
“At least someone likes me.”
Lark unfurled a folding map across the low stone bench near the gates and held it in place with a dagger and a crust of bread. Gideon crouched over it, brow furrowed in an expression far more serious than I expected from someone who had bragged about tavern chairs.
“So,” he said, pointing with the dagger, “we’ll follow the Eastwood trail into the Emberwood, then pass through the market village of Graymere.
From there we’ll cut into the southern edge of Wildervale before reaching Caerthaine.
That keeps us on the lowland route—safer, and past the flooded roads. ”
The blade traced a line through the patch marked with clawed script and faint burn marks. “Avoiding Thorncross Ravine entirely. Last I heard, wolves nested too close to the pass. We’ll ride hard until Graymere, resupply there, and keep moving.”
Gideon leaned forward, tapping a finger to a jagged crease of the map. “There’s another way. Narrower path through the ridge—faster, but not one you’d take unless you had no choice. Landslides, old ruins, things in the rock that don’t like to be disturbed.”
Erindor’s mouth tightened. “We’ve both taken it before. Once was enough. If the rains don’t cut us off, we stick to the lowlands.”
Alaric leaned over his shoulder. “Tell me we’ve had scouts take this route recently. Any chance we’re not the first poor fools to ride into Wildervale this season?”
Gideon didn’t miss a beat. “Scouts passed through last month. No signs of ambush, but there’ve been murmurs of bandits trailing the outer reaches of the Emberwood. Nothing confirmed, but I’d rather we keep watch in shifts once we make camp. It’s safer to treat rumors like warnings.”
I stepped closer, studying the map. The road ahead twisted like a vein across the skin of a continent.
I had little experience with maps, though not completely.
Some names resonated with me. Emberwood, Graymere, and Wildervale, I had seen them written in the margins of old maps and scribbled in the pages of dusty histories.
I’d read about them beneath the garden arbor in the fading light, envisioning what it would be like to walk the paths of those stories.
Now I was going to live these stories.
“Wildervale,” I whispered, eyes on the shaded green stretch that dominated the center. “I’ve always wanted to go there. Is it peaceful?”
Gideon gave a short laugh. “Only if you think whispering trees and forgotten gods are peaceful. Stay sharp when we cross it.”
He looked up and grinned at me, then tapped the next mark north. “One step at a time, Princess. We’ll get you to Caerthaine with your limbs intact, your dignity mostly preserved, and, if the gods are kind, your humor sharpened.”
I smiled, a faint, almost involuntary gesture. The solid black line of the path in ink provided an anchor of sorts, though the true landscape remained shrouded in doubt.
When it came time to mount, I paused beside the unfamiliar mare they’d brought for me. The saddle looked impossibly high. I reached for the stirrup and nearly tipped backward.
Alaric chuckled. “Need help, Wynnie?”
“I’ve never ridden before,” I admitted, the words tasting like ash.
Before he could move, Erindor appeared beside me.
He didn’t speak, just offered his ungloved hand. His calloused palm felt steady. I placed my hand in his, and he lifted me easily, effortlessly, into the saddle.
For one moment, our eyes met, and something passed between us. Not heat, not lightning, but something quieter. Like the hush between two heartbeats.
“Thank you,” I gasped out, feeling the tell-tale flush creep up my neck from the unexpected kindness.
He said nothing.
And with that, the gates opened. The road stretched like a ribbon of uncertainty ahead of us.
As we rode out, I clutched my journal tightly and looked back at the garden balcony one last time. The roses there were already beginning to close for the season.
Above us, a single dove cut across the morning sky.
I gripped the reins tighter and shifted my gaze forward. Behind me were duty, silence, and the shape of a life not chosen. Before me stood a prince I did not love, a war unseen, and something within me I had not yet grasped.
Something that might one day burn.
…
The sun climbed higher as the road narrowed beyond the outer walls of the palace, winding into the scrub and shade of the Eastwood trail.
For a while, I tried to focus on the rhythm of hoofbeats, the sound of birds hidden in the trees, and the occasional creak of saddle leather.
But it was impossible to ignore how uncomfortable I was in the saddle.
Each rut in the road sent a jolt up my spine, jarring every bone.
A dull throb settled in my lower back, and my knees, already stiff from the journey, locked up.
I shifted for the third time in five minutes, hoping no one would notice. Unfortunately, someone did.
“You ride like you’re trying not to touch the horse,” Gideon said beside me, his voice low and amused.
“I’m trying not to fall off,” I scolded.
He grinned. “That’s fair. But you’ll want to relax your legs a bit. Let the movement carry through your hips. Right now, you’re bracing every time the horse shifts, and that’s only going to make it worse.”
I tried adjusting, but it only made me slide sideways in the saddle.
Jasira trotted up beside us with far more ease than I expected. She looked perfectly at home on her horse, her posture relaxed and confident. How is she doing that?
I stared at her. “What’s your riding experience?”
She gave me a crooked smile. “Just because I like embroidery doesn’t mean I’ve never left the palace, Wyn. I grew up on a vineyard. Horses are easy.”
I blinked. “That actually explains a lot.”
“You should see me with a crossbow,” she chirped, and then kicked her horse ahead to join Alaric up front.
“Here,” Gideon chimed, and guided his horse a little closer. “Watch me. See how my hands stay light? Let the horse find its rhythm. You’re not steering a cart. It’s a conversation.”
I watched, trying to mirror the way he moved. How his legs and back flowed with the horse instead of fighting it. But it was more difficult than it looked.
“Better,” he said after a moment. “You’ll have it by Graymere.”
“That’s days away.”
“Well, then we’ll either arrive with you riding like a proper scout, or I’ll carry you across the border myself.”
A burst of laughter escaped me, shaking my shoulders. The pain in my spine, while still present, seemed to recede, a manageable throb now.
We pressed on beneath the trees; the road stretching ahead in dappled light and dust. Behind me, the palace had vanished into the haze. Before me, the world waited.