Chapter Thirty
Wynessa
I sat on the edge of my bed, half-laced into a pale-rose gown, while Jasira’s fingers worked silently behind me.
The gale off the sea shrieked against the castle walls, its relentless force threatening to tear the very stone from its foundations and plunge it into the depths.
Though the sky was perfectly clear, an icy detachment seeped in, leaving a sensation of deep, internal coldness. Even the sun here looked pale.
I didn’t ask what time it was. The knock at the door had come after dawn, and the girl who delivered the summons hadn’t looked me in the eye. “His Highness requests your presence in the Southern Council Chamber,” she’d said, voice flat. “Immediately.”
Not an invitation. A command.
Now, with the last pin secured in my hair, Jasira leaned closer and muttered, “I don’t like this. No one should ask to speak this early unless someone’s dead.”
I tried to smile, but failed. “Maybe it’s policy.”
“Mm,” she said, clearly not convinced. “Try not to agree to marry anyone without reading the fine print, alright?”
A sharp knock interrupted us before I had a chance to respond. This time it was lighter. I stepped out into the hall; the servant girl fell in at my side without a word. Her steps were short and quick, her head bowed slightly as if she knew better than to meet my gaze.
The walk through the castle was worse than I remembered.
Even with the marble polished to a mirror shine and every torch lit, the halls felt hollow.
Guards stood at every crossing, silent as statues, their silver armor gleaming like ice.
Sconces bristling with thorns snaked along the arches, their twisted forms suggesting a malevolent growth.
Portraits of Caerthaine’s ancestors glared down with blank, mournful eyes.
Not a single banner moved or was out of place.
The servant’s pace never faltered, her soft slippers whispering over the stone as she led me deeper into the keep. She didn’t speak, and I didn’t ask questions.
The Southern Council Chamber sat high in a tower overlooking the sea. When the door opened, cold light poured across the table, as if it meant to wash everyone clean of warmth.
My eyes connected with Erindor’s as I walked into the chamber. He stood stoic in the back with Gideon at his side, still assigned to my personal guard detail. Meaning he had to be here.
The Southern Council Chamber was all sharp lines and cold light.
A long, narrow table of black-veined marble stretched nearly the length of the room, flanked by high-backed chairs carved from pale driftwood.
Tall, narrow windows faced the sea and were inset in the walls; the clear glass made the water look close enough to touch.
Salt wind hissed faintly against the panes.
Above, the vaulted ceiling bore a mural of Caerthaine’s fleets cutting through storm-tossed waters, their silver sails catching an imagined moonlight.
Kaelen stood at the head of the table, poised and polished in storm-blue robes, hands clasped behind his back.
Along the far wall, three older men in formal gray stood with scrolls in their hands. Kaelen’s councilors, by the look of them. They did not speak, only watched.
Alaric sat halfway down the table from Kaelen, leaning back in his chair in a way that suggested nonchalance until his eyes found me. He stood as I entered, pulling the empty chair beside him back without a word.
I glanced at Kaelen, and he gestured for me to sit. I lowered myself into the chair Alaric had pulled out, the cold from the glass behind me seeping straight into my spine. He settled back into his seat beside me.
Kaelen’s gaze sharpened. “Princess Wynessa, this is Lord Dorian of Southport. Merchant advisor to the eastern provinces.”
“And aspiring scene-stealer,” Dorian added with a wink, looking at Alaric.
Alaric’s brows shot up. “I—” He cleared his throat, suddenly standing a little straighter.
Kaelen’s jaw ticked, his voice cutting in like a knife. “And not here to waste our time with theatrics.”
Unbothered, Dorian only grinned wider. “Not yet.”
He was striking—tanned skin, chestnut hair tied back into a loose tail, and enough jewelry to shame a high priest. Chains of gold, garnet, and moonstone draped across his tunic collar, and a thin cuff curled up one ear, catching the light whenever he moved.
“Well,” he said, smiling as if we’d been friends for years. “The Princess herself arrives.”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I kept my head low, wishing I were safely tucked up in Erindor’s arms, far away from here.
Kaelen unrolled a scroll, its ribbon a pale, perfect blue.
“This is the initial engagement contract,” he said. “Your father’s council and mine have reviewed the terms. Preparations are already underway. Your seal will be required before the public announcement tomorrow.”
My eyelids fluttered, a brief shield against the absurdity. “I haven’t even read it,” I stated, a defensive edge to the tone.
“You will,” Kaelen said smoothly. “Before the signing, of course. But the terms are standard dowry, title inheritance, and ceremonial dates. What matters now is that Caerthaine sees this union as inevitable. Unshakable.”
Across the room, Alaric shifted. “She should’ve known before now.”
Kaelen didn’t turn. “She knows now.”
My mouth was dry. “And if I say I’m not ready?”
“You’ll be saying it to an audience already gathered. You’ll be saying it to a kingdom watching you walk into power,” Kaelen said, his voice calm, yet resonating with undeniable authority. “The time for hesitation has passed.”
A quiet surrender settled within me, a subtle crumbling of resolve.
He tapped the scroll again, the seal glinting in the torchlight. “Elyrien’s lands are fertile, yes, but fragile. Your people are farmers, not soldiers. You have fields, not fleets. If war came, your orchards and granaries would burn within a week.”
His gaze lifted to mine, steady and unblinking. “Caerthaine has ports and ships enough to choke the seas, but our cliffs and salt fields cannot feed us. Without Elyrien’s grain, we starve. And then there is Vireth.”
The name weighed heavily in the chamber.
“The desert breeds hunger and steel. Their armies are unmatched, their politics a knife’s edge sharper than any blade. Vireth presses from the south. Caerthaine holds the sea. Elyrien is caught between—surrounded.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry.
“This alliance is not about a wedding, Princess,” Kaelen continued. “It is about balance. Vireth’s desert thirsts, Caerthaine’s soil fails, Elyrien’s strength lies only in its harvests. Alone, we all falter. Together, we endure.”
“For whom?” I asked, forcing the words through the ache in my chest.
“Everyone,” he said smoothly. Then his mouth curved, just slightly. “Including you.”
Dorian rose to pour himself a cup of red wine, likely older than everyone in the room, and said casually, “And of course, the falsely gifted don’t exactly help things.”
Kaelen’s expression tightened. “Two more surfaced last week. A seamstress in the port and a boy, fifteen maybe. Burned down half a barn with black flame. No sigil. No god. No control.”
A surge of lightheadedness made my surroundings reel.
“We executed them,” Kaelen said simply. “We had no choice.”
Alaric’s voice was sharp. “You burned a child.”
“A vessel for chaos,” Kaelen snapped. “False gifts are not divine. They are trauma turned inward until it ruptures. Magic that mimics but never obeys. Corrupted. Cursed. Left unchecked, they tear kingdoms apart.”
My hand drifted to my sleeve. Beneath it, my skin remembered the echo of the mark.
“They’re not all evil,” I murmured.
Kaelen’s stare cut like glass. “They are not all safe.”
Silence fell.
When Kaelen exited, leaving the scroll behind like a dropped dagger.
Alaric approached slowly, crouching beside my chair. “You okay?”
“No,” I said, voice small.
Dorian gave me a softer look than before. “Princess,” he said gently. “Not all cages have bars. But you can still learn where the lock sits.”
I looked at the ribbon on the scroll.
Pale blue. Tied like a wedding knot.
Erindor
I didn’t follow her out of the council chamber.
I didn’t catch her eye or ask if she was alright.
What would I have said? I’m sorry they’re chaining you in silks instead of iron? I’ll fight for you, even though I’m not allowed to touch you.
No, I did what I always do.
I found something solid. Something real.
The stable was quiet at this time of day. Warm with straw and the smell of horses, sharp with a salt air that had slipped through the open slats. The torchlight was dimmer here, soot-stained and flickering low. A good place to disappear.
Bran raised his head as I stepped inside, letting out a soft huff before pressing his heavy snout into my palm.
I scratched behind his ears, and he leaned into me; warm, loyal, uncomplicated.
I was thankful he had not been permitted within the castle's true confines. He didn’t belong in a place like that.
Neither did Wyn.
I leaned against one post and closed my eyes.
I could still see her, sitting across from Kaelen. Her face had gone completely still when he mentioned the contract. Not surprised, not afraid, but quiet. Like she’d stepped out of her own body and left only her smile behind.
Gods, I should’ve said something. Anything.
A footstep behind me interrupted the spiral.
“Found you,” Gideon’s voice said, too casually. “Figured you’d be hiding somewhere dramatic. Thought about the roof, but then I remembered you’re not the poetic type.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Mm-hm.”
He stepped up beside me and glanced down at Bran. “He misses the velvet carpets and fancy ceilings?”
“He misses Wyn.”
“Don’t we all?” he muttered.
I didn’t laugh.
Gideon leaned his arms on the railing. “So. You gonna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Right. I’ll do it for you, then.” He angled toward me. “You look like you’re two breaths from throwing Kaelen off the balcony.”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“I’ve dreamed about it.”
That earned the slightest twitch of a smirk from me, and it vanished just as fast.
Gideon went quiet for a beat. Then: “She looked like she was drowning in there. You saw it too.”
I nodded in agreement.
“She doesn’t get to choose,” I said. “Not really.”
“She’s still breathing.”
“For how long?”
I pushed away from the post and started pacing between the hay-stacked walls, my hands clenched.
“She’s a healer, not a bargaining chip. She deserves the gods-damned truth, not a crown held together with documents and fear.”
“You think she doesn’t know that already?” Gideon said. “You think she doesn’t feel it every second she walks through these halls?”
“I know,” I acknowledged. “I know.”
Silence.
He observed me for a long time.
Then: “You care about her.”
I remained quiet. He knew all too well how I felt.
He gave me a crooked smile. “She’s not the only one stuck in this castle with her heart in chains.”
My jaw tensed. “She deserves better than this.”
Gideon offered no argument. His gaze, deep and unwavering, held my eyes with an unnerving degree of understanding. “Maybe,” he whispered. “You see her. And she sees you, which is a rare thing. But it doesn’t matter what you think she deserves.”
I looked down at Bran, who had rested his head on my foot, eyes half-lidded but alert.
“She’s going to sign it,” I said.
Gideon didn’t stop me. “Yeah. She probably is.”
We stood there in silence. The wind howled against the high stone walls outside, but in the stables, it was quieter and warmer.
“I should’ve walked away before any of this started,” I muttered.
“But you didn’t,” he said. “And you’re still here. That counts for something.”
Does it? I wanted to ask. Or is that what men like me tell ourselves so we don’t fall apart?
But I didn’t say that.
Instead, I nodded and reached down to scratch Bran’s ears again.
I couldn’t give Wyn freedom. And I couldn’t offer her a future.
But I could stay close.
The castle was quieter at night, but never truly still.
Stone didn’t rest the way forests did. Trees held their breath in silence. Walls whispered when no one was listening.
I sat on a worn bench near the lesser servants’ corridor, tucked in a pocket of dim torchlight. My uniform jacket lay folded beside me. My sword belt hung loose over my knees. But I didn’t move.
Not yet.
My hand drifted to my pocket for something small and delicate.
The flower.
Pressed flat between folded cloth, its faded pink petals still held the shape of her hands. She’d given it to me in the mountains, after I’d nearly drowned pulling her from the river. She’d called it a frostbloom. Said it only grew where life fought hardest to return.
I stared at it now, cradled in my palm.
She smiled when she gave it to me. Like I was worth something.
But I wasn’t.
I should’ve walked away from all this. From her. From the moment the superiors assigned me to guard a girl too good and too soft for a world like this.
But I hadn’t.
And now she had promised herself to a man who only wanted her light so he could cage it.
My fingers closed slowly over the petals.
What would it feel like, I wondered, to hold her hand without fear?
To reach for her without guilt, without duty tangled in every touch?
I’d watched her today. Watched her pretend.
She was good at it.
But I saw the tension in her fingers. The way her shoulders locked when Kaelen leaned too close. The way she didn’t eat, didn’t blink too long, didn’t breathe too deep, was as if she made one mistake, the floor would fall out from under her.
She looked like she belonged to him. To Caerthaine.
But I knew better.
She belonged to wildflowers and storm light. To the morning sun and mossy stones. To whatever spark still smoldered in her chest. The one the gods had marked, and the fire hadn’t claimed.
The gods had touched her. And she didn’t even know what she was becoming.
A slow breath escaped me.
I ran a thumb over the edge of the petal, then tucked the cloth carefully back into the lining of my coat, beneath the leather strap where no one else would see.
She’d given me something fragile.
I would keep it safe.
Even if it was the only part of her I could ever hold.