Chapter 27 Cassiel
The ride back to the castle is a blur of hooves pounding against the road and wind whipping past. I have no idea if we’re being followed.
No idea if Wren is all right. Only the occasional sound of her horse racing alongside mine reassures me that she’s still there.
But how badly is she hurt? Is she keeping up out of stubbornness or strength?
I don’t know, and the not knowing coils tight in my chest.
“Wren,” I murmur, more than once, “Wren, are you still there?”
“Still here, Cass. Keep going.”
The gates groan open the moment we arrive. The guards shift, their armour clinking as they catch sight of us. They swarm around me as I stop my horse. Too many hands, too many voices. Someone moves to steady me as I dismount. I wave them off.
“I’m fine, I’m fine—”
I don’t know what I look like, but I’m not injured. Wren, though, I’ve no idea—
Help her, help her, please—
My hands are shaking from the ride, my head still reeling from the sudden stop, but I don’t care about any of that. I don’t even know where Wren is until I hear her land on the ground beside me. She inhales sharply.
“Wren?”
“I’m fine,” she says, too quickly. It doesn’t sound like the truth.
Before I can press her, a hush falls over the courtyard. The swarm around me parts. My mother touches my face.
“You were attacked?” she asks.
I nod. “At the Gilded Parchment. I’m not hurt. Wren—”
“Who by?”
I hesitate. I don’t have the answer.
“Fey,” says Wren after a moment of silence. “Three of them. It… it wasn’t planned. They saw an opportunity and they went for it.”
I frown. “How do you know that they just—”
Mother doesn’t acknowledge me. She continues talking to Wren. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
The moment Wren confirms it, Mother barks an order to her knights. “Send out riders. I want those fey found before dawn.”
The knights move without question, their boots and weapons shifting in unison. Wren stands beside me, her breathing steady but… off. Like she’s forcing it to be even.
Mother’s voice sharpens. “You’re injured.”
Wren’s answer is quiet. “Just a little.”
“Have a healer sent up to the prince’s chambers immediately.” She snaps to someone, before returning her focus to Wren. “Can you walk?”
“I’ll manage.”
I don’t need to see her to know that’s another lie. The minute everyone moves off, she wavers, slumping against me.
I slip an arm around her waist, moving my cane into the crook of my other elbow.
“I’m—” she begins.
“If you say ‘fine’, I’m dismissing you.”
Wren laughs weakly against my shoulder. “All right,” she says.
“Just… let me help you.”
She doesn’t say anything to that, but she leans against me.
She’s quiet as we walk back to our chambers, only speaking to murmur directions in my ear.
I keep my grip firm, but tension coils tight in my muscles, wound so taut I feel like I might snap.
I don’t know where to put the anger burning beneath my skin.
It isn’t sharp and cutting like my mother’s fury—it’s quieter, deeper, pressing against my ribs, simmering.
I know Wren feels it, even if she doesn’t say anything. I don’t know what to say, either.
When we reach my chambers, I push the door open with one hand and guide her inside with the other.
She winces the moment she shifts her weight.
I feel the stumble before I hear it, and my hand moves instinctively to her waist, steadying her.
The tremor of worry running through me is almost unbearable.
“Sit.” The command comes out clipped, sharper than I mean it to be.
She huffs in frustration, but for once, she doesn’t argue. She lowers herself into the chair, slow and careful, sucking in a short, painful breath. The healer arrives only seconds later, fabric rustling as she enters.
“Ser Thornvale, I understand that you’re injured?” The healer’s voice is brisk and clinical. She sets down something near to Wren—her basket of supplies, I assume.
“It’s just a scratch,” Wren says, but the words ring hollow.
The healer isn’t fooled. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
I hover on the edge of the room, as if distance will make this easier to bear. I hate this. I hate not being able to see how bad it is. I hate not being able to help. I hate that she’s hurt in the first place—
The healer rips something—Wren’s trouser leg, I think. Wren hisses as the fabric comes away.
I move forward, jaw tight. “Is it serious?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend.
“Not at all,” the healer replies.
I breathe an inward sigh of relief, but it’s short lived. Wren’s still hurt.
But if it’s not serious… then perhaps I don’t need to be useless after all. “Then move over.”
The healer hesitates for only a moment before stepping back, and I kneel beside Wren myself. I find her calf first, then her knee, followed by the place where the fabric has been torn away.
“I liked these breeches,” Wren says mournfully.
I almost smile. “I’ll buy you a dozen more.”
I incline my head towards the healer. “I’ll finish here,” I tell her. “Come back for your basket later.”
“Very well, Your Highness.”
She sweeps out of the room, the door closing softly behind her.
Slowly, carefully, I locate Wren’s wound.
I find the disinfectant in the healer’s basket, identifiable by its stiff, potent scent.
I apply it liberally. My hands are steady as I clean the wound, but inside, I feel anything but.
Every scrape of the cloth against her skin sends my heart hammering harder.
There’s nothing frantic in my movements, but the feeling is there, clawing at my ribs.
“Does this need stitches?” I ask, pressing my fingers gently around the wound, feeling for the depth of it.
“No.” Her voice is calm, measured. I don’t know if I trust it.
“Are you only telling me that because—”
“Cass.” Her voice is so soft I feel like I could drown in it. “It’s all right.”
It isn’t.
“You should have told me you were hurt.” I don’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but it does.
“It’s not serious,” she says again, quieter this time.
I exhale a shaky breath and let my hands hover over her leg, struggling to put words to the knot of frustration and worry in my chest. “I just… I don’t like not knowing things.”
A pause, followed by the light press of her hand against my arm.
“You still notice things,” she says, voice gentle.
“You notice where your sister is hiding, you know when I’m being too quiet, and you can tell when people are staring or thinking about you before they even speak.
You knew I was hurt, even before I told you.
You found the disinfectant. Blind or not, you see so much, Cassiel. Please don’t ever doubt that.”
The tension in me uncoils just a little.
“Thank you,” I mutter, surprised by the thick edge to my voice.
“Cassiel?”
I lift my head. “Yes?”
“Do you want to know what I look like?”
The question stops me cold. My breath catches slightly. I don’t know how to answer.
Except, I do. Of course I want to know something, anything. But more than that…
I want to know her.
“Yes.”
She takes one of my hands in hers, careful, deliberate, and guides it to her face.
My fingers brush her cheek first, meeting soft skin, the faintest hint of warmth.
I let my hands move carefully—up to the slope of her nose, down the curve of her jaw, the arch of her brows.
Her cheekbones are sharp, her chin angular. Her nose is strong, narrow.
“I’ve never done this before,” I murmur, the words slipping out without thought.
“No?” Her voice is soft.
“No,” I admit. “I’ve only met a few new people since I lost my sight, and I never cared enough to wonder.”
The weight of that admission settles between us. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. I can’t see her expression. But she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she presses my hand gently to her temple, then down to her lips. Her mouth is fuller than I expected, wider. She giggles underneath my touch.
“But you care now,” she says, voice quiet, steady.
I exhale, my fingers resting lightly against her skin.
“Yes.”
Sometimes, I care so much, I fear it might break me.
My hands fall down. I feel around for the bandages. “Is the wound clean?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I wrap the bandage round her leg, tight and sure.
She swallows. “I’ve another wound on my side,” she whispers, voice low. “Shallow, but—”
“It should still be cleaned.”
“Right,” she agrees. “It’s just that, um…”
“What is it?”
“I need to undress.”
“Ah.” I pause for a moment. This is probably a lot more awkward for her than me. “Do you need me to turn away?”
She laughs. “I suppose that’s unnecessary… Just try not to paint too much of a picture in that mind of yours, Prince.”
I chuckle. “No such promises.”
Belts and buckles clink against the floor. She kicks them away with her good leg, hissing as she pulls her shirt away from her skin.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I kneel in front of her with a cloth. She takes my hand and applies it to a narrow cut against her ribs. I try desperately not to think about how high it is, how close my hand must be to other, even softer parts of her…
“Um, Cass? I know you can’t see, but… would you mind looking down anyway?”
I huff nervously, and drop my head towards the floor. Her skin prickles as I dab at it. I try to focus on the task, not to think about anything more than that. Not the smell of her or the heat of her skin…
“You’re warm,” I remark. “Are you running a fever?”
“No,” she assures me.
I take her word for it. She’s probably still pumped from battle.
She inhales sharply as I apply the disinfectant, fingers flexing briefly around my shoulder. I murmur an apology before finding another roll of bandage and looping it around her waist. She guides me, her fingers skimming mine as I grace the small of her back.
“Higher,” she whispers.
“Right.”
Finally, the bandage is secured in place.
“Could you… retrieve my nightgown?” she asks. “It’s under the pillow in my bedroom.”
“Of course.”