Interlude The Architect
The silence of the manor was usually a comfort to Polan.
It was the rhythm of a masterwork loom, every thread pulled tight in perfect synchronization with his will.
He had spent years building this—not just the stone and timber, but the people within it.
He treated them well, paid them better, and in return, they gave him a devotion that bordered on worship.
But as he stepped into the foyer, peeling off his riding gloves, the rhythm was off.
He stopped, his gaze going instantly to the spot at the foot of the stairs. It was empty.
He frowned, annoyance tightening his jaw.
Gessa knew the protocol. She was to be present upon his return to receive him.
It was a small thing, a simple act of submission he had instilled in her during their first year.
It grounded her. It reminded her of her place in the pattern.
For her to be absent now was not just a lapse; it was a dissonance.
He waited a beat, listening for the rustle of silk. There was nothing. The house was still. Too still.
Then Marin appeared from the shadows of the hallway. The old valet looked hollowed out, his usual impeccable posture slumped under an invisible weight. He met Polan’s gaze with a look of crushing, personal failure.
“My lord,” Marin choked out, taking the gloves with trembling hands. “I… I have no words. The shame…”
Polan watched the old man crumble. He felt no irritation, only a clinical assessment. Marin was fragile. Anger would break him, and a broken servant was useless. Devotion, however, would bind him forever.
Polan sighed—a soft, weary sound he practiced often. He placed a hand on Marin’s shoulder, letting the warmth seep from his palm, projecting total forgiveness.
“Breathe, old friend,” Polan said gently. “Panic serves no one. Tell me.”
“She is gone, my lord,” Marin whispered, the confession tearing out of him. “Since the evening you left. The stable boy said Shadow is missing. I checked her rooms. I failed you. I failed her.”
“You could not have known,” Polan interrupted, dropping his voice to that intimate register that made men feel chosen. “We knew the sickness of the mind was growing, Marin. We spoke of this. Her confusion… the paranoia the Wild Blood brings. It has finally driven her to flight.”
The narrative took hold. Marin’s guilt shifted into a desperate pity.
“She is not well,” Marin agreed, clutching the gloves. “Out there alone… in her state… who will care for her?”
“We will,” Polan promised, squeezing the old man’s shoulder. “Fetch Kestrel and have Cook prepare a basket for him. The vintage brandy and his favorite travel foods. He will need his strength to bring our mistress home.”
Marin practically ran to obey, his despair transformed into frantic, grateful purpose.
He trailed a hand along the wainscoting.
Once, this wood had been rotted, the estate drowning in his father’s debts.
He had cut out the rot, polished the grain, and made it strong again.
He did the same with people. He found the flaws, the cracks, and he smoothed them away until they were perfect extensions of his design.
Inside his study, the severe, perfect symmetry of the room never failed to ground him, but the order was broken. The top drawer was unlocked. The coin pouch was gone. He opened the bottom drawer.
The space in the corner was bare; she had taken the entire velvet box. But Polan’s eyes went to the parchment. It was skewed slightly, but intact. He smoothed it out with a reverent touch.
It was an ancient thing, vellum cracked with age—a map passed down through his family for six generations, detailing the forgotten pathways his family had been the first to chart.
He traced the route with a finger. By right, these should belong to his family. They had discovered them, yet others had misused them.
For generations now, the Spurs had held the kingdoms by the throat, bleeding the merchant guilds dry with their tolls, deciding who prospered and who starved based on their arrogant, unbending code.
It was a tyranny disguised as a service.
Polan intended to break it. He would open the routes.
He would bring grain to the starving lowlands and iron to the coastal cities without the Spurs’ tax.
He would be the liberator of the common man.
And naturally, as the architect of this new age, the governance of it would fall to him. It was only right.
But the map was useless without a navigator. The Old Ways were fraught with magic that devoured the unguided. He needed an heir with the blood of a Wayfinder—his blood, his name—to secure the route.
He leaned back in his chair, a frown creasing his brow. He had thought this matter settled.
Only a week ago, he had found the contraceptive herbs hidden in her vanity. It had been a difficult night—painful for her, exhausting for him—but necessary. The correction had been severe; she hadn’t been able to get out of bed for two days afterward.
But as she lay there, recovering under his care, he had explained it all so clearly.
He had wiped the tears from her face and told her of the starving families in the lowlands, of the children who would be fed by the trade route their son would open.
He had made her see that her small, selfish desire to remain barren was hurting the very people she claimed to care about.
He had seen the understanding in her eyes. The quiet submission.
To run now, after he had opened his heart to her, after she had accepted the weight of their shared destiny, was baffling. It was a bitter disappointment. He was gifting her the privilege of being a pillar of the dawn of a new age.
He glanced at the ledger on his desk. He was due to ride south in two days to talk about the iron shipment—the second part of the plan, the men who would advance the revolution once he proved the route was viable. Gessa’s timing was inconvenient.
A shadow fell across the doorway. Kestrel.
The tracker stood there, unwashed and reeking of sweat. He didn’t bow. Polan allowed Kestrel his arrogance; it made him a better tool.
“Marin says the gelding is gone,” Kestrel said, his voice a gravelly rasp.
“Shadow,” Polan corrected gently. “And my wife.”
“Three days cold. Rain last night. Hard tracking.”
Polan turned, resting his hip against the desk. “If it were easy, I would have sent the stable master. I sent for you, Kestrel, because there is no one else in this region with the skill to save her from herself.”
He let the compliment land. Kestrel straightened and stood taller.
“She is unwell, Kestrel,” Polan said, weaving the net.
“The illness… it twists her thoughts. She believes I wish her ill. She may tell you I hurt her. Wild tales.” He let a shadow of concern darken his face.
“She has a locket—stolen, of course—and she may claim it was actually hers. She is a woman alone, vulnerable, with a mind that is unstable. I only want the best for her.”
Kestrel’s jaw tightened. Polan knew exactly where to press.
“Bring her back,” Polan said softly. “She is injured. She will be frightened. She may fight you like a trapped animal. She may scream lies about me, about this house. It is the fever talking.”
He walked over to Kestrel, invading his space just enough to assert dominance, holding his gaze.
“Do what you must to secure her. If she is broken, I can put her back together. I have done it before.” His voice dropped, draining of warmth, into pure, clinical instruction. “But Kestrel… the womb must be safe. The vessel is precious only because of what it will soon carry. Do you understand?”
“I’ll find her,” Kestrel promised.
“I know.” Polan moved to the side table. “Go.”
As Kestrel vanished, Polan turned back to the window, looking out over his manicured gardens. He took a slow breath, centering himself.
He imagined Gessa out there—cold, hungry, possibly injured.
He didn’t want her dead. He wanted her back in this room.
He wanted the pleasure of stripping away this new, foolish layer of rebellion.
He wanted to watch the realization dawn in her eyes that there was no escape, that his will was the only solid ground in the universe.
He had never found a horse he couldn’t break. Gessa would be no exception.
“Run, my love,” he whispered to the empty room, tasting the anticipation of the correction to come. “Exhaust yourself. And when you are ready to be whole again, I will be here.”