Then he let his hand fall away.
We stepped out into the open and found them in a shaded hollow beneath a leaning cypress. Alaric was leaning against the trunk, swiping at his jaw with the back of his hand, trying to erase the faint red smudges of lipstick. Gideon was crouched low, tossing a stick for Bran while Jasira laughed softly beside him.
They looked lighter. Happier. Unaware of the noose and the cheering crowd on the hill above.
No one asked where we’d been. No one needed to.
The air here felt different, loose, though for me, it still carried the echo of the bell, and the warmth of Erindor’s hand lingered against my skin.
The road that led to Caerthaine’s inner wall curved up through a ravine, hemmed by pale cliffs and guarded not by watchtowers but by stillness. The castle perched above like a predator, all silver and slate, its turrets sharp-edged and faceless. Even the birds seemed to fly in wider arcs around it.
As we climbed the final slope, the wind shifted once more, colder, slipping through my cloak like it threatened to tear it away.
Finally, the gate loomed before us, marking the end of our arduous journey.
It wasn’t like Elyrien’s: no open arch, no heralds, no banners unfurling. A blackened portcullis flanked by twelve armed soldiers, their armor immaculate, faces unreadable behind water-forged helms.
One stepped forward. His clipped and disinterested voice cut through the air.
“Name and purpose.”
Alaric stood taller before answering. “Crown Prince Alaric of Elyrien. Accompanied by Princess Wynessa and an escort. Traveling under diplomatic treaty, by Caerthaine’s own invitation.”
The guard gave a small, practiced nod and raised two fingers as a signal.
Another soldier stepped forward, younger, mouth twitching with amusement. His eyes passed over Gideon, Jasira, and then landed on me. His gaze lingered, fixed and unwavering, until a shiver of unease traced up my spine.
“So, this is her,” he muttered, loud enough for his companions to hear. “Pretty enough to keep the peace, I suppose.”
My stomach churned, a sudden wave of nausea washing over me.
The wind cut sharper through the stone arches, and for a moment I felt it again, the noose, the silence, the cold eyes in the square.
Before I could respond, Erindor stepped forward.
He moved slowly, deliberately. His boots crunched over the gravel path, his expression unreadable.
A flicker of surprise crossed the soldier's face as he blinked. “Is there a problem, sir?” he asked, straightening, a subtle edge to his voice.
Erindor just stared.
A stare that didn’t threaten violence but promised it.
The guard looked away first and opened the gates without another word.
We passed under the portcullis without fanfare. No cheering, bowing, or warm welcome.
Inside the walls, I nudged my way up beside Erindor. “You didn’t have to glare at him like that.”
“He was wrong,” he said, eyes fixed ahead.
I raised a brow. “You think I need defending?”
“No,” he hissed. “I think you don’t realize what you are.”
I frowned. “And what am I?”
He didn’t hesitate.
