She patted his neck, feeling the tremors that never quite ceased.
“We have to change the plan, Shadow. Survival comes before secrecy now.”
Late on the second day—or perhaps the dawn of the third, for time had dissolved into a hazy cycle of aching travel—Gessa urged a stumbling Shadow up a low rise. Below them, nestled in a shallow, wooded valley, a thin, grey-brown plume of smoke smudged the pale sky. Not the thick, black smoke of industry, but the softer kind, from hearth fires.
“Look,” Gessa croaked, patting his sweat-streaked neck. “Smoke. That’s Hillston.”
Hope, sharp as pain, lanced through her exhaustion. As they descended, the faint clang of a distant hammer reached her ears, and the rough outlines of low-slung buildings resolved themselves amongst the trees. It was small, but it was civilization.
But with the hope came a suffocating wave of anxiety.
“People,” she whispered, the word tasting like ash. “People mean eyes, Shadow. And eyes mean questions.”
Curious stares would linger on a lone, injured woman riding a horse that shied at nothing. Questions she couldn’t answer without leading back to Polan. Had word of a runaway wife already spread? Were Kestrel and the trackers already scouring every village? Danger lurked in every guarded stare.
Yet, the pull was undeniable. Food. The thought of a hot meal made her stomach clench with emptiness. Sturdier clothes. Her fine linen skirt was torn and stained with dirt and sweat—a clear marker of a fugitive. She needed anonymity. She needed news. And mostly, she needed passage. A spot on a trader’s wagonwould offer a chance to rest her tortured ankle and sleep without the constant fear of her magic betraying her through the horse.
Shadow shied at a shifting branch, his muscles bunching in terror beneath her legs. Gessa felt the jolt of his fear, a direct reflection of the chaotic buzz still humming under her skin.
“I know,” she told him softly, her hand tightening on the reins. “I know I scare you. The magic... it tastes like fire to you, doesn’t it?”
She tried to hold onto the image of the brave gelding who had carried her from the gates of her prison; his strength had been her salvation. But the present reality intruded. He was a liability. His persistent terror would draw unwanted attention in any village street. She couldn’t control him, and she couldn’t care for him. He was a risk she couldn’t afford.
The thought of selling him sat like a cold stone in her gut. She leaned forward, pressing her cheek against his coarse mane for a fleeting moment.
“I can’t keep you,” she whispered, the confession tearing at her throat. “I need a wagon, Shadow. And you... you need to be away from me. Away from the static.”
It was a betrayal, but it was also a mercy.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sitting up and gathering her resolve. “I’m so sorry.”
As Shadow took hesitant steps toward the outlying homesteads, Gessa’s hand tightened on the worn leather, her heart a battleground of grief, fear, and a bitter pragmatism.
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 failedher.”
“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.”
