His eyes darken, not with anger this time but with something I cannot decipher. Something that feels like a question… or an answer.
Before he speaks, I rise.
“Rest,” I say quietly. “I’ll… clean up.”
But as I turn away, I feel his stare burning into my back. As I clean, Luceran slowly begins to reassemble himself. His breaths deepen. His shoulders square. His magic settles like a restless beast returning to heel.
He pushes one hand against the floor and rises, unsteady at first but regaining control with every inch upward. Without a word, he stalks back to the chair that lies skewed across the room. Frost still webs the floor beneath it.
Hegrabs the heavy wood, drags it across the stone, and drops into it. The chair creaks loudly under his weight, as though the castle itself exhales in relief.
I keep my head down and finish what needs to be done. I wipe the spilled tea. I scrape the remnants of food, and last, I gather the bloodstained tablecloth carefully in my arms, folding the evidence of my mistake away from his sight.
When everything is back in place, I clasp my hands before me and try to keep my voice steady.
“I will head to the tower to continue the paperwork, my lord.”
“No.”
The word snaps across the room like a whip. I freeze, breath catching in my throat.
His gaze flicks to my hands. “Is your injury well?”
My… injury?
For a moment, I almost don’t understand what he means. Then the sting flares in my palm. I had almost forgotten the thorn-slice and the smear of blood that caused all this.
I nod quickly. “It’s fine, my lord.”
I start to turn away again, eager to retreat before his mood changes, but his voice stops me once more.
“You will not go to the tower,” he says. “You will come with me.”
I blink, startled. “Come with you?”
He rises, tall and steady now, as if the collapse from moments before were nothing but a dream. “I must inspect the mines. As part of your duties, you will understand how they function.”
My mouth opens, then shuts. I nod instead. “Yes, my lord.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing, but not in anger this time. More in consideration.
“Get a cloak,” he says. “You will not survive long outside wearing only that.”
Thoughtfulness. From him. It lands strangely in my chest, a discordant note I do not know how to place. But I do not question it, not after last night, not after this morning.
I bow my head and hurry out of the dining hall to fetch another coat, the strange echo of his concern trailing after me.
I go straight to my room and, as he has made painfully clear, do exactly as I am told. I pull another cloak from the wardrobe, a thick, fur-lined one with a big bushy collar, and wrap it tightly around my shoulders over my coat. Then I pause, hands gripping the fabric, and draw in a long, steadying breath.
I feel as though I am always one step from disaster. One breath from ruin. One heartbeat from offending him again.
But I square my shoulders and head downstairs.
At the base of the staircase, the grand entrance doors stand wide open. A cold draft spills in, fluttering loose strands of my braid as I tilt my head and walk toward the light.
Outside, the courtyard is eerily deserted. Snow drifts lazily from the sky, gathering in pale mounds against the ancient stone. But at the foot of the stairs rests a carriage unlike anything I have ever seen.
It is pale blue, the color of early-morning frost, etched with delicate gold filigree that glints under the cloudy light. The emblem of the wolf is carved into each door, fangs bared, fur bristled.
