Something changes then.
The sternness in his expression fades. The faint condescension disappears. His gaze drops, and his features soften into something quieter, something I barely recognize, yet somehow always sensed was there.
“Very well,” he says at last. Then, more thoughtfully, “The journey will not be without danger. There are reports of bandits in the woods preying on travelers. To ensure my investment returns in one piece, I will grant your favor only if you allow me to send someone with you.”
Investment. A reminder of exactly what I am to him. But I nod at once. That seems reasonable enough. I picture one of the riders who first came to our farm, men I now understand belong to Atilia’s court, judging by their colors, by the same silver and blue worn by the Fae rebuilding the Aurevault.
“I accept,” I say.
“Then the bargain is struck,” Luceran replies, and a shiver slides down my spine. “Pack what you need. You will depart in the morning.”
I force myself to remain composed, to keep the smile threatening to break free firmly in check. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to run from the hall, tear the boards from my windows, and scream the news across the frozen lake.
But I do none of those things.
Instead, I bow my head, heart racing, hope burning dangerously bright in my chest.
“Thank you, my lord.”
I turn at once, still holding the smile firmly in place as I walk toward the doors. I do not look back. I do not give myself the chance to falter.
Only when I cross the threshold, only when the cold wind sweeps through and the great doors thunder shut behind me, do I finally break.
I fold forward, bracing my hands on my knees as a long, shuddering breath tears free of my chest. It bursts out of me in a quiet, disbelieving laugh, joy flooding through my veins so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
Finally.
At long last, I will see my father again.
The hours between now and dawn suddenly feel impossibly long, and I have never wanted time to move faster than I do now.
I wake before dawn, too restless to lie still, and throw myself into preparation, excitement buzzing through me. I fill a trunk with warm clothes, not only for myself but extra furs and coats for Father as well.
From there I move to the stores, drafting tonics from the well-stocked shelves, grinding herbs and setting brews to bubble. With such high-quality ingredients, these will be far more potent than anything I have been able to make for him before.
When that is done, I gather bread still warm from the kitchens, dried meats wrapped carefully in cloth, packing as much as I can fit into the trunk.
It feels real now.
As I pass the throne room, my steps slow. I pause just beyond the doors, fingers curling briefly at my sides, and for a moment I consider going in. Saying goodbye. Thanking him again.
But the thought feels… presumptuous. As though I imagine myself more important than I am. As though he would care whether I came or went. This is merely an arrangement to balance the scales between him and hisinvestment.
So I keep walking.
Outside, the carriage waits, breath puffing from the horses in pale clouds as the morning frost clings to the stone. I climb inside, settling onto the seat while the sprites flit around me, chattering excitedly as they load my luggage onto the back with exaggerated effort.
I wait.
I expect a rider to join me soon. One of Atilia’s men.
Instead, the carriage door opens.
Cold air rushes in.
And Luceran climbs inside.
He is dressed plainly, in dark trousers and a heavy navy blue tunic, his boots worn and practical, his hair pulled back into a simple ponytail at his nape.
