My mouth opens, but no sound comes out at first. I sit there in stunned silence as he takes the seat opposite me, settling with quiet finality as the door closes behind him.
Finally, I manage to speak.
“What are you doing?”
He exhales slowly. “Apparently, I am going to see your father.”
I know the words he’s using. I understand the language perfectly.
And yet their meaning refuses to settle.
“You’re going to see…” I blink at him. “Wait, what?”
He bows his head slightly, a loose strand of ivory hair slipping free to fall across his blue eye before he straightens again. “I am your escort.”
No.
I shake my head at once, the denial instinctive and immediate. That can’t be right.
“You said…”
“I said I would grant your favor if I could send someone with you.” His mouth curves, just faintly. “I am that someone.”
I stare at him, still unconvinced, still half-expecting the carriage to dissolve around us and reveal that I’m still asleep in my bed, dreaming this entire exchange.
“But what about the Aurevault?” I manage.
He shrugs, entirely unconcerned. “Atilia will handle it. She seems to be enjoying the additional responsibilities.”
“She’s your mother, isn’t she?” I ask.
He leans back in his seat, resting one arm along the back of the carriage with casual ease. “Yes. She mentioned to me that she had told you. You have clearly made an impression on her.”
I smile, about to reply.
“I didn’t say it was a good one,” he says dismissively.
My smile falters.
“Shall we?” he continues. “The sooner we arrive, the sooner we return.”
He raps his knuckles once against the roof of the carriage. Outside, the sprites shout something unintelligible, a whip cracks sharply, and the horses surge forward into a run.
Brunemar unfolds around us in rolling swathes of white, snow-draped pines, wide fields softened beneath drifting frost. Snow falls steadily now, thick enough to blur the distance, while the wind whistles and moans alongside the carriage as Castle Frostwyn disappears behind us.
Beyond the open land, the road carries us toward the forest.
It looms vast and ancient, dense with gnarled, twisting trees whose branches knit together so tightly overhead that snow slips through only in soft, scattered flakes, never the heavy downpours common elsewhere. Because of this, there is green here. Dark and damp, but green all the same.
Possibly the last green in all of Brunemar.
Roots snake across the uneven path, jostling the carriage with every turn.
Luceran wipes the condensation from the glass with his sleeve and peers out, his eyes sweeping the forest with sharp attention, tracking every flicker of movement between the trees.
“This is where they say the bandits are?” I ask.
He nods. “They attacked several Elarium transports last month. They didn’t manage to take much, but enough to become an irritation.”
