They both nodded, attentive as she demonstrated, showing the crucial points to relieve pressure, the strokes to improve circulation and support the strain on the princess’s lower spine.
When the lesson concluded, she stepped back and folded her hands. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll excuse myself.”
Before they could stop her, she bowed and slipped through the doorway. The latch clicked shut, and only then did she let her breath shudder free. Tension unspooled from her spine. A quiet satisfaction and a cold relief settled.
She had helped.
But beneath it, a deeper ache. Being in their presence was akin to watching a shattered mirror’s reflection. She’d seen the shape of tenderness—a gentle kiss, protective hands, the illusion of home—and recognized it as something she would only ever know in pieces.
It wasn’t quite jealousy. She could never begrudge the princess such happiness. But it was grief, nonetheless. Because she knew, with the certainty of a long-shattered bone that still ached in the cold: that kind of love was not for her. It never maderoom for the limp in her step or the dark mark the world saw first on her face.
She continued toward the soup stall, her hunger returning. The aroma from before was now a physical taunt.
Then, she halted.
Two seagulls were tearing at her abandoned loaf. A third dipped its beak into her bowl, swallowing a chunk of fish whole. Her meal—gone. A wave of dizzying loss washed over her, so sharp it bordered on nausea. She hadn’t realized how deeply her body had been clinging to the promise of that food.
She sighed and went anyway, kneeling to gather the sodden scraps—not to eat, but because leaving a mess felt ungrateful. Before she could slip away, the vendor spotted her.
“Seagulls are a menace around here,” the woman said, her voice softening as she took in JingYi’s sagging posture. “Sit. I’ll bring another.”
JingYi’s eyes stung. She managed a nod, her throat too constricted for words. When fresh soup and a warm heel of bread were set in front of her, she wrapped both hands around the bowl and met the woman’s eyes.
“Thank you,” she croaked. “I won’t forget your kindness.”
The woman patted her arm. “You were tending to the princess, weren’t you? Nymaris remembers those who help our own.”
She tucked into the meal. The broth was hot and fragrant, rich with the sweetness of shellfish and herbs. She tore off a piece of bread, dipped it, and let the soaked crust melt on her tongue. Warm, soft, just salty enough to brighten the rest. For a few heartbeats, she let herself bestill. To eat. To breathe.
She’d almost finished her meal when a shadow crossed the table.
“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” said a familiar voice—light, smooth, edged with charm.
She made a move to rise, but the golden-haired prince held up his hand. He looked at the empty seat across from her.
“May I?”
She nodded, and he sat.
“You vanished rather quickly,” he said, “for someone who performed a great service to a princess.”
JingYi dropped her head. “I don’t like drawing attention.”
He smiled, as if that answer pleased him. “Understandable, but allow me one indulgence before I leave you in peace—where are you heading?”
Her gaze dropped to her bowl. The temptation to lie rose, but she didn’t want to start that path with someone who had spoken so frankly to her.
After a breath, she answered, “Bashkor.”
His brow lifted. “What for?”
“Employment.”
“As a healer?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Something thoughtful flickered across his face. His fingers drummed on the table before he leaned forward. “I know a faster route than the one you’re on,” he said. “One where you will be handsomely compensated and well taken care of.”
