“More importantly, they haven’t squandered it.”
JingYi’s fingers gently picked a bit of soil from the underside of one leaf. “Too many accept loyalty as their right until they discover it can be lost.”
He glanced at her—sharp, curious—but let the silence stretch, as if giving her room to take it back or finish it.
When she said nothing else, he said, “Prince Kaelendrin mentioned you might be continuing on to Bashkor.”
She blinked. “I’m considering it.”
“If you’d decided to do so, he already ordered that a team of escorts be provided for you.”
“That’s generous of him.”
“The princes treat their staff well, and the princess is a kind and fair mistress. You’d be better off as part of their household than trying your luck in Bashkor. It’s not an easy place, especially for an Omega travelling alone.”
She turned slightly, searching his expression, but there was no condescension in it, just a kind of steady, measured concern. But his words roused curiosity. She thought of Reiyana—of the princess who’d nearly been spirited away. Was that why Prince Kaelendrin had insisted on an escort for her journey?
“I’m learning,” she said, “that nowhere is particularly easy for an Omega.”
His jaw shifted, just barely.
“No,” he said. “I don’t imagine it is.”
Staying here—tending to Reiyana’s discomforts, monitoring her pulse, preparing tonics—these were tasks she could do in her sleep. There was safety in that routine. Dignity in serving apurpose. A level of ease she could expect for being part of the princess’s household.
It would be a comfortable life.
But what would happen when Prince Kaelendrin learned the truth? That she wasn’t just a wandering healer, but his cousin’s wife. Kin to his House by a marriage that, despite the annulment request, was still unbroken. Would her presence at the princess’s side become uncomfortable?
And when the annulment became public, would she be a disgrace to be quietly cast out? Or worse, would honour demand her return to Tremore as misplaced property? The herb basket felt heavier now, as if the weight of her uncertain future mingled with the lemon balm and ginger root.
As she adjusted the handle for a better grip, Captain Marzius reached for the basket. “Allow me.”
“That’s not necessary?—”
“I didn’t offer to be polite.”
She studied his face, trying to read the shape of his intent, but it remained as composed as ever. If anything, he looked amused by her hesitation.
“Thank you.”
He took the basket without fuss and gestured toward the path. “You’re returning to the princess?”
“I need to brew these before supper.”
“Then, I’ll walk with you.”
She fell into step beside him—slowly, carefully, herstep-dragrhythm more obvious over the gravel. He matched her pace without fuss. They didn’t speak at first, but the silence felt different now. Not the brittle quiet of strangers, but something that might one day become comfort or, dare she hope, friendship?
As they reached the foot of the steps leading back to the palace, the captain paused. She turned, expecting him to handher the basket. Instead, he crouched beside a narrow plot of blue-white blossoms lining the stone path. He plucked three of the biggest flowers and straightened.
“For you,” he said simply, holding them out to her.
JingYi’s lips parted. The gesture was so simple, so devoid of the performative flourish she’d often witnessed at Peony Court. For a heartbeat, her hand almost lifted. The desire to accept something beautiful was a physical ache—a hunger for kindness that asked for nothing in return.
But her mind countered: the last hand that offered gentleness had also held the quill that ended her future. To accept this now felt like unlocking a door she’d sworn to keep bolted shut.
She didn’t reach for them.
