He met her eyes, his words grim, “I never thought the old fable would turn quite so literal.”
The words hung for a moment before he approached the corpse and knelt. Her dress was torn, generic in style but dyed in colours that weren’t commonly worn in Tremore. There were noobvious wounds, but the pallor of the skin told him she had been dead for some time.
Princess JingYi stood beside him, eyes studying the corpse with intensity.
“You’re not unsettled by the sight,” he remarked.
She blinked and looked at him. “What use is fear and shock when they bring no comfort to the dead?”
Alexander didn’t know how to respond. He was a man of action, but her quiet pragmatism was its own form of action. In that moment, he understood the treaty hadn’t sent him a fragile ornament, but a potential ally with steel for a spine.
The thought was somehow more arresting than the corpse.
He exhaled, gaze sweeping the tree line and the still water beyond. “We’ll bring her back to camp. Examine her closely. Determine if her death was natural.”
JingYi gave a small nod.
“I’ll walk you back,” he said, “then return with a few of my men.”
“Do you wish me to assist with the assessment, my lord?”
He stared at her—this woman who continued to surprise him. He couldn’t name a single noblewoman, let alone a princess, who’d so readily offer to examine a corpse.
“You’re the only healer here,” he said. “I need your help, but only if you’re willing.”
Her tone did not waver. “I am.”
They walked back without a word. In front of her tent, she paused and inclined her head in silent thanks. He bowed and turned to find Darion and Tedric by the firepit, overseeing the night guards.
“Arm yourselves,” he told them. “The princess found a corpse in the lake.”
A moment of silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Darion and Tedric exchanged a look.
“Your bride’s got a stronger stomach than most,” Darion said at last.
Tedric was already moving. “Where?”
The body lay as he’d left it, half-submerged in reeds. They wrapped her in canvas and bore her back to camp. By the time they returned, a stir had already spread.
As they laid the shrouded body on cleared ground, a sharp shriek split the night. One of the Xûen women clutched her shawl and stumbled back.
“Is that—whatisthat?!” she cried in Isseric.
“You brought a corpse into camp?” another sneered, lifting her skirt as if death might stain her hem.
The third pressed a kerchief to her nose, calmer than the other two, but no more sympathetic. “Lord Wulfbane, have we not suffered enough indignities?”
Alexander’s gaze snapped to them, their shrill voices grating in his ears. These women, who had cowered in the carriage while their mistress was trapped outside, now dared to wrinkle their noses at the dead.
His voice cut low and clear through the camp. “This woman was someone’s daughter. Someone’s kin. Show her respect”—his jaw hardened—“or hold your tongues.”
Silence fell at once. None dared meet his eyes.
The princess emerged from her tent a heartbeat later, her medicine chest in hand, a breath of fresh air from her hysterical companions. When she reached the body, she looked to Alexander for permission.
He nodded. “If you haven’t changed your mind.”
“I haven’t.”
