“Conrad is nothing but putty in your hands, now,” Lord Wulfbane remarked with amusement as he lingered while she packed her supplies.
“He seems exceedingly fond of you,” JingYi commented, latching her box closed. “And you of him.”
He shrugged, but pride shone in his eyes. “He came to Parandor when he was eight, but I’ve known him since he was born.”
He lifted the tent flap for her and escorted her out while she hobbled beside him. “I myself began training under Conrad’s father when I was nine.”
A man who wasn’t his blood took him and raised him as a son. Then, he took that man’s son and raised that child as his own. His upbringing was a lineage of chosen bonds—love and loyalty offered even to those not born of blood. It stood in stark contrast to hers, where affection was a prize, kinship a battlefield.
Quietly, she said, “My father sired twenty-eight children. All except one was not born from his true wife, the empress, but from the scores of consorts he kept at his beck and call. I was born from his favourite, a concubine named JingMei.”
JingMei, though a Beta, had been extremely beautiful and talented in all kinds of womanly arts. She held the emperor enthralled until she gave birth to a baby girl with a large birthmark on her left cheek.
“You have twenty-seven half-brothers and sisters?” Lord Wulfbane asked, his tone incredulous. “I have a sister, Yrenna. One, and already find her a handful.”
JingYi kept her eyes forward, though she felt his sidelong glance.
“Are you close with any of your half-siblings?” he asked.
Lashes lowered, she stared at the folded hands pressed against her midsection. Hands like LinXin’s, that night in theabandoned courtyard—her cheek pressed to a crack in the fence, her sister on the other side. LinXin had cupped her palms, whispered a word, and parted her hands to reveal a shimmer of gold, a glow like captive fireflies. JingYi had clapped in delight until LinXin leaned close and warned, ‘Don’t tell anyone.’
For that breath of time, exile had fallen away, loneliness seemed easier to bear. They were sisters again, laughing in the glow.
And then—nothing. No one.
Heat rose beneath JingYi’s veil. How could she ever speak of such scraps of affection, of a life so pitiful, without sounding like a pathetic creature?
She finally said, “My upbringing is far different from yours, Lord Wulfbane. Though nature dictates I should be close to my half-siblings, it wasn’t so. We weren’t . . . raised to trust one another. Our father strongly believes if his children form a bond, they will work together to overthrow him.”
He didn’t respond straightaway. His gaze drifted to the camp beyond them—men taking down tents, horses stamping as saddles were secured. When he spoke, his voice was low, cautious. “How does he destroy any possibilities of trust between you?”
Her eyes found the pine needles on the ground. “He dangles his attention and affection in front of his children as if they are prizes to be won. Only the exceptional ones win the bits and pieces of what he is willing to dole out.”
She didn’t want to tell him she was never in the running to win her father’s affection. When she was a little girl, she’d dreamt of them: a caring father, loving siblings, kinship and support from a family. She used to believe, foolishly, that their love could be earned. That if her face were less blemished, if her limp less noticeable, if she worked hard enough, her family might finally see her as worthy.
But the palace didn’t deal in dreams. It dealt with creatures like her swiftly and quietly, until her hopes finally learned to keep silent.
To JingYi’s relief, Lord Wulfbane asked no more questions. They had reached her tent and stopped.
“I’ll have one of your ladies fetch your breakfast,” he said. “We’ll be leaving in precisely one hour.”
She curtsied, veil stirring in the morning breeze. “Thank you, my lord.”
He inclined his head and moved on. She slipped inside, her chest still warm from their conversation.
He had listened. Not to dissect or dismiss, but simply to hear. In the palace, such grace was a currency never minted for her.
The carriage rolled along the path winding through hills and valleys. Her three companions had bickered since morning, sour from being woken early and served nothing but gruel and plain tea—though everyone had the same meal, Lord Wulfbane included.
JingYi thought her ears might ring from it all, until came the blessed hush when his stallion drew alongside the conveyance. The women stopped mid-complaint, mouths hanging open as they stared at him. They might sneer at his stern bearing, call him crude and a barbarian, but no one could deny the chiseled cut of his features or the unyielding beauty of a man built like storm and stone.
JingYi watched, somewhat amused, as their mockery died in their throats, replaced by a different kind of hunger. The hypocrisy was so blatant it was almost pitiable.
Once he passed, their eyes slid to her and sharpened.
“Do you have a place to go when he throws you out?” MeiYün sneered.
“Hold on to that veil.” LánYàn laughed. “He won’t look at you the same when he finds out.”
