She decided to give him the truth, stripped of ornament.
“After my mother passed, I had no protector,” she said. “No place. But there was one person left.” The memory was an ache she suppressed every day. “Wu Ma. She took care of my mother and I during exile, cared for me when I was an infant. She brought me to the Royal Dispensary, where she worked. At first, I only cleaned tools and fetched water. But I listened and watched.”
“And time has proven you excel at medicine.”
She nodded.
“I had to earn my keep if I didn’t want them to starve me, or throw me outside the walls of the Imperial Palace,” she said.To be useful was to be safe.“A skill with brewing potions, no matter how menial, is still more precious than washing floors or dusting tables. I had to learn from the bottom. In time, I rose to the post of a Physician’s Attendant.”
“An Attendant?” he echoed. “Why not a Physician? Or even Royal Physician? You’re clearly capable.”
The question, so blunt and reasonable, caught her off guard. Of course he would ask. In his world, capability likely dictated rank.
“Because a woman is not permitted to hold the Physician’s rank,” she said, keeping her voice devoid of the resentment that still occasionally smouldered.
The rule was absolute, its injustice a dull, accepted ache.
He grunted—a sound of pure, unvarnished scorn for the law itself.
Silence fell again, broken only by Duskwane’s steady stride and the creak of leather. Then his voice came quieter, more measured. “Why was your mother exiled? And—” He paused for a long moment. “How did she pass?”
Her shoulders stiffened. The questions were direct, yet her throat closed around the answer—an old, hardened truth she had never spoken aloud. He’d asked for a story, but what lived inside her was an ember—buried for years, cool on the surface. One breath of air and it would burn them both.
But she couldn’t lie, especially not now, when he already suspected she’d conspired with her father.
“She was executed.” The words fell evenly into the space between them, though her voice had gone hoarse. “The court accused her of infidelity. My father gave the order.”
She didn’t look back. Shecouldn’t. Instead, she focused on the worn leather of the reins, on the steady pulse of the horse beneath them. She only heard the small hitch of his breath behind her.
“I was six,” she continued, the memory arriving red and hot inside her mind. “Old enough to understand what it meant, but not old enough to defend her.”
He said nothing. The world seemed to hold its breath. She thought perhaps he wouldn’t respond at all—that her history was too bleak, too sharp to touch, that it was better to pretend it never happened at all than to add yet another blemish to her blotchy self.
Then, his voice came, low and rough at the edges. “Your mother was executed. So was my father.”
Quieter still, he added, “We have more in common than I realized.”
By the time they reached the village, the mist had thinned to fuzzy shreds, trailing across rooftops. Chimney smoke mingled with the damp air. JingYi dismounted slowly, legs stiff from the ride. The soreness she hid—there was nothing to gain in letting anyone see it—but she was beginning to understand why riding sidesaddle over uneven ground had been considered a form of torture.
A few villagers looked up as they passed. Axel waved before being tugged back by his sister. JingYi returned the gesture anyway. Small things, but they eased the weight in her chest.
“Princess.”
The gruff voice came from the far side of the square. Ulrik Hearthstone stood in the doorway of his home, wiping his hands on a cloth darkened with soot. Beside him was Annett. JingYi was relieved to see her face less pale than the day before, eyes more alert.
“Ulrik,” Alexander greeted. He inclined his head, and she caught the respect in his tone.
“My lord.” Ulrik returned with a nod before addressing her. “Didn’t expect you back so soon, Highness.”
She gave the man a gentle smile. “I did say I’d return, didn’t I?”
He grunted and stepped aside, holding the door open for her. “My Annett’s feeling better today, but come in.”
The young woman offered a shy smile as JingYi approached. “The sachet helped, Your Highness. I slept well, and the pain didn’t crawl down my legs like it used to.”
“I’m glad,” JingYi murmured, ushering her to the armchair in front of a blazing hearth. She did her usual: checking the pulse, raising the girl’s hem just enough to feel her ankles.
She looked up. “You’ve been lifting the water jugs again, haven’t you?”
