Alexander exhaled. He obviously thought she misunderstood his intention. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” she said, her voice quiet. Shedidknow. And the knowing was the deepest cut of all.
He hesitated, then said carefully, “If you’d rather walk, we’ll walk. If you’d rather ride, I’ll arrange it. It’s no longer about tradition. It’s about?—”
“—what’s proper. What looks best,” she murmured. “I understand.”
Then she turned her head, her gaze catching his. For an instant, she saw a shadow in his eyes—a kind of stark frustration, as if she were a puzzle he’d assembled wrong.
The rest of the ride was spent in silence, the space between them feeling wider than the path they strode on.
She didn’t think he meant to be cruel. Still, the shame bloomed hot. Shame that walking would make her a spectacle of infirmity. Shame that riding would make her an alteration, the first Lady Wulfbane who broke tradition. There was no version of this where she did not feel like an inconvenience.
And beneath lay a deeper ache: shehadwanted to walk beside him. As his wife. As his partner. His Omega.
She looked down at Brisa’s mane.
Here, on this path with him, she was still learning what she was allowed to be.
As the days wore on and festival preparations began in earnest, JingYi found her rhythm in Lornhelm. Each morning brought the same ritual: mounting Brisa with Alexander’s or Tedric’s assistance, riding to the village, and moving between cottages where her presence was neither spectacle nor afterthought. Some families still looked at her askance, but most welcomed her aid.
This morning, she swung down from Brisa outside Ulrik’s cottage. The mare snorted softly. Tedric fell in beside her, carrying the medicine chest as he always did on village rounds.
“You’ve come here every day this week, haven’t you, my lady?” he asked.
“Each visit gives me peace. And purpose.”
He glanced at the medicine chest, then at her hands. “Most nobles send words. You bring work.”
Her fingers flexed. Praise always caught her off guard, feeling like a garment that didn’t fit. Yet this—an acknowledgment of simple, honest work—slipped past her defences. Her chest loosened, accepting a comfort she hadn’t known she was allowed to take.
She spotted Ulrik, stacking firewood on the side of the house. He straightened when he spotted them and wiped his hands on his apron.
“Princess,” he said, dipping his head. “Didn’t expect you so early today.”
“The clouds smell like rain,” she replied. “I thought it best to come while the sky still favours us.”
Ulrik chuckled. “Then come in and warm your bones before the sky changes its mind.”
Inside, Annett had settled into her usual chair near the hearth, a thick shawl around her shoulders.
“I’ve brought another round of needle therapy,” JingYi said, sitting beside the girl.
“Whatever you think is best, Highness. That last one did ease the aches. I was able to rest well yesterday.”
“Then we’ll do it again.” She unrolled the leather sleeve holding her limyerite needles and began wiping them with a cloth as usual.
Ulrik pulled up a stool nearby. “You’ll be at the Harvest Festival, won’t you?” he asked.
JingYi’s hands stilled. The question was casual, but it landed with the weight of a formal inquiry. “The ritual climb?”
“Aye. The climb, the lighting of the first lantern, all that. Big thing for the village.” He gave her an intent stare. “Everyone looks to the Lady of the Keep to start the rites.”
She turned her gaze to the linen on her lap, her fingers smoothing an invisible wrinkle. “I’m not certain. Lord Wulfbane suggested it might be best if I didn’t . . . strain myself.”
Ulrik didn’t speak at first. “Because of your leg?”
She inclined her head, the admission bitter on her tongue. It was the truth, yet framing it aloud felt like surrendering to a verdict.
