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One hand dropped from its hold, lowering slowly, as he traced the marks on my face. His thumb trailed down my neck, my skin burning with a blush, stopping just short of the tamer's claiming marks.
With time, those marks would fade, his scent along with them. He hadn’t taken what would have made those two small imprints last my lifetime. Another reason to thank the Mother.
A cough broke the silence. Daethian’s hand fell to his side as Graceson’s pale face appeared in the doorway. His eyebrows rose with mild curiosity despite the pain lacing his tense features.
I shook my head, angling myself away from Daethian and toward the door. My muscles screamed at the small movement of lifting my legs to the top of the bed.
“Don’t move too quickly,” Daethian reminded me before his attention slid back to Graceson.
“Randsin is laid down in that room, but I think at this point it is in my best interest to return to the Acture Court and report to King Windre. I need to seek medical help myself.” He swayed in the doorframe, making my worry for him spike. “I’ll return when I can, hopefully with help. It seems I’m not very welcome here anyway.”
He was right. His presence was a sore spot for many of the Nymphs here. It would take a bit more persuasion and proof of their kindness for Fae to walk around these people without lingering glares and threats.Yet, to see him leave in such a state. I wasn’t sure my conscious could handle that.
“Tomorrow.” My voice was soft but firm. “Take what you need and please be careful, but stay the night. Are you sure you can make it there in your condition?”
“I’ve fought through wars in worse condition than this, you know.”
“I don’t doubt your strength but I couldn’t bear it if something happened and I didn’t at least offer you help first.” My eyelids felt heavier with every blink.
Graceson dipped his head in a nod. For a moment his attention came and went over Daethian with a scowl. Not a single muscle so much as twitched as Daethian weathered the look, much to my surprise. In the end, Graceson leaned into the door frame. “As you wish it.”
“I’ll stay with him and Randsin,” Daethian managed, finally pulling himself away from my side.
Randsin was high on many Nymphs’ shit lists. As the head guard, there had been a lot of punishment that had to be dealt out by his hand. Not his own orders but King Ganglin's. Even though he had taken me to the Acture Court, I still had a thread of concern that his closeness with King Ganglin made him a threat to us. A seed of distrust that was growing inside of my head.
Graceson gave him a small bow and disappeared from the room, leaving us alone once more. Daethian turned back to me, slipping his hands into his deep pockets.
“Well,” he started.
“Well,” I whispered in return.
“Rest and I’ll see if I can find someone who can help us find a healer. You need to start healing—” Anything else he had wanted to say stopped as he clamped his jaw firmly shut and closed the door quietly behind him.
I sagged against the bed, the fullness of the pillow cupping the sides of my face. Voices carried through the hall as Nymphs made themselves busy. Either finding places to sleep, pillage, or work in the meantime.
My eyes closed but my mind couldn’t stop replaying everything that had happened over and over again. What was in that box that King Ganglin needed so badly? Why did it seem so familiar? Like deja vu.
Whatever it was, Daethian was right. We needed to start healing. Because this was only the beginning.
Shavarra’s modest home was our biggest blessing in disguise. Local traffic didn’t travel as far as her front porch, which limited the number of wandering eyes. She had stocked the home well. Well enough to keep the number of people crammed into the small space sufficiently fed.
Old worn maps, which she said had belonged to her grandmother, were rolled and stored in cylinders along her bookshelf. They were dated at best, with the edges crinkled and the landmarks fading from the hand drawn images, but they told me everything I needed to know.
My city of Caratona was one of the largest settlements in the Twinity Court, not unusual given that this was where my royal family resided. However, people often commented on the fact that we were not central to the Twinity Court. The castle was too near the border of the Acture Court, a foolish place to have our capital. But the location had been picked many, many centuries ago by my ancestors who drew near their allies and placed distance between themselves and their enemies.
It was convenient now that we needed to travel with this large group that there would be less Twinity Court land that we would have to pass through. My finger drew a path over the crinkled outdated map following a road that many had forgotten, a road that used to carry exports to the other courts before we created new more direct routes. We could only hope the path was still there and passable. Though our roads were always built to last, so I expected it would be. Doubt pricked my stomach. It would be an extra day of travel, still risky, but it was the safer option. As a group, we would travel along the Acture Court and Obtune Court border within the Acture Court until we made it to the Heathern Court.
Silently, I rolled the map back up, slipped it back into its canister, and deposited it into the side pocket of my backpack. The bag that I carried was stuffed to near eruption even though it carried only essentials. I had to carry for those who could not.
A sense of regret echoed within me. My wasted opportunity as a prince. I could have stayed quiet. I could have upheld my responsibilities without bickering. Biding my time would have been good enough to get me to the crown, to get me in a position to actually help these people.
My gaze drifted along the path. Far to my left, Jesseline walked on the outskirts of the dirt road, her body relaxed as she kicked at the thin layer of snow with her boots. All of it, every movement, every relaxed posture, was for show. I could see the way her eyes drifted along the woods. On occasion, she’d drop her hood to listen intently to the woods that surrounded us on either side.
Jesseline kept a steady watch at the front of our group while another assassin she called Slyke remained at the back. Slyke was a tall, muscular man, who surprised me with his nimbleness despite how broad he was. He helped carry a woman whose tendon had somehow been severed as she fled the refuge, her leg now unable to support her. The woman seemed happy enough as she leaned against him and stared warmly up at his navy-blue skin and metallic gray hair.
Slyke’s role was that of the messenger, I’d been informed. When he had appeared, materializing inside Shavarra’s living room before we left, I nearly had a panic attack. Only royal blood carried that ability. Though it made sense, once explained. All assassins distantly belonged to royal bloodlines, distant cousins of sorts. They were scouted and recruited because of this ability. My tutors skipped that lesson in my history books, leaving me to wonder what else may have been left from my education.
Jesseline could do it too, appear and disappear at her will. It’s what made them good assassins. But their indirect bloodlines diluted the power enough that their ability to transport someone or something with them was limited to the weapons they packed.
