chapter 44

Chapter 44

The candlelight flickered across old parchment as Alistair leaned over the war table beside his father. Maps were splayed before them—marked with routes, red circles, and notes written in the King's own hand.

"You think Lord Tavren is loyal?" Mathias asked, eyes narrowed.

"He's loyal to coin," Alistair replied, voice steady. "If Aethelgar pays him better, he'll change sides like he changes clothes."

Mathias gave a gruff chuckle. "Spoken like a man who understands the game." He placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "I'm proud of you, Alistair. You're no longer just a sword—you're a mind Valla needs."

That quiet praise warmed something deep in Alistair's chest. He gave a brief nod and excused himself as the hour grew late.

The hallways of the palace were dim and quiet, lit by the soft glow of torches. He walked toward his chamber, pushing open the door gently. The sight before him stopped him for a breath.

Jasmine sat on the edge of their bed, her long hair cascading down her back, a book open in her lap. She didn't glance up as he entered.

"You're not waiting up for me, were you?" he asked softly, a teasing tone in his voice.

She looked up, smiling as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Of course not," she said lightly. "I was just… captivated by this."

Alistair glanced at the book. The Line of Valois Kings and Bloodlines.

"Why are you looking through that?"

"I want to know my in-laws better," she said with a mischievous glint in her eye, snapping the book shut.

He chuckled faintly, already turning toward the wardrobe, but she stood before he could step away. Barefoot and graceful, she walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps. Her arms slid around his waist.

"Always running," she whispered against his neck, her breath warm.

He was taken aback but didn't move. Her kiss brushed against his lips once, then again—deeper this time. He responded, almost instinctively, hands finding her waist.

Jasmine kissed him harder, more passionately, and his resistance faltered. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her body pressed to his as they fell into the rhythm of unspoken want. The air between them burned as she pulled him to the bed. Clothes slipped off, kisses trailed skin, and the chamber filled with the hush of something heady and heated. For a time, Alistair let himself forget everything.

Later that night, when Jasmine lay asleep in his arms, Alistair stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed. Guilt gnawed at the edges of his chest.

He eased away gently, careful not to wake her, and dressed swiftly. Pulling a cloak over his shoulders, he slipped out into the night.

The moon hung high as he reached the hidden path. Their place—where Elias always waited with silent fire in his eyes—was empty.

Alistair stood in the quiet. He waited.

And waited.

But no sound of footsteps came. No familiar voice in the dark.

Just silence.

Eventually, he turned and left, the hollow ache following him back to the palace.

------

The air in the stone hall was damp with the scent of herbs, hay, and the faint musk of illness. Light from narrow windows spilled across rows of benches and wooden tables, where students in drab-toned robes shifted uncomfortably under the gaze of the instructor.

"You will be paired," the scholar announced, his voice firm and clipped. "Today's trial lies before you—an ailing beast, wounded and fevered. Work in silence. Let your hands speak, not your tongues."

Alissa's name was spoken.

"Alissa. With Ronan."

A few students chuckled under their breath. Ronan stood from his place with all the grace of someone who knew exactly how others saw him—broad-shouldered, golden-brown skin catching the light, jaw sharp as if carved from stone. His steps were deliberate as he made his way to the far side of the room, where a small fawn lay curled, sides heaving, its legs trembling faintly.

Alissa followed, but her chest tightened. They hadn't spoken in days—since he'd last made some offhand remark that stung more than she let show. He hadn't even bothered to learn her full name.

"You can stand there or help," he said without looking up, crouching beside the creature.

"I'll help," she replied, keeping her voice calm.

He raised a brow, but said nothing. The fawn's side was marked with a deep gash, slightly crusted with old blood and heat. Ronan reached for the knife.

"Wait," Alissa said, a touch sharper than she meant.

Ronan's gaze flicked to her, cautious.

"You'll worsen it if you cut there," she added, quieter. "See the swelling? There's heat, too. It's festered."

He didn't argue—but he didn't agree either. He simply set the blade down and folded his arms.

"Fine. Show me," he said.

Her hands worked steadily—grinding feverroot, mixing balm, applying gentle pressure as the fawn whimpered. Ronan watched. He passed her clean cloths, shifted the tray closer. Their work was efficient, silent but not hostile.

"You're not… bad," he said eventually.

Alissa glanced at him. "Neither are you. Just insufferable."

That almost got a grin out of him—but he hid it quickly, as if grinning would cost him something.

The lesson ended with the fawn resting easier. The scholar passed them once without remark, which in his world, meant they'd done well.

Ronan stood first, brushing dust from his robes.

"You're better than they say," he muttered as he walked off.

Alissa blinked, then turned to clean the tray. She didn't smile. But something in her chest was quieter than before.

As the class ended and the young fawn was gently set aside, Ronan stood, brushing dirt from his knees. Alissa offered a wordless nod, not quite a truce, but perhaps something less hostile. He gave a short grunt in return—neither kind nor cruel—then turned to pack the remaining supplies.

Just then, familiar footsteps echoed from the hall, quick and unbothered. Finn appeared in the doorway, his cloak slightly askew and eyes bright with that usual strange gleam.

"There you are," he said, his voice light as ever. "You smell like moss and regret."

Alissa let out a laugh. "It's mint poultice. For the infection."

Finn tilted his head, stepping further into the room. "Either way, you've officially become a healer. Or a swamp witch."

Ronan looked up from the table, his expression hardening the moment he saw Finn. "Didn't know stray cats were allowed near the infirmary."

Finn's grin didn't waver, but his gaze sharpened. "Didn't know pigs were being trained to bandage wounds."

Alissa sighed. "Must you two always behave like this?"

"Only when he breathes," Ronan muttered, slinging his satchel over his shoulder.

Finn merely widened his eyes innocently. "Some of us are allergic to arrogance. It's a medical condition."

Ronan didn't answer. He shot Alissa a final look—indecipherable, like most of his glances—and strode out of the room.

Once he was gone, Finn turned to her, expression softening. "He didn't throw you into a wall or bite you, so I assume things went… decently?"

Alissa shook her head, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "He's still prickly. But no claws this time."

Finn leaned against the table. "Careful. You're learning to speak 'Ronan'. That's how it begins."

"And how does it end?"

He smirked. "With you either dueling him or accidentally becoming friends. Both terrifying options."

She laughed again, then gently bumped her shoulder against his. "Thanks for coming."

"Always," he said, voice soft. "Just say the word and I'll throw myself down the Citadel stairs in your honor."

Alissa rolled her eyes, fondness blooming in her chest. No matter how strange Finn seemed to others, he'd always been her first shield here.