39. Chapter 39

thirty-nine

N evander’s gaze swept the cozy bathing chamber, the jade tiles on the walls and floors glimmering in the frosty dawn. Under different circumstances, he might have found it cozy, even inviting. But his focus was only on the large clawfoot tub, steam rising from the water in the cool sunlight streaming through the large picture window. His arms screamed at the Kallessa’s weight, but he wouldn’t release her just yet.

“What is your name, girl?” he asked the maid.

The young girl curtsied. “Penny, my lord.” She looked tidy and even though dawn had barely broken, her dark hair was neatly braided under a starched white cap.

“Penny, do you know who she is?” Nevander nodded down to Kallessa, dirty and cold in his arms. Another pain tore through him at the sight of her.

Her lips trembled before she whispered, “yes, my lord.”

He met Penny’s eyes. “And you will take care of her, correct?”

Penny strode forward, resting a hand on Kallessa’s cold arm. “Yes, my lord. Rest assured, I will take care of her.”

Nevander nodded and gently laid Kallessa in a chair. Dovina stood silently, still in shock if Nevander could guess, but her guilt-ridden face assured him she’d do right by her cousin. With a last, lingering look at Kallessa, he left the bathing room, his boots echoing in the empty corridor.

Fatigue clawed at him, but there was no time for rest. Not yet. In the library, he penned a hasty letter to his mother, the words blurring before his eyes:

Mother,

Send Shaydn. Armed escort. Teansong. Urgent.

Lord Wynlar’s crimes against his niece require swift justice.

- N

The wax seal barely cooled before shouts erupted from below. Nevander’s hand instinctively went to his sword hilt as he descended the stairs, ready for anything.

In the entrance hall, two dozen sentries stood at attention, creating a wall of steel between Lord Wynlar and a sandy haired boy with a satchel. Beside him, an older woman dressed in somber gray clutched a black bag, her steely gaze matching Nevander’s own.

Nevander focused on her first. “Are you the healer?” he asked, ignoring Wynlar’s blustering in the background.

The woman nodded curtly. “Aye.”

“Come with me,” he commanded, leading her towards the stairs. As they passed Wynlar, Nevander caught the healer’s muttered, “I hate that old scarecrow.” He couldn’t agree more.

At the base of the stairs, he called for Dovina. The girl appeared, her face drawn with worry. “Dovina, assist the healer in any way she requires.”

He strode back to the doorway and called the young boy. “How fast is your horse, lad?”

The boy’s chin lifted proudly. “Fastest in all of Dracia, my lord. ”

“Prove it,” Nevander challenged, holding out the sealed letter. “Three silvers now, two more if this reaches the queen’s hands by sundown.”

A broad grin split the boy’s face, his dark eyes sparkling with determination. “I can do better than that. I’ll have it to there by teatime.”

“Five silvers it is, then,” Nevander said, dropping the coins into the boy’s eager palm.

As the roan horse thundered away, Nevander finally turned to face Lord Wynlar. Fury contorted his face, spittle flying as he demanded answers.

This man had inflicted years of pain on Kallessa. Lording over her ancestral home, not even acknowledging her as family. Nevander tried to reign in his patience, but the vision of Kallessa, pale and filthy, played on repeat in his mind. In three long strides, Nevander closed the distance between them. “Kneel before your sovereign,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Wynlar’s nostrils flared, his chest heaving with rage. This man had no idea what rage was. No idea of how close Nevander was to doing something that couldn’t be undone.

Nevander’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. “Don’t give me an excuse to permanently put you on your knees.”

For a long moment, neither man moved. Then, slowly, grudgingly, Wynlar sank to one knee, the tendons in his neck straining with the effort to swallow his pride.

“Lower,” Nevander crooned, a dark satisfaction curling in his gut.

Wynlar’s forehead nearly touched the ground, his hands splayed on the gravel .

Nevander stood in silence, knowing the only thing in Wynlar’s narrowed field of vision would be his dirty boots. “I am a merciful prince, Lord Wynlar. Remember that when you and your wife pack your belongings. You will vacate this estate immediately.”

Lady Wynlar’s gasp was drowned out by her husband’s roar of outrage. Wynlar lunged to his feet, but before he could take a step, three swords pressed against his throat.

Nevander didn’t even spare him a glance as he strode into the house and slammed the door with a satisfying thud, cutting off Wynlar’s impotent protests.

Nevander’s ears rang as he slumped against the door, his left shoulder screaming in agony. Upstairs, Dovina, the healer, two maids, and Kallessa remained - the only souls left in the Wynlar estate.

His boots dragged across the polished parlor floor, and he collapsed onto the couch where Kallessa had lain, her scent still lingering on the silk fabric. His fingers trembled as he reached for the nearby glass, downing the last drops of water in desperate gulps. It wasn’t enough to quench his thirst or wash away the bitter taste of his anger.

Leaning back, Nevander closed his eyes. Just a moment to catch his breath, then he’d check on Kallessa. Make sure she was alright. His chest tightened at the memory of her pale face, her body limp in his arms .

A bone-deep exhaustion crept through his limbs as his pulse slowed. The adrenaline that had fueled him was ebbing away, leaving behind a sickly hollowness in his gut.

Just a moment more.

No.

Nevander’s eyes snapped open. Sleep could wait. Kallessa couldn’t.

With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet. The room swam before him, but he steadied himself against the couch. One step at a time. One step closer to her.

The maid had settled Kallessa into an airy bedroom with gauzy curtains that filtered the morning sun. The sight of Kallessa, pale and still beneath a mountain of quilts, made his breath catch. Her hair and skin were rid of filth and she no longer smelled like that horrible dark cell, but of fresh lavender soap and clean linens. Now her chilling lack of color was easy to see, her lips still tinged a pale blue. He traced his finger along her cheekbone. It was like ice, although the room was toasty warm thanks to the blazing hearth.

“Go rest, my lord,” the healer urged, her brow furrowed. “I’ll summon you if there’s any change.”

Nevander’s jaw clenched. “No. I have to be here when she awakens.” He raked an upholstered chair to the bedside, his left shoulder screaming in protest as he sank into it. Yanking off his muddy boots, he hissed at the pain lancing through his old injury. He plunked the boots down on the plush rug and leaned his head back against the cushion, cradling his shoulder, massaging the old injury.

“What have you done to your shoulder, my lord?”

He froze, glancing up to find the healer watching him intently. He thought she’d already left, but there she stood, concern etching her weathered face. This woman was Dracian, one of his own people–people he’d sworn to protect, people he’d failed. Would it matter to her that he’d let so many of her countrymen perish?

“It is my duty to help,” she said softly. “How can I be of assistance, my prince?”

The compassion in her eyes shocked him. “Just an old war injury… blasted ball to the shoulder. I guess I overdid it today.” The words tumbled from his lips, a rare moment of honesty amidst the half-truths and evasions he usually gave. It must have been exhaustion.

The healer nodded and left the room without a word. Bitterness flooded Nevander’s mouth. It seemed it did matter to her. He leaned back, letting the familiar ache envelop him. A fitting punishment for his failures.

Footsteps approached, and the healer reappeared, carrying a steaming teacup and a damp cloth. The pungent scent of herbs filled the air.

She set the teacup on the mahogany side table with a soft clink and folded the cloth into a neat square. “Let me see your shoulder,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Nevander bristled. He didn’t need some nanny fussing over him like a child. But her stern look reminded him of his mother’s gaze when he’d been a stubborn child. With a resigned sigh, he unbuttoned his shirt, exposing the swollen, mottled flesh .

The healer handed him the teacup. “It’s just chamomile tea. Drink it.”

Nevander took the cup, wrapping his fingers around the warm porcelain. As he took a sip, the hot, soothing tea filled his mouth with a pleasant apple flavor.

She pressed the hot cloth to his shoulder, securing it with a ribbon, and the heat instantly eased the throbbing pain. An unexpected lump formed in Nevander’s throat.

“My grandson,” the healer said softly, her gaze distant, “didn’t utter a single word for nearly a year after returning from the war.”

She drifted to the window, her gnarled fingers resting upon the pane as she stared outside. “And when he finally spoke, all he did was cry for six months.”

She turned, pale eyes glistening in the morning light. “And then, one day, he smiled.”

She walked to the door, pausing on the threshold. “One day, you will too.”

This time when Kallessa felt the heat, it was a heavy weight upon her body, sinking her down, down, down into more blissful warmth. But the pain still shot up her throat and every breath hurt her chest, the rasping agony clawing at her lungs. No, it was better to stay in the darkness where the anguish couldn’t reach. But wasn’t there someone she was forgetting? A soothing, deep voice whispered in her ear, the softest stroke across her cheek, a gentle caress that stirred fractured memories. She fought for a moment, straining to keep that comforting touch, to reach that beckoning voice, but then the darkness overcame her and she sank back down into the abyss.

Nevander’s neck cracked as he stirred from his nap, stiff but his shoulder blessedly pain free. Kallessa’s face had a hint of color now, her skin no longer ice cold when he brushed her cheek. Still, every breath she took was a labored gasp.

Yet even bruised and scratched, she was the loveliest woman he’d ever known. Words bubbled up in his throat—apologies, pleas for forgiveness—but died on his lips. If only she’d open those golden eyes. He’d take her anger, her hatred, anything but this deathly stillness.

Come back to me.

But he had to tear himself away, even if for a short time, because there was no way around it, he stunk. And he was dirty. And starving.

Penny had put him in a guest room that was only two doors down from Kallessa. The chambers were unmistakingly masculine with dark paneled walls and gleaming furniture. That magnificent four-poster bed piled high with pillows begged him to collapse into its comfort and sleep for a week, but he strode past it into the adjoining bathing chamber.

The water in the huge copper tub was filthy after he’d scrubbed off days of dirt and sweat. He almost felt human again .

Dressed in fresh clothes, the scent of roasted meat drew him downstairs. A sumptuous feast awaited him on the long dining table, including roast beef and potatoes, glazed carrots, crusty bread, and pitchers of ale. He devoured three heaping plates, savoring every bite.

Night had fallen when three messages arrived, two from the capital and one from Ravenbluff Estate. Nevander tore open his mother’s letter first. Queen Nahla’s familiar cursive filled the page. She was sending Shaydn with twenty royal guards at first light. And Prince Tarrick.

His jaw clenched.

No.

Why would his mother send Tarrick? It was enough of a tangled mess without his sibling’s involvement to botch it even more. Nevander shook his head, a crease forming between his brows. After all the idiotic, reckless things he’d done over the past year, maybe his mother now deemed him just as incompetent.

He broke the seal on the message from Ravenbluff. Ciana’s terse note informed him that Queen Lyra had been found injured but recovering. King Grayson refused to leave her side as they returned to the capital. Ciana, Declan, and Castien remained to continue the search.

And that was all she wrote.

What had happened? Who was responsible? It was just like Ciana to keep it short and to the point, but she could have given him more details than that. He heaved a sigh. At least Queen Lyra was safe.

Beneath that sheet of paper were two more. One was a note from Wynna, telling him she missed him with a drawing of Akeela. A gentle smile broke onto his lips .

The last missive was the one he’d been waiting on for two weeks.

My Lord Nevander,

It appears the Wynlar Estate rightfully belongs to the surviving heir of Taerel Wynlar. Which is not Talos Wynlar.

It is Kallessa Wynlar. She is the rightful owner of the estate.

The new documents will be delivered within a few days.

A thrill raced through him. Kallessa would never be under Talos’s thumb again. She had the power to make her own decisions. The freedom to make her own choices.

His eyes narrowed. He would relish the look on that monster’s face when he ripped away what he’d stolen from Kallessa.

If only she would wake up.