40. Chapter 40

forty

N evander’s boots wore a path in the floorboards of Kallessa’s room as he paced, barely tearing his gaze from her chest, watching each struggling breath. He raised his lamp to her feverish cheeks for the hundredth time that night. Her skin glistened with sweat, pale and translucent in the flickering light.

Outside, the early winter wind clawed at the windows, its icy fingers leaving frosty patterns on the glass. Nevander stoked the fire until it roared, desperate to keep the chill at bay. Wasn't the weather supposed to be milder here?

The crunch of hooves on frozen gravel pierced the pre-dawn silence. Nevander’s shoulders sagged with relief, even as dread coiled in his gut. Shaydn had arrived, thank goodness, but his wastrel brother Tarrick wouldn’t be far behind.

He cast one last glance at Kallessa’s still form, his fingers itching to brush a damp curl from her forehead. Instead, he clenched his fists and forced himself to leave the room.

The smell of frying bacon greeted him as he descended the stairs, his mind spinning in circles. Where was Dovina? What fresh hell awaited him with Tarrick’s arrival? And most importantly–would Shaydn be able to save Kallessa?

An unfamiliar figure stood at the stove, her back to him as she worked. At his approach, she whirled, eyes widening in recognition. Before he could stop her, she dropped into a deep curtsy, her homespun skirts brushing the floor.

“My lord,” she croaked, head bowed. “It is an honor to serve you.”

Nevander’s jaw clenched. He despised the deference, the constant reminder of the divide between himself and the common folk. It was no wonder he’d craved anonymity at Ravenbluff.

“Please,” he said, gentling his voice, “there’s no need for such formality. And you are...?”

The woman straightened, crow’s feet crinkling as she smiled. Her curly silver hair haloed her cheeks, rosy from the heat. “Matilda, my lord. Cook here for nigh on thirty years.” Her smile faltered, a shadow passing over her rounded features. “Long before Talos darkened our doorstep.”

She turned back to the stove, her movements sharp with suppressed anger. “I loved the Wynlars. Finest family you could hope to serve.” The knife in her hand flashed as she carved bacon with practiced ease. “But coin’s coin, and a body’s got to eat. So I stayed on, even after that bastard took over.”

Matilda’s knife stilled, and she turned to Nevander with a piercing stare. “How’s our girl?”

Our girl. The words hit Nevander like a physical blow. How many others at Wynlar Estate loved Kallessa? A world Talos had banished her from?

She could be dying. The thought rose unbidden, and Nevander ruthlessly shoved it aside. He couldn’t think like that. Shaydn was here now. If anyone could save Kallessa, it was her.

He plastered on his court smile, hating how false it felt. “She’ll be up and around soon enough. ”

Matilda’s eyes narrowed, seeing right through his facade. She brandished the knife, its tip gleaming in the firelight. “I love that girl like she was my own,” she said, voice low and fierce. “She better get well, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

Nevander met her gaze, dropping the princely mask. “On that,” he said quietly, “we are in complete agreement.”

The royal guard’s swift efficiency in setting up camp behind the Wynlar estate did little to ease the knot in Nevander’s stomach. As the head of the guard departed after their brief meeting, the weight of the situation pressed down on him like a leaden anchor.

Shaydn wasted no time heading up to Kallessa’s room, a large leather satchel filled with supplies tucked under her arm.

In her haste, she grasped Penny’s arm, beckoning the maid to follow, barely sparing the young woman a greeting in her rush. But Nevander didn’t care about formalities or niceties. All that mattered was Kallessa’s life hanging precariously in the balance.

That left him to deal with Tarrick. The prince had arrived last, his entourage lagging behind by a few miles. And he was already drunk.

Nevander sighed heavily as he watched his older brother stagger through the estate doors, flanked by a small group of servants carrying his belongings. The prince’s face was flushed, his eyes glazed over even at this early hour. Nadie, Dovina’s wide-eyed maid, rushed to his side as he leaned on her, his arm around her narrow shoulders .

He might be a coward for hiding in the shadows of the parlor, not greeting his brother, but he didn’t care. He’d reached his threshold for dealing with problematic people for today. Let him sleep it off. Nadie guided Tarrick to a guest room, his brother not sparing a glance in Nevander's direction. At least that was one less immediate problem to deal with.

He collapsed into the parlor’s plush armchair, exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him. Shaydn had firmly denied him entry to Kallessa’s room, leaving him to wait helplessly downstairs. Every faint sound from upstairs sent his heart racing, his imagination conjuring worst-case scenarios. Yet the fatigue tore at his resolve. He’d let his eyes close, just for a moment—

“Is it true?” Dovina’s shrill voice shattered the silence.

Nevander’s eyes snapped open, irritation flaring at the interruption. “Is what true?” he asked, struggling to keep his tone even.

She marched over and flopped down unceremoniously on the couch next to him, her skirts billowing around her in a flurry of ruffled fabric. Nevander guessed spending time with him had ridded the young girl of any formality she’d once felt toward her prince. Too bad, he rather missed the respectful deference. He slid his weary body over to make room, turning to face her with a resigned expression.

“Is it true that Prince Tarrick is really here?” she demanded breathlessly, her eyes wide and sparkling with fervor.

By the Axan moon, no. Why did Dovina suddenly care about his wastrel brother’s presence?

He raised his eyebrow. “He’s upstairs asleep right now, recovering from his travels.” From his early morning drunk.

“In which room?” she persisted, leaning forward .

What did it matter which bedchamber Tarrick currently occupied? Nevander shook his head. “Ah, the one at the end of the hall on the east wing.”

Dovina squealed in delight, the high-pitched noise sending a piercing pain shooting into his ears. He winced, grimacing at her girlish excitement over his cad of a brother.

“That’s the room right next to mine!” She grabbed Nevander’s hands impulsively, eyes shining.

He stared at her grimly for a long moment before abruptly extracting his hands from her grasp. Rising to his feet, he strode from the parlor toward the front door, leaving the ridiculously starry-eyed girl gaping after him, a besotted grin still plastered across her face.

The icy air felt rejuvenating after the warm house, helping him to wake up. He strode across the tan grasses to the camp behind the estate, his boots leaving imprints on the frosty blades, nodding mechanically to the soldiers he passed. His feet carried him forward until he spotted a familiar figure.

Slouched on a canvas chair, whittling a chunk of wood into what looked like a wolf, was Risal, the oldest, meanest, crankiest guard in the ranks. One that was loyal to the death and didn’t take any crap. His weathered face creased in concentration, deftly shaping the figure with the blade in his gnarled hands.

The grizzled man glanced up, greeting Nevander with a nod and a grunt of recognition. Risal had been part of the palace guard for as long as Nevander could remember, a constant presence throughout his childhood .

Nevander nodded back in greeting, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Risal, how would you like to stay in the estate while you’re here? I have a certain young lady who needs guarding.”

The waiting was unbearable. Nevander’s boots crunched on the gravel paths as he strode around the estate, his heart racing with each step. Remnants remained of the country estate before Talos took over. The swaying river birch lined pathways that now housed stark rows of shrubbery. The cottage gardens forced into boxy lines and rows of evenly spaced rosebushes. All the softness of Kallessa, crowded out by strict order and total lack of imagination.

The stables were the saddest part. Hidden from the public eye, they were left to the elements, unused and unloved. Where Kallessa’s mother once bred the finest Reykian herds, now only a couple dozen work horses remained.

He ran a calloused hand along the worn wood of a stall door. How many of Kallessa’s cherished memories were etched into these very walls?

The sweet scent of apples filled his nostrils as he fed Sunu, her velvety muzzle tickling his palm. Kallessa’s voice echoed in his mind, painting vivid pictures of her mother tenderly caring for the mare, of her father’s pride as she chose her first horse.

His chest ached. Everywhere he looked, he saw her. In the stories she’d told about her little brother, Blain, chasing the horses playfully through these stalls, of summers spent splashing in the lake, of evenings staring at the stars .

The last time he’d seen her eyes, her lashes dusted with snowflakes, haunted him at every turn.

He followed the dirt path around the stables, his breath misting in the chill air. There he found the woodshed and a pile of logs awaiting their fate beside a large stump. He grasped the well-worn axe, its handle smooth against his palms.

He grabbed a log and balanced it on the stump. With a grunt that was part exertion, part anguish, he brought the blade down. The log split with a satisfying thunk, the two halves falling to the dry grass. More. He needed more.

Again and again, he swung the axe, each stroke a desperate attempt to cleave away the pain that threatened to consume him.

The scent of sap and oak filled the air, mingling with the salt of his sweat. His left shoulder screamed in protest, but he welcomed the pain. It was a blessed distraction from the memories of Kallessa that assailed him at every turn.

Again, he swung the axe.

Again.

Again.

He finally paused, gasping for breath and glanced around for more, but he'd chopped every last log in sight. His body trembled with exhaustion, but his mind still had a death grip on him. What if she never recovered? What if he never got the chance to explain, to make things right? The axe fell from his hands, and he sank down on the stump, surrounded by a pile of logs, severed in half.