Dawn broke gray and bitter, pressing low over the palace spires. The courtyard stones were slick with dew, cold against Myrren’s boots as she crossed them under too many watching eyes. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, as though waiting to see whether she would falter.

The carriage waited, lacquered black, its wheels already wet with morning damp. Beside it, Corven sat astride a dark horse, still as carved obsidian. He had been there before she arrived, silent, as if waiting was his natural state. Rain-dark clouds seemed to gather around him, thickening the air.

At the gates, Ori seized Myrren’s hands, squeezing until their knuckles blanched. She pressed a small pouch of herbs into her palms, fabric damp from tears.
“For your strength. And one for your courage.” Her voice was fierce, but her eyes shimmered with unshed grief. “Come back to me.”

The scent of rosemary and rue clung to the pouch, mingling with the faint soap clinging to Ori’s clothes. Myrren swallowed hard. She wanted to say something in return, but her throat locked tight.

Behind them, Holt stood with arms crossed, his stance sharp as a drawn blade. “I’ll watch His Highness,” he said simply. No flourish, no false comfort—just the kind of vow a soldier meant with his bones.

Above, balconies had already filled with nobles in silks and jewels, their whispers drifting like ash.
Mistress Vale.
Concubine.
Poison girl.

The words stung, acrid as smoke. Myrren’s face burned, but she lifted her chin. If they wanted to strip her down to a whisper, she would meet them with silence sharper than their tongues.

The guards opened the carriage door. Cloak heavy, herbs clutched like a talisman, Myrren stepped inside. She did not look back.

The wheels lurched forward, striking hard against cobblestone before settling into rhythm. The carriage smelled of cedar and oil, clean but sharp enough to sting. Still, the phantom tang of poison clung to her throat, as if it would never leave.

Through the narrow window she glimpsed him—Corven’s horse keeping pace with uncanny precision, his figure a moving shadow against the drenched fields. He never looked in, never turned his head, yet she felt him there. The tether in her chest thrummed with every hoofbeat, steady as a drum she had not chosen.

Rain began to tap against the roof, each drop sharpening the silence. Myrren’s hands curled around Ori’s pouch until the dried stems cracked. The words pressed against her teeth until she could not hold them any longer.

“You saved me.”

The carriage jolted, but her voice carried anyway.

His gaze flicked toward her, black eyes catching hers through the narrow slit. He did not slow. Did not soften.
“I didn’t.”

Her breath caught. “Then why—”

“Do not mistake silence for mercy.”

The words landed like steel. The tether pulled tight, answering in a way her body could not deny. Myrren turned away, staring at rain-smeared fields, but his presence lingered, a shadow tethered to every breath.

By dusk, the horses stumbled, lathered and mud-caked. The driver steered them toward the yellow glow of a roadside inn hunched low against the rain. Smoke curled from its crooked chimney, sour ale and wet wood greeting them even before the doors swung open.

Myrren faltered when she stepped down, knees still weak from poison’s ghost. The ground tilted for a breath, and she caught herself on the carriage door. Corven’s gaze flicked to her—sharp, assessing—yet he did not move to steady her. Instead, he slowed his stride so she would not fall behind.

Inside, the common room pressed close with noise and heat. Lanterns smoked. The air stank of wool, stale beer, and unwashed bodies—and beneath it, sharper still, the acrid tang of fear. Farmers and drovers hunched over tables, their voices carrying like gnats.

“They say the poison girl walks among nobles now.”
“A concubine—leashed by the King’s ward.”
“No, the Queen’s pet. Her poisons silence rivals.”

The words pricked sharper than thorns. Faces turned, eyes sliding toward her: too pale, too strange, too trembling. A child stared openly until his mother dragged him close, muttering as though Myrren carried death in her cloak.

She pulled her hood lower, clutching Ori’s pouch until the stems snapped inside. The whispers followed her anyway, chasing her to a corner bench. Each rumor lodged like a barb: concubine, witch, leashed pet.

Corven remained by the door, sentinel still. He had heard every word—she knew he had—but he did not defend her. He did not even look at her. His silence pressed heavier than the gossip.

And still the tether thrummed, louder than any whisper.

The innkeeper shuffled up, wringing his apron. “Forgive me, m’lord, m’lady. We’re full. Only one chamber left.”

“I’ll take the common room,” Myrren said quickly. The thought of walls pressing closer, of Corven’s silence thick in a small space, tightened her chest. “A bench will do.”

“No benches free. Floor’s crowded.”

“Then I’ll—”

“She won’t.” Corven’s voice cut, low and final. “We’ll take the chamber.”

Myrren spun toward him, hood slipping back. “You had no right—”

“I have every right,” he said evenly. “The Queen ordered me to keep you alive. Already a difficult task.”

“I don’t need—”

“You need a door that locks.” His gaze flicked toward the farmers still whispering. “Or would you prefer to wake with a knife at your throat?”

The words landed bitter as iron. She hated that he was right. Hated even more that he had said it so others might hear.

The innkeeper pressed a key into his hand. “Upstairs. Last door on the left.”

Corven turned for the stairwell, shadow climbing ahead, leaving her no choice but to follow.

The chamber was little more than a box under the eaves—one narrow bed, a cracked chair, a shutter that rattled with each gust. A single candle guttered, shadows stretching too large for the space.

Myrren dropped her satchel, glass vials clinking. “I’ll take the floor.” She spread her cloak across the boards with deliberate care.

Corven leaned against the door, watching. “You won’t last an hour.”

“I’ve slept in worse.”

“Not with aconite still clawing your blood.” His words were flat, not unkind, but mercilessly factual.

Her jaw tightened. “Why should it matter to you if I collapse?”

“Because I’d be the one carrying your corpse back. And I already carry too much.”

Heat stung her cheeks. “You speak as if my death would only inconvenience you.”

“It would.” His eyes caught the candlelight, black and unyielding. “And it would silence the only mind clever enough to see what others refuse. Which is why you’ll sleep on the bed.”

“And you?”

“I won’t sleep.” He dropped into the chair, stretching his frame with deliberate ease. “Rest, Mistress Vale. I’ll keep watch.”

The title landed differently on his tongue—barbed, but weighted with something she could not name.

Myrren shifted stubbornly onto the floor anyway, curling against her cloak, chin high. For a moment, she thought he might let her. Then a shadow crossed, and something brushed her arm—a heavy pelt tossed down without a word.

Her head snapped up. Corven had already returned to the chair, gaze fixed elsewhere, as though the act had never happened. His knuckles flexed once against the armrest before stilling again.

“You don’t have to—” she began.

“I said sleep,” he cut in. Voice flat, but softer at the edges, as if it cost him something to say it.

Her pride wavered. Weakness betrayed her. At last she rose and sat on the bed, stiff with defiance. If he noticed the tremor in her hands, he gave no sign.

The candle burned low, shadows jagged across the wall. Myrren lay rigid, cloak clutched though the room was too warm with smoke and bodies below. Sleep would not come. Her pulse thudded too loud.

Across the room, Corven had not moved. Eyes open. Always open. Watching.

She turned her face away, staring at beams until they blurred. Still the tether hummed, pacing every breath he drew.

Laughter drifted from below:
“The poison girl… kills with kisses, they say.”
“Better not to drink at court at all.”

The words seeped up through the floorboards, sharp as needles. Myrren pressed Ori’s pouch to her chest until the stems cracked. “You don’t have to look at me like that,” she whispered.

Silence.

“Like I’m a danger you’re chained to. Like I should have died.”

For a heartbeat she thought he would not speak. Then his voice came, low, steady: “You said it, not I.”

Her chest tightened. She rolled onto her side, back to him, curling under the thin blanket. But still she felt it—his gaze like a hand pressed to her spine, silence heavier than the storm clouds outside.

Half-sleep came fitful. Once, thunder rumbled far off. She opened her eyes to find him still watching, as though he alone held the night at bay.

The tether pulled taut, thrumming against her heartbeat. Beyond the shutter, thunder whispered on the horizon. The storm had not yet broken—

—but she knew it was coming.