Page 23 of Tethered In Blood

THEMORNINGLIGHTslantedthrough the high-arched windows, gilding the dust motes that swirled in the draft. The hush of dawn still cloaked the corridor. Beyond the walls, distant birds chirped, their sound a counterpoint to the steady echo of my boots.

The castle was waking, though sluggish. The guards shifted at their posts, murmuring among themselves. Their voices were a quiet undercurrent beneath the occasional rustle of servants moving through the halls. None of it demanded my attention.

With each step, a dull, persistent throb pulsed through my shoulder, serving as an irritating reminder of my former carelessness. I rolled it to test the stiffness, feeling the sharp and persistent tension pulling. It was possibly still bleeding, too. My jaw tightened, and I bit back a grimace.

The damned wound had been slow to heal. Now, I had torn it open again.

Calder would have forced me to go to the infirmary if she had seen me favoring it. The thought of enduring her inevitable lecture—her exasperated sighs, her pointed remarks about how I never let myself heal properly—was enough to steer me elsewhere.

I had no interest in dealing with the new herbalist any sooner than necessary; the forced pleasantries and her ability to conceal whatever thoughts ran through her mind were off-putting.

Calder and Alric spoke of her as if she were rare and trustworthy. They didn’t see what I did: the controlled and careful nature of her actions, the way she guarded her words. A darkness lurked beneath her surface that she wasn’t willing to show. She wasn’t just here to help or for the quince. Whatever motives she had for coming to this castle, I would uncover them.

My fingers flexed around the worn leather of her journal. I should have returned it to her the previous night. I should have closed it the moment I finished reading. But I had lingered, flipping through the pages long after I had memorized the parts that disturbed me. The words had sunk deep into my thoughts, a warning whispered too late.

As I approached the stables, the scent of hay and leather wafted through the crisp morning air. The aroma of damp soil and manure blended with the faint smell of rain. Sparrows flitted among the rafters, their tiny wings stirring up dust while a barn cat stretched atop a hay bale. Its tail flicked in irritation at the commotion of the awakening grounds. The familiar sounds of shifting hooves, the murmur of stable hands attending to their tasks, and the occasional snort of a restless mare filled the space.

I had readied Neryth earlier, tightened the girth strap, checked the bridle, and ensured the saddlebags were secure. The massive black destrier stood fully geared just outside the stable doors, his coat gleaming in the slanting light. His ears flicked, and his nostrils flared as he sensed my approach. He shifted his weight, and his muscles rippled beneath his dark hide, exuding the quiet power that had made him my only trusted companion.

A flash of movement beyond him caught my attention.

The herbalist stood at the edge of the stable doors, eyeing Neryth as though he were an insurmountable beast. Her fingers twitched at the hem of her uniform before she caught herself and curled them into fists. She didn’t know how to ride. It almost made me smirk.

Almost.

“Dilthen Doe.” My voice carried with my approach.

Her eyes snapped toward me, and the corner of her mouth pulled into a tight, forced smile. A flicker of irritation crossed her face, subtle yet satisfying.

Oh, good. She enjoyed this as much as I did.

The moment her eyes landed on the journal in my hand, her smile faltered, a brief crack in the mask she wore so well. Her shoulders stiffened, and her chin tilted higher, as if it could disguise the unease rolling through her. She met my gaze when I stopped a few paces in front of her. Her expression smoothed into glass. “Sir Sinclaire,” she greeted. She displayed a practiced steadiness but remained guarded.

I extended the journal to her. Her firm grasp suggested that she believed I might snatch it away. “Calder didn’t ask for permission before she handed over your notes.” It was a statement meant to convey that I could read her.

Her jaw tensed before she responded, “She told me Prince Alric needed evidence of my competence before she sent me to Silverfel.”

An indirect way to say no.

“Welcome to the Capital,” I scoffed. She didn’t know how things worked here if she thought this was an overstep. The sooner she learned, the better.

She had taken long enough to arrive, and standing around exchanging pleasantries was just wasting more time. I had no patience for unnecessary delays. I nodded toward Neryth. “I assume you can ride.”

I already knew the answer, but I relished the anticipation of watching that forced smile break.

“Yes.” Her response was immediate.

I narrowed my eyes and tilted my head, feigning consideration. “Alright then,” I said, gesturing to the horse. “Get on.”

Her lips parted as a flicker of hesitation crossed her face. I thought she might argue, but she squared her shoulders and stepped forward with stiff determination. She lifted her foot to the stirrup, her fingers gripping the saddle’s pommel with white-knuckled resolve. She hesitated for a breath, a moment of uncertainty.

She was hopeless.

Without giving her time to reconsider, I stepped behind her. My hands gripped her waist and lifted her onto the horse with little effort. Her layers of fabric concealed most of her form, but she was thinner than expected. There was strength, but not enough for someone accustomed to hard travel.

Neryth snorted beneath her as she shifted, adjusting in the saddle. I stepped back to observe how she settled, working to compose herself after the brief shock of being manhandled.

She released a startled sound, somewhere between a gasp and a curse, as Neryth stomped his hoof. There was no protest or immediate retort, only the gasp and the quick way she braced herself.

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