Page 6 of Tethered In Blood

AURELITH’SHALLSWEREnevertruly silent—not in a place founded on politics, war, and ambition. At this hour, the sounds that remained were distant: the whisper of wind slipping through stone crevices, the occasional murmur of shifting guards, and the rhythmic echo of my footsteps. Beyond the narrow windows, the sky stretched in shades of black and silver. The clouds parted, allowing the moon to spill through in scattered beams of light. Those fleeting slivers of light cut across the stone floor, illuminating the polished marble for moments before darkness consumed them again.

Tonight, it was my turn to make the rounds. It was a tedious, mind-numbing task that tested my patience. I was ill-suited for such duties. My purpose wasn’t to patrol the hallways and ensure that the castle remained undisturbed, but Alric required it.

A knight. That was what I had to be. Not an assassin, nor the blade that severed threats before they took root. A knight. A soldier of the crown. To wear that title, I had to play the part. Part of that meant enduring the dull routine of men who had never tasted war outside of an open battlefield.

I exhaled sharply, my breath swirling in the frigid air as my mind recalled the command I had received before nightfall.

“We caught wind of a rebellion leader,” Alric said while he slid a map across his desk. The parchment was old, edges softened from wear, but its contents were fresh. Marked routes and crude circles converged on a forest outpost. “His name is Rhys Carrow.” A familiar name, spoken in hushed warnings and in reports that have surfaced often. A man operating in the shadows, coordinating attacks from the forests beyond the capital’s reach.

I studied the map, noting the terrain, weak points, routes of entry, escape paths, and the distance between the outpost and the nearest village or safe house. “The orders?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

Alric’s expression hardened, accentuating the traces of an individual who hadn’t yet learned to wield the ruthlessness his father once had. His hesitation was brief.

“Bring him back alive. I need answers, not a corpse. Enter through the eastern gates and take him to the cells. Get as much as you can out of him. If he resists…” There was a flicker of hesitation before his expression smoothed into cold calculation. “Do what you must.”

I nodded, memorizing the map, tucking away every detail of the mission ahead.

Now, I walked the corridors, my mind already planning and hunting beyond these walls. The halls stretched on, lined with flickering torchlight, and the faint scent of melting wax wafted through the cold air.

A figure at the archway of the inner garden caught my attention. It seemed to be just another shape in the periphery, another servant, or a lost court member wandering the halls where they didn’t belong. But something about her drew me in. It was a novel sensation, an invisible string pulled taut and anchored to the unseen, to the inevitable.

She stood shrouded in the glow of the fading moonlight from the garden beyond. Silver light caught the edges of her figure, outlining her too delicately for this place. Her simple clothes, made from worn and well-used fabrics, showed signs of mud and frayed seams. She didn’t belong among the silks and perfumes of the court. No noble would dare wear clothing like hers.

She wore a well-maintained cloak, too well-maintained and too large. It was made for a man, not for someone of her stature. The contrast struck me.

From whom had she taken it?

Her hair was untamed, a wild halo framing her face, a testament to hours spent in the wind and under the sun. A few loose strands caught the silver light and shimmered softly. Nestled behind her ear was a sprig of lavender—an intentional touch.

But neither the lavender nor the unruly waves of her hair captured my attention. It was her posture. She clutched a tattered leather journal to her chest, her fingers gripping it until her knuckles turned pale. She hesitated, caught between stepping forward and bolting back. She gazed at the garden as if it were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Or perhaps it was the magic that, though forbidden outside these walls, thrived here.

The hypocrisy of it all didn’t escape me.

Her skirt brushed against the stone floor, and the softest scent of wildflowers reached me. It wasn’t perfume, nothing crafted or intentional. It was simply her.

She was trying too hard. Her shoulders were too relaxed, and her posture appeared too deliberately casual. A radiance that felt feigned rather than genuine. A mask she had worn for so long that I wondered if she even knew how to let it fall.

I wanted to walk away. I tried to ignore whatever pull I felt. But I couldn’t stop staring.

So, I ordered her attention.

“Dilthen Doe.”

She turned at my voice. Her gaze searched my armor as I exited the shadowy corridor, eyes flashing with an emotion that carried too much depth and weight. In that quiet moment, a soft blush crept across her cheeks. Her lips parted, and my heart skipped a beat. It was an intense and unwelcome experience. One that I detested.

“I assume the guards allowed you entry,” I said, maintaining distance in my voice. “State your purpose.”

She swallowed before turning to face me fully. “I’m seeking the herbalist position,” she explained. Her voice was soft and decadent. It clung to the recesses of my mind and refused to let go. “I was instructed to visit the infirmary.”

Yet she stood in the inner garden. Far from the infirmary, far from where she was supposed to be.

The garden’s soft glow framed her, making her seem out of place. She didn’t belong here any more than I did. I continued to stare, searching for a clue in how she carried herself and spoke to determine whether she was another fool, unaware of the position she sought or just another waste of time. But I found nothing. Tension seized my jaw, and I pivoted abruptly, indifferent to whether she followed or remained at the garden’s threshold.

“Follow me.”

As we stepped into the next corridor, the air grew colder, the warmth of the day long since swallowed by the castle’s stone walls. The chill was deep, damp, and creeping beneath my armor, sinking into my skin with an unwelcome touch. She followed behind me, her presence impossible to ignore, like a too-bright candle in a dim room.

It had been silent, except for the measured echo of our footsteps. I focused on my immediate objective—getting her to the infirmary, passing her off to Calder, and being done with it. Done with her and whatever unsettling feelings she had stirred within me.

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