The First Crown

A Heart Unmoored

Lilliana

I fled down the passage before she could stop me, my steps carrying me without thought toward the yard. The men were scattered now, drills finished, the stones scrubbed clean of blood. My eyes searched until they found him, Reade near the armoury, his back to me as he strapped on a practice sword.

“Reade,” I whispered.

He stiffened, but didn’t turn.

“Please—”

He pivoted and the sight of him stole my breath. His shirt clung to skin raw and striped, bandages peeking beneath the linen. His face was composed, but his eyes storm-dark, unreadable cut through me.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said flatly.

Tears burned my eyes. “It was my fault. You were punished for me. If I hadn’t—”

“Stop.” His tone was sharp, harsher than I’d ever heard. “Don’t come near me again.”

I froze. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” His gaze flicked past me, to where Captain Ronan approached, steady and silent. “Go back inside, Lady Lockwood. Forget me.”

Ronan’s hand rested briefly, politely, against my arm. “This way, my lady.”

I pulled against him. “No, please I need to speak to him—”

“It isn’t wise,” Ronan said quietly, though his grip was firm. “For you, or for him.”

“Just one moment—”

Reade had already turned his back. His shoulders moved with the rhythm of practice, blade cutting the air as if I were no more than shadow.

The ache in my chest hollowed me. Ronan guided me away, his touch respectful but unyielding. My protests dwindled to silence as we walked the long passage back to the keep, every step pulling me farther from the yard, from him.

When we reached my chamber, I closed the door and leaned against it, shaking. Briallen was there, smoothing the coverlet, but she turned at once when she saw my face.

“My lady?”

I sank onto the bench by the hearth and pressed my fists to my eyes. The words poured out in a rush I could not stop how he’d taken the lashes, how he hadn’t made a sound.

“I cannot bear it,” I whispered, though I did not know what it was, his pain, or the way my chest still felt scorched, or the strange, unnameable pull that had begun on the path and only deepened now.

Briallen looked at me her face pale with shock. “You must not speak so, my lady. He is only a guard. The Duke would—”

“I do not care what my father would do,” I said fiercely, surprising even myself. “He bled for me.” My breath came ragged. “Briallen, he bled, and I stood there like a coward and let him.”

She reached for my hands, her own shaking. “You did nothing wrong.”

“I feel as though I did everything wrong.”

Briallen’s gaze darted toward the door, fear flashing in her eyes. “Hush.” Her voice was sharp for once, almost panicked. “Not another word of this. If anyone hears, Lillie, do you know what your father would do? You cannot feel this. You cannot even look as though you do.”

I flinched at her tone. Briallen had never spoken to me so, not even when we were children pulling pranks with Evelyne. Her words struck like cold water, but the ache in my chest did not ease. It only made me want to cry harder, want to argue that I couldn’t help it, though I didn’t even know what “it” was.

“Then help me,” I begged, reaching for her hands. “Just this once, Briallen. I must send him a note. Please. If I cannot speak, then let me write. Let me tell him—” My throat closed. “Let me tell him I am sorry.”

Briallen’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “You will only make it harder for yourself.”

“I do not care.”

For a long moment she said nothing, only searched my face as if trying to decide whether I was still the girl she’d raised or someone entirely new. At last, she let out a slow breath and nodded.

“Then write it,” she murmured. “I will see it in his hands before nightfall.”

Briallen fetched the writing box from my desk and set it down hard enough to rattle the ink pot. I sat, hands still trembling, as she lit the candle and pressed the quill into my grip.

The parchment blurred as my tears fell. I wiped them with the heel of my hand, leaving smudges, then bent to write.

Reade,

I am sorry. For the bread. For the road. For the lashes that should have been mine. I cannot undo what was done, but I can promise you this: I will never forget the moment you steadied me. Please forgive me.

I sealed it with wax and my mother’s moonstone, heart hammering.

Briallen’s mouth pressed thin. “I will see it delivered,” she said softly, “but Lillie don’t hope too hard. Silence may be the only answer you ever get.”

“Then let it be silence,” I said, lifting my chin. “I only need to know he has read my words.”

She left before I could lose my nerve, the letter tucked against her apron.

No reply came the next morning, nor the one after. By the third night, I was back at my desk, candlelight spilling across the page.

Reade,

The snow began to fall again today. Maren tried to catch flakes on her tongue and made Evelyne laugh. I laughed too, but it felt wrong with you still hurting. Does it still hurt?

I folded the letter quickly, cheeks hot. Briallen did not question me when I handed it over. On the fourth night, I wrote again, the words spilling easier now.

Reade,

Father paraded a guest through the hall today. Evelyne made a show of her prettiest gown, but I only thought of the yard. Of the post where you stood. Of the way you looked at me when you told me to forget you. I cannot forget. I do not want to forget.

By the fifth, I found myself telling him things I had never spoken aloud to anyone. About Maren’s silly songs. About the ache of wearing a smile all day. About my dreams of running until the air tasted sweet.

Each letter grew longer, my script more hurried, as though if I wrote quickly enough my words might catch him before he could turn away. Briallen said nothing, only folded them neatly, tied with a fresh strip of cloth, and carried them off.

By the seventh night, there was a small stack of blotting papers by my elbow and ink on my fingers. My heart beat fast as I wrote.

Reade,

Perhaps one day you will answer me. Or perhaps you will never say a word, and I will go on writing into the dark until I am old. But at least you will know me. And if you read my letters, then some part of me will live with you, even when I cannot.

I sealed that one slowly, pressing the wax until it cooled, as though holding it might keep my courage from slipping away.

Briallen took it with a sigh, her hand warm against mine. “You are giving him all of yourself, Lillie.”

“Yes,” I said softly, staring at the candle’s flame. “And I do not regret it.”