Her companions, however, remained unimpressed. Or, more accurately, uninterested in anything but their own standing.
LánYàn tapped a manicured finger against her lip. JingYi recognized the glint in her eyes—a barb was coming. “Perhaps Tremore will host a royal feast before we leave. We ought to be presented at court.”
RenHua adjusted her jade bangles with a theatrical clink. “You assume anyone will care about a few foreign ladies.”
“We are nobility,” LánYàn scoffed. “My father is the Minister of Defence. That should matter anywhere.”
RenHua snickered. “In any case, you’d best pray Tremorian lords don’t prefer a woman with a nose like that.”
JingYi kept her gaze fixed on the window, but she felt MeiYün’s giggle vibrate through the carriage. These were not directed at her, but the shape of the cruelty was familiar.
LánYàn’s voice cooled. “Bold words. Especially from the youngest among us. Perhaps some respect for your elders?”
RenHua examined her buffed nails. “The youngest, yet I’m the only one already engaged.”
MeiYün pounced, her voice bright with innocence JingYi had learned to recognize as a hidden dagger. “Oh, yes. To a minor lord, isn’t it?”
JingYi watched the crack in RenHua’s composure—a flash of genuine irritation before the haughty mask slid back. Even among predators, there was always a hierarchy. And at the bottom, always, was her.
She turned back toward the window, letting their words dissolve into the rumble of the carriage. Their battles were not her concern. That, at least, was something she could be thankful for.
When Sir Darion finally halted the procession—the ladies’ complaints about their delicate bones having worn his patience to a nub—RenHua and MeiYün refused to leave the carriage. LánYàn opened the door, set one foot down, wrinkled her nose, and retreated inside.
JingYi didn’t hesitate. She gripped the carriage frame and eased herself down, shifting her weight to her left leg before testing the right. The stiffness bit, but the cool air and solid ground beneath her were worth it. She rolled her shoulders, stretched her neck, and let herself breathe freely for the first time in hours.
Nearby, the soldiers gathered in loose clusters, passing around a waterskin as they spoke in the easy manner of men accustomed to each other’s company. She had no intention of eavesdropping—at least, not until a familiar name caught her attention.
Lord Wulfbane. The Wolf of Tremore.
She hesitated, fingers curling around her skirt as she edged closer to catch the men’s words.
A soldier, beard streaked with grey, chuckled as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Strange, isn’t it? Blackwood-Veyrde dressed for a wedding again. Not since the old lord?—”
He stopped. The pause that followed was heavy enough that even the younger men stilled.
JingYi didn’t understand every word, but she knew that silence. The kind that came before unspoken grief.
A younger soldier cleared his throat. “Aye, well. That was then.”
Gathering her courage, she stepped forward. The men straightened immediately, bowing their heads.
Conrad caught her eye and tilted his head. “Do you require anything, Your Highness?”
From beneath her veil, she looked up at him. “What kind of man is he?” she asked carefully in Tremesi. “Lord Wulfbane?”
The men exchanged glances, perhaps surprised that she’d ask directly.
Conrad’s grin softened into something genuine. “Honourable, Your Highness. Fierce when he needs to be, but fair. The kind of lord who eats the same rations as his men and sleeps on the same ground.”
Darion, who’d been quiet, leaned back on the tree, arms folded. “You want to know about your groom, Highness?” He chuckled and stepped forward. “Joined his first war at fifteen. Led men at eighteen. Won a campaign by twenty. At the Battle of Grey Hollow, we were outnumbered three to one, cornered with nowhere left to run. Lord Wulfbane found a way where there was no way. Led the charge himself, broke their lines, and pulled the king out of the slaughter. He earned his reward right there on the battlefield.”
The commander continued, and for once, he was animated, “Then there were the Spring Tournaments of Niewberg—three years running, no man unseated him in the lists. Won every duel in the ring, took first in the archery rounds. When it was over, the king’s steward presented him with a chest of coin heavy enough to ransom a nobleman’s son. He brought it back to Blackwood-Veyrde and paid his men with it. Every last coin.”
JingYi frowned. “All of it?”
Darion’s mouth quirked. “Every bit. Soldiers can’t live on loyalty alone, Highness. He’s not a man to hoard riches. He takes care of his own first.”
She looked away and pressed her lips together, chest squeezing. The words echoed through her, sinking into places long hollowed out by disappointment. Her father had built palaces while his people starved. But this man—this Alpha, her husband—bled in battles and spent his victories on others.