The priestess spoke a final blessing, the words lost to the roaring of her own heart.
Alexander cradled her face, thumbs brushing away her tears. He leaned in and kissed her—the first kiss of their true marriage. It tasted of salt, sacred smoke, and a future so bright it hurt to look at.
The temple erupted into cheers and bells, distant and meaningless against the reality of his lips on hers. The cool weight of the limyerite ring, finally and forever, home on her finger.
It was uncommon for Xûen brides to leave so soon after the ceremony, tradition dictating a prolonged period ofcelebration within the bride’s home court. But JingYi was no ordinary bride, and theirs was no ordinary union. The decision to depart the next morning was hers alone.
She had made it with clear eyes and a full heart. Alexander had been away from his duties for too long. Blackwood-Veyrde and Parandor needed its lord. And, though it surprised her to feel it with such intensity, she needed to return. She missed the stark, honest beauty of the north. She missed Yrenna’s laughter, Conrad’s mischievous jests, and the solid reliability of Ulrik and Darion. She longed to see how Annett and baby Aniva were doing.
They were no longer just Alexander’s people; they were her home, too.
The farewells had been said in the privacy of the Magnolia Palace’s courtyard at sunrise when the air was still sweet with the scent of night-blooming flowers. LinXin had embraced her.
“You must write often,” she said, her voice thick. “The snow, the forests, the . . . the everything.”
“I will send so many letters you will tire of my handwriting,” JingYi promised, holding her tight.
She then turned to ShunLi, who stood with the quiet dignity of an emperor. His eyes, however, held the softness of a brother.
“You take the heart of Xûen-Sarai with you, Sho Meisha,” he said.
“And I leave my own here, with you,” she replied. She offered him a deep, respectful bow. “Rule well, brother. And,” she paused, her tone gentling into a sister’s advice, “cherish the bride who will soon come to you. She will be far from her home, too.”
ShunLi’s gaze grew thoughtful, and he gave an acknowledging nod. “Wisdom, as always, from you. I shall heed it.”
She then turned to Wu Ma and Feng, who stood by the willows. Earlier, Alexander had approached them. He had bowed low, and in careful, heartfelt Xûengua, had said, “Thank you. For your kindness to my wife when she had little.”
Their stunned, tearful nods had said everything.
JingYi went to the old woman first. She took Wu Ma’s weathered hands in her own and bent to press her forehead gently against them—a daughter’s gesture.
“Wu Ma,” she whispered. “I’m leaving again. Who will scold me for working too late now?”
A tear traced the deep groove of Wu Ma’s cheek. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “A good husband will,” she rasped. “Let him. You listen to him when he tells you to rest. And you eat proper meals in that frozen place.”
It was all the wisdom JingYi needed:be loved, be cared for, be nourished.
“I will,” she promised, her own eyes burning.
She then turned to Feng. The girl immediately dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, trying for a professional smile that quivered at the edges. “Your Highness, I . . . I took the liberty of preparing a travelling kit. It’s all your favourite herbs—the ones you can’t get elsewhere.”
It was the perfect gift. Not from a subject to a princess, but from one healer to another. JingYi pulled her into a quick, hard embrace. “Thank you. Keep our cabinets in order. And trust your own diagnoses more. You have the eye for it.”
Feng nodded, swallowing hard, her composure dissolving into a wobbly smile of pride.
Now, at the bustling river port of Changzihua, the elegant Xûen barges bobbed beside the formidable Tremorian ship that would carry them down the Jiandeng River and out to Issoirea.
JingYi stood for a moment, taking in the sights of her city one last time. Alexander stood at the gangplank, a steady, patient presence. He offered her his hand.
“Come,” he said, his voice rough with feeling, his blue eyes fixed on hers, seeing the bittersweet farewell in her heart and understanding it completely. “Let’s go home.”
She placed her hand in his, the limyerite ring solid and sure on her finger. With one last, steadying breath, she stepped onto the deck of the ship, leaving the shore of her past behind.
As the lines were cast off, the deck shifted gently beneath their feet. His hand flexed against her hip—that possessive pressure that now felt like coming home. Last night, those hands had worshipped every inch of her. She could still feel the ghost of them on her skin.
She smiled up at him, a teasing curve of her lips. “I have walked all my life, husband. I believe I can manage a deck.”
His expression stayed solemn, though a glint danced in his eyes. “The deck sways, and I did not cross Issoirea to have my wife stumble on the first day of our journey.”