Lysandra fought against her exhaustion, her leg throbbing with each jolt of her horse. Alaric stayed close, steadying her reins whenever she swayed too far, though he said nothing about it.
Just when Lysandra's body threatened to give out, a break in the trees revealed their destination. Ahead, nestled in a wide valley, stood a sprawling stone manor surrounded by high walls, with a small city spread out at its base. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the hum of distant activity reached their ears as they neared.
Roderic rode to the center of the column, raising his hand for the caravan to slow. "We've reached Lord Halvard's hold," he called, his voice carrying down the line. "This is our halfway point. We'll stop here to resupply and rest before pressing on."
The everyone's shoulders sagged with relief, and murmurs of gratitude spread through the group. The sight of the manor, its tall towers and sturdy gates, promised safety—or at least a reprieve from the dangers of the road.
Alaric glanced at Lysandra, his brow furrowed with concern. "You'll get a proper bed here, and maybe someone who can look at that leg."
"I'm fine," she muttered stubbornly, though the idea of rest sent a wave of relief through her aching body.
"Sure you are," he replied dryly, not bothering to argue further.
The caravan moved through the gates of the small city, the guards posted at the entrance nodding in recognition as Roderic exchanged a few quiet words with them. The narrow streets bustled with townsfolk going about their daily business, merchants hawking goods and blacksmiths hammering away in open forges. Soldiers on patrol gave the passing caravan wary looks but didn't interfere.
The manor loomed at the far end of the city, its walls lined with banners bearing Voltarian colors. As they approached, Lysandra noted how well-fortified it was—thick stone walls, iron gates, and enough guards to fend off a small army. It was no mere estate; this was a stronghold.
Lord Halvard, a stout man with graying hair and sharp eyes, waited for them in the courtyard, flanked by a retinue of well-armed guards and stewards. His posture was firm, exuding the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed, but as his gaze swept over the approaching caravan, it lingered on the Shadow Blades with thinly veiled disdain.
"Prince Alaric," Halvard greeted, stepping forward with a wide smile and a formal bow. "Your arrival is an unexpected honor. My halls are always open to you and the Royal Knights."
"Thank you, Lord Halvard," Alaric replied, dismounting and clasping the older man's forearm in a gesture of mutual respect. "We've traveled hard and need rest and supplies before continuing."
"Of course, Your Highness," Halvard said warmly. "Your men will be welcomed with the best accommodations my household can offer. My staff will see to everything you need."
The soldiers began to dismount, sighing with relief as the city guards moved forward to assist. But as the Shadow Blades dismounted as well, Halvard's gaze hardened, his smile thinning. His sharp eyes swept over Lysandra and the others in her unit as though their very presence offended him.
"And the mercenaries," Halvard said, his voice cooling by several degrees, though he spoke as though addressing Alaric alone. "Surely they can find a place in the stables, or perhaps with the supply wagons? Their kind is accustomed to far humbler lodgings, I imagine."
Lysandra and the other Shadow Blades exchanged glances, their postures stiffening at the dismissal.
"They're with me," Alaric said, his tone firm and leaving no room for debate. He glanced at Halvard pointedly. "All of them. I expect the same accommodations and treatment for the Shadow Blades as you give to the Royal Knights."
Halvard's smile faltered, his brow furrowing in faint protest. "Your Highness, I understand your generosity, but surely it would be more appropriate—"
"It would be appropriate," Alaric cut in sharply, his voice low but authoritative, " I expect you to show them the respect you would show to me and my knights."
For a brief moment, the tension in the courtyard thickened, Halvard's expression a mask of polite indignation. Then, after a beat, he inclined his head stiffly. "As you say, Your Highness," he replied, though his tone was less welcoming now. "My stewards will see to… everyone."
"Good," Alaric said curtly, turning his attention back to the group. "Make sure the supplies are seen to, and the wounded get treatment immediately."
As Alaric walked ahead with Roderic, issuing orders to the stewards and soldiers, Lysandra stayed behind, struggling to dismount. Her leg throbbed fiercely, the pain making her movements stiff and unsteady.
"Easy there," Donall muttered, stepping up to her side.
"I'm fine," Lysandra grumbled, though her hands gripped the saddle tighter than she'd admit.
Kellan appeared on her other side, offering a steadying hand despite the smirk tugging at his lips. "Fine, my ass. You nearly tipped off the horse like a sack of potatoes."
Lysandra shot him a glare, but before she could retort, Donall took her arm and guided her down. "Enough posturing. You're not impressing anyone right now."
"Not trying to," she muttered under her breath, though she allowed them to help her dismount. When her boots hit the ground, her injured leg buckled slightly, but Donall steadied her before she fell.
Kellan shook his head, his tone teasing but edged with concern. "You're worse than a stubborn mule, Lys."
She straightened, brushing them off as best she could. "If you two don't stop fussing over me like nursemaids, I'm going to regret letting you live through that forest."
Donall grunted, unfazed. "I'll take my chances. You look like you're about to keel over."
Lysandra took a step forward, her movements more of a determined wobble than a proper stride. The pain in her leg flared sharply, but she gritted her teeth, refusing to let it show. Donall hovered close, ready to catch her if she stumbled, though she shot him a warning glare that said don't even think about it.
As she straightened and steadied herself, her gaze turned toward Alaric and Roderic, who were deep in conversation with Lord Halvard near the wide stone steps of the manor. Lord Halvard's sharp eyes flicked to her, lingering for too long. The disdain in his expression was unmistakable, as though her very presence offended him.
His gaze swept over her leather armor, the sturdy pants and worn boots caked with dirt from the road. It was the look of a man who believed women belonged in silk and gowns, not dressed like mercenaries wielding daggers and swords. Halvard's mouth thinned into a tight line, as though he was personally affronted by the sight of her.
"Looks like you've made a friend," Kellan murmured under his breath, his tone laced with sarcasm.
Lysandra didn't break eye contact with Halvard, her chin lifting slightly in defiance. "Let him stare," she muttered, her voice cold. "If my pants are the most scandalous thing he's seen, he's lived a dull life."
Lord Halvard looked away, his gaze sweeping back to Alaric and Roderic as though dismissing Lysandra entirely. He straightened his posture and cleared his throat, his tone laced with feigned politeness but carrying an unmistakable edge.
"I must say, Your Highness, your company is… unconventional," Halvard remarked, his sharp eyes flicking briefly toward Lysandra again before settling back on Alaric. "A woman dressed like that—leather armor and trousers—hardly seems fitting for the dignity of a proper household. If she is to stay within the manor walls, perhaps appropriate clothing could be arranged."
The insinuation hung in the air like a blade. Donall and Kellan shot her a look, a mix of amusement and warning, as though daring her to keep her temper in check.
Lysandra, however, froze for just a moment. Slowly, she turned her head toward Halvard, her gaze sharp and unflinching. "If you'd prefer I sew embroidery and faint at the sight of blood, Lord Halvard, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."
Alaric's expression hardened, his shoulders squaring as he fixed Halvard with a cold, piercing gaze. "Lysandra has fought and bled alongside my men," he said coolly, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of authority. "There's no need for 'appropriate clothing.'"
Lord Halvard's thin smile faltered, but his gaze shifted sharply back to Lysandra, a flicker of recognition in the name. "Lysandra… as in the Eldren bastard?" he said slowly with disdain.
The courtyard seemed to quiet around them. Lysandra stood still as Halvard's words struck her like a blow to the chest.The disdain in his voice, the judgment in his gaze—it dragged her back, far from the stone courtyard and the armored knights, to the cold halls of Hillhouse.
Her shoulders stiffened, but her head dipped slightly, almost instinctively. She felt like a child once more, hiding in the shadows while whispers echoed behind closed doors, voices that spoke of her as though she were a curse, a stain to be tolerated, never accepted.
Her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of her cloak, nails biting into her palm, but she didn't lift her gaze. For all the steel she had built around herself, Halvard's words chipped at the cracks.
She didn't respond—not immediately. Words sat heavy on her tongue, but they wouldn't come. Instead, she hung her head just enough that the fire Alaric had come to expect from her was hidden beneath her red hair, her gaze fixed on the ground as if avoiding the eyes of those around her.
It took Alaric's voice, sharp and unrelenting, to pull her back. "Her blood doesn't matter," he snapped, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "What does matter is her loyalty, which she's proven."
Lysandra inhaled deeply, the sound of Alaric's words cutting through the fog of old memories. Slowly, she straightened, forcing herself to lift her chin, though the sting of humiliation still lingered. She didn't look at Halvard.
For a fleeting moment, the weight of Halvard's words felt lighter, as though Alaric's voice alone could steady the storm inside her.
But then Halvard, ever unrelenting, spoke again. "Forgive me, Your Highness, I didn't mean to question the company you keep." His tone was stiff, his words carefully measured, but the contempt lingered like a stain. "But what would your father say?"
"My father," Alaric said icily, his words cutting through Halvard's contempt like a blade, "would say that loyalty and strength matter more. Something you seem to have forgotten Lord Halvard."
Halvard swallowed his retort, bowing stiffly. "As you say, Your Highness."
Donall moved closer, his voice low and cautious. "Lys, you all right?"
"I'm fine," she replied flatly, her gaze locked forward as though ignoring the world around her would make it disappear. But her clenched fists and the rigid set of her shoulders betrayed her.
Kellan shot her a sidelong glance, his usual teasing absent, replaced by something gentler. "He's just a lord with a loud mouth."
Lysandra let out a sharp breath, as if to dismiss the comment, though her silence spoke volumes.
"Come on, Lys," Donall murmured, moving closer so she couldn't brush him off. "You're hurting, and you know it. Let's get you to the healer."
"I'll manage." she snapped, though the edge in her voice was dulled by fatigue.
Kellan snorted softly, shaking his head. "We know you can manage, but you're not invincible. If you keep walking like that, you'll end up on the ground, and then we'll be the ones carrying you."
Donall didn't wait for her to argue again. Gently but firmly, he took her by the arm, guiding her forward despite her protests. "Enough pride, Lys. Let us help you for once."
She tried to pull away, her instinctive reaction to fend off any assistance rising to the surface. "I don't need—"
"You do," Donall cut in, his voice uncharacteristically stern. "You've been pushing yourself hard. So let us shoulder some of the weight. It's not weakness to let someone help."
Lysandra's jaw tightened, her pride warring with her body's undeniable exhaustion. She hated this—hated being seen as vulnerable, as needing help. It reminded her too much of the helplessness she felt as a child, too much of the shame she had buried deep. But when her leg gave a sharp throb and nearly buckled beneath her, she swallowed hard, relenting enough to let Donall steady her.
"Fine," she muttered grudgingly, though she refused to meet either of their eyes. "But if the healer starts fussing, I'll walk right back out."
Kellan grinned faintly, falling into step beside them. "I'd pay to see you try."
Together, they guided her through the courtyard, past bustling knights and wary retainers. Lysandra forced herself to look forward, her expression schooled into the mask of indifference she wore so well, even as her steps faltered. Donall and Kellan remained at her sides.
When they reached the healer's quarters, Donall gave her arm a small squeeze before letting go. "See? Not so bad, is it?"
Lysandra shot him a glare, though it lacked its usual bite. "You're enjoying this far too much."
Kellan leaned against the doorway, smirking. "Only because we get to remind you you're human like the rest of us."