The North did not forgive, and it certainly did not forget. The storm had passed, leaving the air brittle and cold, smelling of salt-crust and damp pine. Mary Anne Braun stepped out of her carriage, her boots sinking slightly into the thawed mud of the fishing village. She wore a traveling cloak of deep emerald—a color that screamed of wealth against the grey, weathered timber of the huts.
She had spent the journey from the Tovar estate scrubbing the memory of Princess Marcy's insults from her mind. She told herself she was here to secure her prize. She told herself that the "nurse" Elspeth was merely a sentinel. But as she approached the riverbank, her practiced internal monologue faltered.
Gerry Waddell was alone by the water. He was crouched over the bank, his tall, powerful frame silhouetted against the pale morning light. He held a simple fishing rod in calloused hands, his focus absolute. He wasn't wearing a tunic; the cold seemed to have no purchase on him. His skin was sun-kissed and bronzed, a sharp contrast to the pale, powdered men of the court.
The morning light caught his hair—a deep, vibrant red that glinted like copper flames. As he moved to adjust his line, the muscles of his back flexed with a fluid, animal ease.
Mary Anne froze. She stood at the top of the ridge, the wind whipping her hair across her face, and let the scene etch itself into her memory. There was something magnetic about him—a raw, unrefined power that the silken halls of Praeven could never produce. He looked like a king from the old legends, before the crowns were made of gold and the hearts were made of greed.
She felt a dangerous flicker of fascination—a heat in her chest that had nothing to do with politics. For a moment, she forgot he was a "mercenary boy." She saw the man. She saw the undeniable Seymour jawline and the fire in his hair, and the weight of his heritage felt suddenly, painfully real. She quelled the thought instantly, reminding herself of the leverage he represented, but the image remained burned into her mind.
She smoothed her expression, calling upon the mask that Marcy had nearly shattered. She descended the slope, her silk skirts rustling against the dead grass.
"You have a steady hand, Master Waddell," she called out, her voice melodic and clear.
Gerry didn't jump. He finished his movement, securing his line, before slowly rising to his full height. He towered over her, the sheer scale of him making the emerald-clad girl look like a porcelain doll. His blue eyes—the King's eyes—were narrowed and guarded.
"Lady Braun," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The roads are still soft. You've come a long way to check on a few sick children."
"I told you, Gerry," she lied, stepping closer. "I could not rest until I knew if the fever had broken. How are the little ones?"
"The nurse you sent knows her trade," Gerry said, wiping his hands on a rough cloth. "They're breathing easier. Elspeth is... thorough."
They spoke for a few moments more—Mary Anne spinning her web of "charity," Gerry watching her with a mercenary's weary suspicion. When she finally turned to head back to her carriage, she felt a surge of triumph. He was listening. The seed was planted.
As Mary Anne reached the crest of the hill, she stopped. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of expensive saddle soap and the faint, metallic tang of oiled steel—scents that did not belong in a village of fish and rot.
She didn't turn around immediately. She adjusted her cloak, her eyes scanning the perimeter of the birch grove a hundred yards to her left. There, half-hidden by the skeletal white trunks, she saw the silhouette of a rider. The horse was a military-grade destrier, and the man atop it sat with the rigid, unmistakable grace of a veteran of the Royal Guard.
Her heart skipped a beat. She recognized the cloak—the heavy, charcoal wool reserved for the higher lords of the Mahlsberg line.
William, she thought, her breath hitching in her throat. The King's brother is here.
She didn't wave. She didn't acknowledge him. She stepped into her carriage, her heart hammering against her ribs. If William was here, it meant her secret was no longer hers alone. The hunt was no longer a solitary endeavor; it had become a race.
Down by the river, Gerry Waddell had not moved. He watched the emerald-clad girl vanish into her carriage, and then he shifted his gaze to the birch grove.
He saw the rider. He recognized the man from the mountain pass years ago—the Prince who had paid him in silver and looked at him with eyes that felt like a mirror.
Gerry stood in the mud, the cold water swirling around his boots. His mind was racing. The most beautiful socialite in Praeven was lingering around his children, and the King's own brother was lurking in the brush like a common scout.
Something is not right, Gerry thought, his grip tightening on his fishing rod until the wood creaked. He looked at the heavy carriage pulling away and the silent rider in the trees. He was a mercenary; he knew the smell of an ambush before the first arrow was notched.
He was a simple man in a poor village, but the two most powerful houses in the kingdom were suddenly standing on his doorstep. The vultures weren't just circling; they were landing.
Gerry looked back at his cottage, where his children slept, and for the first time in his life, he felt the weight of a danger he couldn't fight with a blade.