Page 23

Jules

The Eyrie

The last couple of days have gone by in a blur.

I miss Alaric like crazy.

But even more wild than that? I can feel him.

Not just memories or longing.

No. It’s like he’s inside me, stitched into every breath I take, a silver thread woven through my soul.

His concern.

His fury.

His sharp-edged focus.

It hums in my chest like a second heartbeat, echoing through the bond we share, and even though we’re miles apart, it makes me feel closer to him.

I know what he’s doing is dangerous. I know it’s vital. And I don’t want him to worry about me while he’s out there facing whatever horrors the SoulTakers are throwing at him.

So at night, when exhaustion pulls me under, I lie in our bed— his bed —curled around one of his pillows with my hand resting over my heart. I focus on the warmth of our connection, and I send him everything I can muster.

Hope—because I am very hopeful for us and our future.

Love—because even though I haven’t said it, I feel it. For him.

I send him reminders that I am here. Waiting. Watching for him.

And that I’m thinking of him.

That I’m longing for the day he comes back to me.

Meanwhile, I’m learning.

About Nightfall. About the Eyrie. About what it means to be Lady Jules, which is a title I’m still not fully sure I deserve.

But I can’t get anyone to stop using it, so I might as well embrace it.

The Eyrie is huge— like, Hogwarts-had-a-baby-with-an-elven-castle huge —and I still get turned around in the corridors.

Shade says I’ll get the hang of it. I say we need some of those you-are-here maps like they have at zoos and shopping malls.

There are attendants everywhere, kind and strange and quiet, and while I’ve met several of them, I admit I have a hard time keeping all their names straight.

They bow a lot. One of them offered me a tiny dragon fruit thing yesterday, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to eat it or name it.

Harold, though—Harold I adore.

He’s head of the kitchens and gives serious no-nonsense-grandpa energy.

He grumbled the first time I asked for something sweet and fizzy, but after I showed him how to make whipped milk foam and shape it into little hearts, I think he secretly fell in love with me. In a platonic, tea-sipping, grumble-while-stirring kind of way.

There’s no coffee here— tragic —but they do have something close. The people call it fyrran, a dark, rich brew made from roasted sunfruit seeds, and honestly, it slaps.

There are also teas for everything.

Sleep, energy, stomachaches, lust—you name it.

Nyna, one of the cooks, even showed me a type of gelatin made from flower stems, and I used it to mold little fruit jellies in the shape of stars and moons.

The kids went nuts for them.

It helps, all of this.

The routine. The budding friendships. The quiet sense of belonging I feel when someone calls me Lady Jules without hesitation.

This place could be home— feels like home —even if a piece of me is still raw without Alaric beside me.

Right now, though, there’s a ruckus coming from the kitchens, and that usually means something’s on fire or Harold is yelling again.

I walk in, brushing flour from my palms onto the apron I’m wearing over a loose blouse and fitted pants.

Shade helped me modify the blouse, adding ties at the arms so I could roll them up without dragging them through whatever stew I’m stirring or bandage I’m tying.

We’ve had a steady stream of displaced families arriving from the lower villages—people whose homes were destroyed or made unsafe when the SoulTakers breached the North Road.

Some are nobles, but most are just scared families trying to get through another day.

Alaric’s estate is massive, and while many are staying in the outer houses around the Eyrie, we’ve made space inside for those who need more care.

The kids are my favorite.

Sticky-fingered, full of questions, and bold enough to ask me if I really did ride a Dragon or if Alaric just wears a costume for dramatic effect.

I assured them, quite seriously, that he does not do cosplay.

We’ve been doing arts and crafts in the playroom— well, they make crafts, I mostly try not to get glue in my hair —and I read to them in the evenings.

Shade found me a collection of old Nightfall stories, full of heroes and monsters and weird enchanted objects.

I swear one of the stories was about a pair of talking boots that fell in love— isn’t that amazing?

Truth is, I’ve been okay , all things considered.

But when I walk into the kitchen and see Harold with a vein bulging in his temple, I know something’s up.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, wiping my hands on my apron as I step forward.

Harold throws up his hands in dramatic despair.

“That blasted woman again! I made her venison twice, and now she says the potatoes are ‘ too aggressive. ’ What in the blazes does that even mean?”

“Lady Jules?” Nyna steps up beside me, her expression apologetic. “Um, apologies, we have a guest who is making some demands.”

I already know who she means. I heard some of the attendants whispering about her.

Dauphiné.

They say she’s a noblewoman. A guest of rank. An important ally of the Eyrie.

Respected. Honored. Needed.

And yet, I’ve heard the whispers.

The kind that slip under doors and echo across cold stone floors when servants think you’re not listening.

The ones spoken behind half-closed doors with tight mouths and wary eyes.

They say Dauphiné once had her sights set on Alaric with the kind of focus that felt less like admiration and more like a hunt.

That her father—a powerful Northman from just beyond the Thorn Mountains—once tried to arrange a match between them. One that would’ve combined territories and strength.

But Alaric refused.

And according to the whispers, she didn’t take it well.

They say she lost her mind.

Tore through her own home—something the attendants call the Winter Court , though none of them seem to say it fondly.

Apparently, the Eyrie is the only true seat of power in these parts, and she never quite got over that.

In fact, according to those pesky whispers, she still thinks there is hope for her.

She wants the crown.

She wants him.

And though he already denied her, she still covets Alaric.

Nyna told me how Dauphiné made her rage known.

Publicly. Violently.

Declaring herself the only one worthy of ruling beside the Lord of the Eyrie.

Of reigning not just over the North, but perhaps all of Nightfall.

Part of me— the smaller, weaker part —wants to shrink at the thought.

To question everything.

To let that old familiar ache of insecurity creep in, whispering that I don’t belong here.

That I’m just a woman swept up in a fantasy.

That this place, this power, this man— it was all meant for someone else.

But I won’t.

I refuse to let jealousy or fear get the better of me.

Not when Alaric isn’t here to speak for himself.

Not when I know in my heart that what we have is real.

That I am not some placeholder in his bed or a pawn in a political game.

I am his viyella.

And until he tells me otherwise, I’m going to act like it.

Which means taking care of the people under this roof, no matter how difficult— or highborn —they are.

And if Dauphiné is causing this much tension in the kitchen alone?

Then maybe it’s time we met face to face.

Because I can’t protect the Eyrie from behind a curtain.

And no one— no one —is going to walk all over the people I’ve come to care for.

Not even a beautiful— I have to assume she is beautiful, I mean, most everyone here is —bitter noblewoman with delusions of grandeur and a past with the man I love.

I exhale slowly, offering Harold a quick pat on the shoulder.

His grumbling has reached full teakettle status, and his face is red enough to match it.

“I’ll handle it,” I murmur.

His eyes widen. Harold clutches his apron and pats his face with it.

“Oh! Thank you. But are you sure, Lady Jules? She’s been barking orders like she thinks she’s Queen of the Realms. Tried to fire Nyna three times just this morning. I don’t want you to go through any trouble for me.”

“It’s no trouble. And let her try that with me. I’ll show her what it means to be a Jersey Girl,” I grumble.

I don’t even mean to sound so sharp. But I’m tired. I miss Alaric.

I haven’t heard his voice in days, only felt his presence through the zareth.

I don’t need some highborn drama queen making life hell for the people trying to hold this place together.

“Lady Jules, are you sure?” Nyna asks in a small, frightened voice.

“Yep. I’m sure,” I mutter, tugging off my apron. “I think it’s way past time, I have a little chat with our noble houseguest.”

Because I might not be a queen or a general or a born Lady.

But according to Alaric and everyone else here, I am the Lady of the Eyrie.

This is my home.

And I’m done letting spoiled strangers treat it otherwise.

I arch a brow. “So, what are Dauphiné’s latest demands?”

I ask, wanting to prepare myself.

Shade appears from the back corridor, her usually calm demeanor visibly fraying at the edges.

Her cheeks are flushed, and her braid is half undone, which says a lot.

“It’s well, you see, Dauphiné is unhappy with her accommodations.”

Nyna winces.

Harold grunts.

“Unhappy how?” I ask, already bracing myself.

“She says her suite is too dark, the silks are too coarse, the fruit is too ripe, and she’s sent back four meals in the last day. She also keeps trying to enter Lord Alaric’s private chambers.”

I blink. “I’m sorry, she’s doing what ?”

Shade nods tightly. “She insists she must see him. Claims it’s her right.”

I narrow my eyes and take what’s supposed to be a calming breath—but I must be doing it wrong because I feel anything but calm.

The moment she sees me, Dauphiné straightens, her pale violet eyes narrowing with interest— and disdain .

She’s tall, willowy, stunning in a way that screams old money and even older magic. Her silver hair is twisted up in elaborate coils, glinting like ice under the glass ceiling of the sun-drenched room.