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CHAPTER TEN

T he messenger arrived at a dead run, his face ashen, chest heaving. Jessamin had been reviewing the household accounts when the commotion in the corridor drew her attention. The young orc guard burst through her door without ceremony, his eyes wide with panic.

“Your Majesty! The king’s patrol—” He gulped air. “There’s been a rockslide on the mountain pass. The king is injured.”

The world tilted beneath her feet. For one terrible moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Ulric. Injured. The words echoed over and over in her mind.

“How badly?” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, too calm, too measured.

“I don’t know, Your Majesty. The rider who brought the news said there was blood. A lot of it.”

Blood. Ulric’s blood. The image of his powerful form broken and bleeding on the rocks filled her with a cold horror unlike anything she had ever felt.

She could hear the commotion spreading—people shouting for horses, for healers. Someone—one of her Almohadi ladies perhaps—touched her arm, asking if she needed to sit down.

But as the panic rose around her, a profound stillness settled over her. She gently removed the hand from her arm and entered the Great Hall.

“Captain Grak,” she called, her voice cutting through the noise.

Grak turned and frowned at her. “Send your fastest riders with our best healers to meet the king’s party.

Have the chamberlain prepare the king’s chambers with fresh linens and hot water, and have the apothecary bring the medicinal herbs. ”

A flicker of respect crossed his face before he bowed and obeyed, and she turned to the Captain of the Guard.

“Secure all gates. Double the watch. No one enters or leaves without my direct authorization.” The steward was next. “Prepare a light meal for the king’s return—broth, bread—and take that to his chambers as well.”

As she moved through the hall, answering questions and issuing orders, the frantic energy around her began to transform, panic giving way to purpose. For the first time since arriving in Norhaven, she felt the true weight of her crown—not as a burden, but as a responsibility she was ready to bear.

“Your Majesty,” one of the senior advisors approached, his face grave. “Perhaps you should retire to your chambers until we know more. This is distressing news, and?—”

“My place is here,” she interrupted. “The king is injured. Norhaven needs its queen.”

The advisor bowed and stepped back.

She took her position on her throne as she had so often in the past, but always with Ulric at her side.

She refused to look at the empty throne next to her.

She would meet whatever came through those doors with the dignity befitting Ulric’s queen.

The minutes stretched like hours, each one an eternity of anticipation.

The cold knot of fear in her stomach remained, twisting and tightening with each passing moment, but she kept her expression serene, her posture regal. She was acutely aware of the eyes upon her—servants, guards, courtiers. They were watching to see how the southern bride would handle this crisis.

She would show them a queen.

When the horn finally sounded, announcing the king’s approach, her heart leapt into her throat. She rose to her feet, but she forced herself to remain still, to breathe evenly. The great doors of the hall swung open.

Ulric walked in.

Not carried in. Walking.

He was covered in dust and grime, his powerful body somehow even more imposing against the backdrop of concerned faces.

His left arm was wrapped in a blood-soaked rag, the crimson stain a stark contrast to his green skin.

His face was drawn with pain, but his eyes—those fierce golden eyes—were alert and searching.

They found her immediately.

As their gazes locked across the crowded hall, the entire world seemed to fall away. In that moment, there was no one but him, no sound but the thunder of her heartbeat.

She wanted to run to him, to throw her arms around his neck and assure herself he was truly alive, to demand to know how he could have done something so foolish, to beg him to never risk himself like that again.

But she remained standing, her hands folded in front of her, the very picture of composure.

His face was in his usual stern mask but she could see past the king to the warrior beneath, past the grime to the raw pain he was trying to hide. She saw his relief at being home, his determination not to show weakness.

He broke the connection first, turning to address the gathered crowd. His voice was rough but steady as he reassured them, explaining the rockslide as a natural disaster, downplaying his injury. Advisors and healers rushed to his side but he waved them away impatiently.

She listened to his explanation, but her mind was already elsewhere.

While the attention was on him, she quietly instructed a servant to bring her personal case of healing herbs to her chambers.

The royal healers would attend him, of course, but she knew what she needed to do.

No matter how much he tried to hide it, he was hurt, and she needed—needed with an intensity that surprised her—to tend to him herself.

As he finished speaking and the crowd began to disperse, she gathered her skirts and moved towards the side passage that would lead to the royal chambers. She did not approach him directly or make a show of her intentions. This was not for the court to witness.

She caught his eye once more before slipping away, a silent promise in her gaze. I am coming to you.