Her horse waited for her—a sleek gray mare saddled and ready. The mare flicked its ears at her arrival, shifting restlessly, as if already impatient with the journey ahead. A length of rope ran from the horse’s bridle to a large black stallion beside it, where Sir Catria sat astride, unmoving and silent.
Althea glared at the tether.
The rope was thin but unyielding, a reminder that she was being watched, managed, and controlled. They hadn’t even trusted her with the freedom to ride on her own. It stung more than it should have—but then, her father had never trusted her with anything. Not even this.
And of course, he wasn’t here to say goodbye.
Her heart twisted painfully at the thought. She told herself she didn’t care. But she knew that was a lie.
He hadn’t come. But Lysander and Theron had.
They were waiting for her near the palace gates, their faces drawn and shadowed in the dim morning light. Lysander, the eldest, stood tall and steady, his leather riding cloak draped loosely over his shoulders. Theron, younger and always restless, fidgeted with the buckle of his glove, casting glances toward the horses like he wanted to ride out with her and never come back.
When she reached them, Lysander was the first to pull her into a tight, bone-deep hug. He smelled of leather, smoke, and something familiar—something she hadn’t realized she would miss until now.
“Keep your head down, little sister,” he murmured against her hair. “Do what they ask. Come home safe.”
The words twisted something sharp and painful in her chest. He was speaking as though coming home were a certainty, as though this were just another diplomatic mission. But they both knew better.
She clung to him a second too long, her fists gripping the back of his cloak as if holding on would stop time itself.
“Lys,” she whispered, her voice tight. “I—” she stopped herself before the words could spill out—I don’t want to go, I can’t do this, I’m scared. The knot in her throat swelled, and she swallowed hard, blinking away the sting in her eyes.
Lysander pulled back, cupping her face gently between his calloused hands. His brown eyes were serious, filled with a sadness she wasn’t used to seeing in him. “We’ll see each other again, Thea. I promise.”
She nodded, but the lie sat heavy between them. They both knew it was unlikely.
Theron stepped forward next, his grin crooked and desperate, as though he could laugh away the weight of the moment. “Hey,” he said, nudging her shoulder. “You know, I’ve heard Rithmar isn’t so bad. They’ve got good wine, right? Maybe a castle with better views than this one.”
Althea huffed a laugh, though it was more out of habit than humor. “If the views are so great, why don’t you come with me?”
His smile faltered, then disappeared entirely. “I would if I could.”
The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken—I would if they let me.
He pulled her into a hug, tighter than his usual easy embraces, and whispered, “Don’t let them break you, Al. Promise me.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Her throat closed up, and for a moment, all she could do was nod against his shoulder. His arms around her felt warm, solid—something to anchor her, just for a moment longer.
But moments never lasted.
When he pulled back, he swiped a hand through his dark curls, his grin flickering back into place like a mask. “Try not to miss me too much, alright?” he teased. But his voice was too light, too forced.
Althea gave him a weak shove. “You wish.”
Her heart twisted painfully as she looked between them—her brothers, the only people who had ever made the palace feel less like a cage. And now she was leaving, tethered like a prisoner, dragged toward a future that didn’t belong to her.
Lysander squeezed her shoulder one last time, his grip firm and reassuring, though it did little to ease the ache in her chest. “Write to us,” he said. “As often as you can.”
Althea nodded. But they both knew that letters would be little more than false comfort—thin words sent across impossible distance. It wasn’t the same. It would never be the same.
She glanced back toward the palace windows one last time, searching for a familiar shadow—a flicker of movement, anything to tell her that her father had come to see her off after all.
There was nothing.
Her throat burned with the weight of unspoken words, but she shoved the feeling down, swallowing it hard.
“Mount up.”
Catria’s voice, low and steady, cut through the quiet like a blade. It was the first thing she’d heard from the woman since the orders were given, and it startled her more than she cared to admit.
Althea turned slowly toward the knight, her hands clenching at her sides. Catria sat astride her stallion, her expression unreadable, her posture stiff and formal.
Althea shot her a glare, sharp and defiant, then turned to her horse. She grabbed the saddle with more force than necessary and hauled herself up, the leather creaking under her weight.
The rope connecting her horse to Catria’s pulled taut as the knight shifted in her saddle, her stallion stepping forward with smooth, deliberate ease.
Althea’s grip on the reins tightened until her knuckles turned white. The tether burned at her pride—humiliating and undeniable. Every step of this journey would be a reminder that she wasn’t free.
With a final glance toward her brothers, she gave them a tight smile—too small to be real, too big to be believable.
“Take care, Althea,” Lysander called after her, his voice laced with quiet regret.
Theron gave a mock salute, though his grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t let that knight boss you around too much!”
Althea gave a short, bitter laugh. “No promises.”
And with that, the horses moved forward, Catria’s stallion leading the way. The rope between them tugged gently, pulling Althea’s mare into step behind.
The gates of the palace loomed ahead, dark and unyielding. As they passed through, the air seemed to shift—colder, heavier.
The rope connecting her to Catria’s stallion pulled taut as the knight shifted in her saddle.
Bound and bridled like a prisoner.
Althea’s grip on the reins tightened until her knuckles turned white. She hated how much that tether infuriated her. It was a small thing—just a rope, really—but it felt like a chain, heavy and humiliating.
As if her father’s message weren’t already clear enough.
Anger rose in her chest—swift and relentless. She held firm to it. The anger was easier to hold onto. Anger felt sharp, familiar. It was better than the fear—that cold, creeping thing gnawing at the edges of her mind, whispering that she’d never escape this fate.
The stallion’s steady gait tugged the rope gently forward, forcing Althea’s mare to follow, step for step.
They rode toward the kingdom’s gate in silence, the only sound the soft thud of hooves on frost-hardened dirt. The cold morning air bit at Althea’s cheeks, and her breath puffed out in quick bursts, each one more frustrated than the last. She stared at Catria’s back—at the knight’s broad shoulders and unyielding posture—and fought the urge to yank the tether loose just to see what would happen.
Would she chase me?
Probably. And catch her, too, without breaking a sweat.
The thought made Althea’s hands itch with frustration. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, but it did little to ward off the cold—or the growing weight of the journey ahead.
“Do you always escort your prisoners like this?” Althea asked eventually, her voice sharp with irritation.
Catria didn’t turn, didn’t even glance over her shoulder. “Only the ones who try to run.” The knight’s tone was calm, almost bored, as if she were discussing the weather.
Althea clenched her jaw. “So that’s what I am, then? A prisoner?”
“You’re a duty,” Catria said flatly.
The words stung more than they should have.
Althea stared at the back of the knight’s head, fury simmering beneath her ribs, hot and tight. She wanted to lash out—to say something cutting, something cruel—but the words caught in her throat.
Because it was true.
That was all she was to anyone. A duty. A burden. A price to be paid for peace.