CHAPTER 469: LOVE IN THE AIR

Lara stepped quietly into the palace infirmary, where the scent of crushed herbs and clean bandages lingered in the air. Bener lay propped up against a stack of pillows, his face pale but his eyes sharp. At his side sat Shaya, ever watchful, her hands busy with a bowl of steaming broth. Abel was there too, restless but unharmed, fidgeting with the strap of his bow.

The sight filled Lara with both relief and guilt. During the chaos of the queen’s banquet, she could not shield Abel herself. So, she had entrusted him to Nicolas and the archers, believing it the safest course. Her gamble had been right—Abel bore not even a scratch. It was a relief. She could not bear the thought of explaining to her Uncle Primo if harm had come to his firstborn.

She was right after all, Abel did not suffer from any injury. She did not know how to explain to her Uncle Primo should something happen to his first child.

"Brother," she said softly, drawing Bener’s attention, "we leave for Estalis the day after tomorrow."

Bener’s jaw tightened, and he let out a pained breath. His wounds were still raw despite the salves and tinctures Lara had brewed to hasten his recovery. The grimace on his face told her plainly what he would not say—he was not ready to ride into battle again.

He had learned of Angus and Aramis identify and he was also supportive of Northem lending them a hand.

Her gaze flicked to Shaya. After a pause, she asked, "I don’t know if you intend to come with us. But if you do, tell me by tomorrow."

Shaya’s expression wavered. Her eyes lingered on Bener before shifting to Lara, caught between loyalty to him and the pull of the journey ahead.

"You need not decide tonight," Lara added gently. "Sleep on it."

Abel tugged at her sleeve. "Sister... aren’t we going back to Calma first?" His voice held a homesick ache.

"You want to return to Calma? If you do, there is a caravan that would for Calma in three days. You can go with them."

"I’ll think about it," Abel murmured. While he was homesick, he wanted to experience the world outside. He wanted to follow in the footsteps of his Uncles. Though he did not have the Norse blood running in his veins he still wanted to be a general when he grew up.

"And I will give my answer tomorrow," Abel added quietly, though his tone betrayed the certainty of his decision.

After a few more words exchanged, Lara excused herself. The infirmary’s heavy door closed behind her, only for her to nearly collide with her brother, Galahad, in the narrow corridor.

"Sister, I’ve been looking everywhere for you," he said, his tone urgent but edged with restraint. "Can I speak with you?"

She nodded, and together they made their way through the palace halls until the muffled clang of steel led them to the training grounds. There, in a secluded corner, five figures sparred with surprising intensity. At first glance they seemed young men in simple garb, but their movements and forms betrayed them—these were women, their strength cloaked in disguise.

"This..." Lara began, momentarily at a loss.

"They are maids of the Silverstones," Galahad explained. "But their knowledge of medicine and herbs runs deep. Four of them were disciples—direct or indirect—of Orion himself. The fifth is Lady Rowana."

"Hmmm. Interesting," Lara’s brows rose. "So they serve as both attendants and hidden blades?"

"In truth," Galahad said with a knowing smile, "I think their talents are wasted here. You could recruit them for your Gabriella Guild."

Before Lara could answer, a sharp cry rang out. Rowana, locked in a duel with Lazira, faltered under a sudden kick and crashed to the ground. Galahad tensed and instinctively moved forward, only to halt midway. He forced himself back to Lara’s side, though his eyes never left the fallen woman.

Lara noticed the flicker in his gaze. She tilted her head, studying Rowana as Lazira helped her up. The woman’s face flushed, but her dignity remained intact.

As Rowana dusted herself off and resumed her stance, Lara’s gaze lingered on her with quiet calculation. There was something unpolished about the woman—her footing too tentative, her strikes lacking precision—but there was also a stubbornness that refused to yield, even after a fall. That spirit caught Lara’s attention more than the flaw in technique.

"Who is she?" Lara asked quietly.

"That one?" Galahad’s attempt at nonchalance failed; his voice lifted with an uncharacteristic lightness. "Lady Rowana—eldest daughter of Donald, Earl of Donalton. You should know her. The two of you played together as children, back when her mother was still the Countess."

"Brother," Lara reminded him gently, "I lost much of my memory. I recall only what came from four years ago—and what Reya has told me."

"Ah. Right." He looked momentarily abashed.

Lara’s eyes lingered on Rowana. Her clothes were plain, almost threadbare, far beneath the station of a noble’s daughter. Yet there was resolve in her eyes, a hunger for strength. "She seems to have been ill-treated at home," Lara observed.

She has been trained, yes, Lara mused silently, but not with the rigor expected of a noble house. If she is truly the daughter of an earl, then her instruction was neglected... or perhaps deliberately withheld. A flower meant to wither quietly in the shadows of her own home.

Galahad blinked. "What makes you say that?"

"She is a noble lady, but look at her clothes. They looked simple and cheap. But it is good that she wanted to learn self-defense."

She tilted her head slightly, watching Rowana exchange another blow with Lazira. The girl stumbled, caught herself, and pressed on, breath ragged but eyes alight with determination.

"She has more than spirit," Galahad admitted quietly. "When I was wounded, she was the one who stitched me up, as there was no one else."

Lara glanced sideways at him. She remembered the ugly scar that looked like a centipede on his arm. So it was her doing. She needed to do something about that to remove the scar.

She saw it clearly now—the interest he tried to hide. A smile tugged at her lips, but she swallowed the urge to tease. For her brother, who so rarely looked twice at a woman, this was something precious. She would not spoil it with jest.