The feast rages on with men singing and dancing on tables, slurring through verses of funny tavern songs and chants. Cups csh against the hardwood of the furniture, filling the room with further ctter as the air thickens with the heady aroma of roasted meats. Someone throws an apple across the hall, and it nds with a wet smack, causing the men to drunkenly ugh.

  But amidst the chaos, Caspian is still, his head resting on his fist as he watches the chaotic camaraderie unfold. I see a light smile on his face as he observes the hall’s occupants. So he can rex…

  A few moments pass, and Caspian shifts in his seat. His goblet, still half full, is set down as a sign of a quiet fullness. He pces one hand on the table and rises, not loudly, and not with command, but in a silence so abrupt that it stills the men around him.

  Sir Leiman looks up from his pte, standing immediately with the other high command as Caspian does so. “My lord?”

  “At ease.” He replies to the men, patting Sir Leiman’s shoulder as he turns away from the table. “I’ve had my fill.”

  Leiman nods and sits down. The high command slowly follows suit.

  Caspian faces me and nods for me to follow. He steps off the ptform and begins to walk towards a side door. I hesitate for a moment. Just for a second. Where are we going? The feast is still pretty active. Without thinking much more, I follow, pcing the jug on the same side table as we make our way out.

  He doesn’t speak as we move through the side door and into the corridor. The echoes of celebration fading with each step deeper into the warm castle. The light from the sconces flickering softly against the walls makes his shadow stretch and move with grace. But my pulse is unsettled. What is he pnning for me to do? I thought I only had to serve him at the feast…

  “You are to serve him.” Ni’s words intrude into my mind. Serve? Like a personal maid?

  A handmaiden.

  Has Caspian thought of putting me in this position from the beginning?

  Why does he need me to be so close to him? What use am I to him?

  We walk in silence.

  And, of course, I can’t take that for long.

  “Am I…Uh…is this part of the job? Find out why. What purpose does he have for me?

  He doesn’t answer immediately. His steps don’t slow, nor do they give anything major away with his body, besides a slightly tensed jaw. Investigate, Genevieve.

  “I thought I was only meant to serve the feast.” I continue to press. My insight into any understanding of this situation, fuddled.

  He stops at the base of a winding stair and turns slightly towards me.

  “You served it.”

  “It's still going on, though? We left early.”

  “And that was enough.” He shuts down my curiosity.

  He starts walking again, and I almost jog trying to catch up with him.

  Something inside me tugs. An unease. Not only due to being in a quiet corridor with a man who tried to kill me, but more importantly, why? Come on. Nudge him, Genevieve.

  “Do you always dismiss your servants that fast? I ask, wanting to gain any information.

  He doesn’t look at me.

  “No.” Well, that’s not ominous at all…

  Silence stirs between us once more, my pulse quickening. My mind whirling with possibilities.

  “A-are you going to kill me?”

  Still no answer.

  No answer, is an answer…

  My heart begins to race, my mind cursing my feet for not stopping. We pass under an ornate archway, the hallways seeming different then the others. The stone here is toned, older. The air carries a faint floral scent of vender and something more herbal. We’re moving towards the private wings. I recognise the yout from the castles in the books I used to read, and the ones I used to visit. I loved those books. God, if only I could be trapped between the pages of those instead of this hel—

  “You draw attention,” Caspian says suddenly.

  I blink.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, my confusion only building.

  He gnces at me with a harsh eye, then ahead again. “You don’t belong here, Genevieve. I’m not sure where you’re from, but it's not here. And they can see it too.” My blood turns cold, ice beginning to freeze in my veins.

  My breath catches.

  Does he know? Or is he generalising? I know I don’t fit in with the darker-haired people of this northern county, but that doesn’t mean I’m from another world, right? Surely he means it like that. That I don’t belong in this pce, this county, and not this world.

  Investigate further, Genevieve. We need to know.

  “Is…that why you pulled me out? Because I’m out of pce?”

  He stops at a tall, dark-wooden door, carved with more Celtic symbols. He doesn't answer for a brief moment, but then responds ftly.

  “I can’t risk questions being asked when I don’t have the answers yet.” Oh shit…is he on the fence about whether I am or not? Shittt. This is going to screw up everything. Shit, Genevieve.

  He can’t trust me if he thinks it’s this world I don’t belong in. And my world…What will he do if he confirms his worst thoughts? What will happen to it? Shit. Shit, Genevieve.

  Ugh…I know I shouldn’t. But if I don’t, then I’m not sure that my wanting to go home will be my biggest problem anymore.

  I need to convince him I am from this world.

  Before I can open my mouth and offer some convincing words, he pushes the door open.

  The warmth of the room hits me instantly. Golden candlelight flickers against the thick stone, and the air is filled with the scent of wood and cloves. There’s a rge wooden tub drawn by the fire, steam coiling up like a fine mist. An eborate carved table holding documents and sealed scrolls lies against one side of the room, his swords resting beside it, pced with care rather than to show.

  In the middle lies a rge, richly quilted bed with animal furs bnketing them.

  I don’t move. Is he going to lock me in the same room with him? Again? I trusted him too easily before. Before…I knew that he might be on to me.

  He looks back over his shoulder. “In.”

  I take a deep breath, my thoughts into what action to take, a mess. Do I comply and try to change his view of me? Or do I fight back?... Like before? Pretend I’m just some foolish girl fumbling through her mistakes.

  Maybe that’s safer.

  Maybe it’ll stop him from realising he’s right to investigate me and that he’d be wasting time if he did…

  I enter, slow, cautious, half expecting a trapdoor to open beneath me.

  I swallow hard, my thoughts urging me to continue to act as if nothing is wrong.

  “This is your room?”

  He doesn’t answer. He instead walks towards the table, tugging at the buckles of the belt wrapped over his dark tunic. His tone is casual, nearing disinterest.

  “I’ve had enough noise for today. You’ll tend to what’s left.”

  My brow furrows. “Tend…what?”

  My eyes trace his back with caution. Not…Him? Surely? Not like…that?

  Caspian tosses the belt on the table, creating a soft clink as it nds. He finally turns to face me, the time in doing so feeling like an eternity.

  “Bandages. Wash. Bed prep. I’ll handle the rest.”

  He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and my brain is twisted to think of anything else.

  He doesn’t say anything more, just walks towards me, peeling the top half of his uniform off.

  And there it is again. Those damn markings.

  I instinctively turn my eyes away. Cinema, fashion, and all the other modern nonsense don’t prepare you for the reality of being this close to someone. Especially someone this…distracting. It’s been so long since I’ve st seen a man like this that I might as well have forgotten how to look. Or worse, how not to.

  The shirt drops to the floor with a soft rustle of the fabric. I try not to look, but as, my curiosity edges me to. His chest…is very big. Unless this pce is an anomaly in time, then showing this much flesh to a dy would be inappropriate—

  I'm a handmaiden. Not a dy in his eyes.

  This is normal for him.

  My eyes trace the dark, winding patterns that slither up his sides and wrap over his shoulders, then trail their way down his arms. They don’t look like simple tattoos. They're not decorative. They look…etched. Rooted into his flesh like it was inked by bde and not by hand.

  My chest tightens, and I feel unnerved. Something about them doesn't feel right.

  They're not barbaric. Not tribal.

  But ritualistic, symbolic. Like they all seem to carry meaning.

  And not like the kind you get from a drunken night at a bad tavern.

  Caspian doesn’t speak as he moves past me. He takes a knee beside the tub, the steam wrapping around him as he dips a cloth into the water. He raises his arm, and I can finally see his wounds clearly now. Three jagged sshes cut across his ribs, half healed, the edges still raw from movement. Oh my God…and he still fought that Krehvin with it?

  I stand still, useless, the atmosphere too thick for me to breathe.

  “You were instructed to tend.” He reminds me, in a calm tone, yet dry enough to make me flinch.

  I shuffle forward and sit beside the tub next to him. I grab a cloth hung over the side of the tub and dip it in, and wring the water out tightly, the hot water trailing down my wrists as I do so.

  I try to focus on his wound and not the heat of his skin. How close we are. The strength in his frame. Or the markings that sprawl across him like an ancient nguage.

  Just…clean. Bandage. Get his trust.

  I press the cloth to the edge of the ssh where dried blood clings, being as careful as I can in attempting to loosen it. Did we leave the feast early because it was bothering him? And not because of whatever he said?

  He doesn't move. Doesn't flinch.

  “You've got no experience in this.” He says, as if it were obvious from my hesitation to be anything but careful in cleaning it.

  “You don't say,” I mutter.

  He huffs, just barely. Was that a ugh or a sigh?

  I dab at the wound, biting my lip when I catch the edge of some broken skin. Oops…

  He remains still.

  I should say something. Anything to break the tension. But my throat is full of nerves.

  He doesn't react, but I can sense him watching me. Those sharp eyes never miss a thing. And I bet they're on me to measure if I'm a ‘threat’, or a fool. Maybe both?

  “Do you not…feel any pain?” I budge myself to talk, to relieve any tension in the room.

  “I've learned to ignore it.”

  “Humble much,” I say out loud unconsciously, my mouth cmping shut at the realisation. But to my surprise, Caspian doesn't say anything, he just huffs again, shaking his head as he turns away. It's not quite a ugh, but it's soaked in amusement. That’s the warmest thing I've heard from him so far.

  “You speak so outndishly.” I gnce up, and his eyes flicker to me, a little smile tugging on the corner of his lips. He gestures with his eyes back to the hearth. “The fire helps,” he says. “Keeps my senses focused.”

  The fire crackles in front of us, casting gold across the wooden floor. I rinse the cloth again, this time slower, trying to stall the silence.

  What is he doing? Surely a healer could’ve done this. This…this feels deliberate. Like he’s testing me. Watching me, for…something. To see if I slip? To see if I say something I shouldn’t?

  He’s waiting for proof that I’m not one of them.…Fine. Two can py at this game. I’ve lied better for more insignificant things.

  Letting the hot water spill between my fingers, I compose myself. I press gently on the deeper gashes near his ribs. The markings still draw my eye, dark and sharp, it’s like an ancient symbology I can't read, but feel regardless. Like it's a vow etched into flesh.

  What are they for?

  The question sits on the edge of my lips. But I swallow back, I can’t ask. Not yet, anyways.

  If it’s something common, like a cultural rite or religious branding, that everyone knows about, then I’d just be confirming Caspian’s suspicions.

  If it’s important I’m bound to find out sooner or ter. Py it safe, Genevieve. Not tonight. Tonight, you’re just a handmaiden, and he’s just a man with wounds to clean.

  He leans back slightly, resting one arm against the side of the tub. The firelight paints shadows over the curve of his shoulder, the light weaving its way through his loose hair. I dab once more at the wound, and Caspian tilts his head to a small jar on the mantle piece. I stand and pluck it from its pce, admiring the thick substance within. It must be a salve of some sort. I step back to my pce beside him and kneel. Opening the healing balm, the strong smell of honey and other herbs emanates from it.

  Caspian doesn't speak, but his eyes follow my movements. They're in a strange mix of softness and sternness, like I'm a puzzle he's trying to work out. I smooth the salve across the broken skin, and he exhales, slow and controlled.

  "Think it'll hold?" He gestures to the folded linen on his dresser.

  "I mean, it's either this or a prayer circle and an animal sacrifice," I mutter.

  His mouth twitches, and I try not to smile. Yes, find me amusing. Trust me.

  Silence settles between us once again, the crackling fire being our only escape from complete quietness.

  "You're not from the North," he breaks the stillness with a statement. A statement spoke with such sureness that it seems impossible to argue against.

  Ah shit.