The Audacity

Loren retreated into the great hall with as much dignity as she could manage, her jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.

She had been dismissed. Properly dismissed, as though she were a child being politely ignored at a grown-up gathering.

The possibility had never occurred to her that she might, someday, encounter someone who did not care that she was a princess of Greenborne. That it should be a Windrider, of all people, seemed even more impossible.

She was the future queen. In theory, she could have his head cut off and displayed on a pike, or whatever it was queens did when displeased.

Mariselle’s strawberry blonde curls shone in the light coming from the tall windows. She sat watching the Windrider soldiers below with obvious curiosity.

“Did you see the Mirefolk girls?” Mariselle asked. “They’re already trading wagers about how long you’ll last in Windrider. I think the consensus is one month.”

“If I make it a day, I’ll have outlasted their attention span,” Loren muttered angrily.

Mariselle tipped her chin, curious. 

“You look like you want to set someone on fire,” she observed.

Loren felt her mouth twitch. “Your talent for observation remains as refined as ever.”

“It’s a gift.” Mariselle patted the stone bench. “Sit. Tell me everything.”

“A falcon attacked my owl,” Loren whispered angrily. “Unprovoked. In full view of at least ten witnesses.”

“Is Tyllu all right?”

“Yes, fortunately.” Loren paused, still sounding faintly astonished. “The falcon belonged to a Windrider warrior. When I confronted him about the attack, he insulted me.”

“Insulted you how?”

“When I asked if he knew who I was,” Loren said, with the gravity of someone recounting a tragedy, “he said...” She pressed a hand to her chest. “He said he didn't care.”

Mariselle’s eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.

“He said he didn’t care?” she echoed. “To your face?”

“In those exact words.”

“Well,” Mariselle said thoughtfully, “that’s either remarkably foolish or remarkably brave. Possibly both.”

She tilted her head, studying Loren’s expression.

“Was he handsome?”

“That is entirely beside the point.”

“Ah.” Mariselle’s smile was small but knowing. “So, he was handsome.”

“I did not assess his physical appearance,” Loren replied with the stiff dignity of someone who was clearly lying and knew it.

“Mm.” Mariselle twirled a loose ringlet between her fingers. “Tall?”

“Mariselle.”

“Dark hair? Light eyes? Did he look like he could lift heavy things without assistance?”

“His appearance has nothing to do with his arrogance, or his falcon’s unprovoked attack on my owl.”

“Handsome and arrogant. A dangerous combination.”

Loren gave her sister a look that had wilted lesser individuals.

Mariselle, who was not the wilting kind, waited with the patience of someone who knew that silence was more effective than persistence.

“Very well,” Loren said at last, as though surrendering state secrets. “He was tall. Dark hair, dark eyes. Face like a stone.”

“Oh,” she added, “and he wore a Windrider military uniform, if you can believe that.”

Mariselle leaned back against the wall. She read people the way nobles read history books; for entertainment and strategic advantage.

“Someone accustomed to being obeyed without question, then.”

“Someone accustomed to being insufferably superior,” Loren corrected.

“Perhaps.” Mariselle paused. “Though I do wonder, if he truly didn’t care who you were, why did he bother to explain himself at all. I think you’re more rattled than you want to admit.”

“I’m not rattled.” Loren insisted. “I’m furious. There’s a difference.”

Mariselle made a sound somewhere between a hum and a giggle. “If you say so.”

The conversation was interrupted by the sharp click of boots against stone.

A Windrider envoy appeared with the sort of crisp efficiency that suggested schedules were being maintained and delays were not an option. His uniform was perfectly pressed, his boots polished to mirror brightness.

“Lady Loren of Greenborne,” he announced, his voice carrying across the hall. “The escort party is ready and awaits your presence in the courtyard. Departure is immediate.”

Immediate.

The word hit Loren like cold water.

She had been expecting some notice, perhaps even a small ceremony. A few tears from the servants. A speech read from her father. At the very least, enough warning to gather her thoughts. Instead, she was being summoned as though she were a crate of winter apples awaiting transport to market.

Loren stood and smoothed her travelling dress.

She was as ready as she ever would be, which felt considerably less ready than the situation demanded.

***

As they wound their way down a spiral staircase to the courtyard, Mariselle chattered with the eager energy of someone who viewed departures as adventures rather than catastrophes.

How long would the journey take?

Were the Windrider horses as wonderful as everyone claimed?

Would the steppe winds require different hairstyles?

Her enthusiasm was infectious enough that Loren almost smiled, until she stepped into the light and saw the travel arrangements.

The Windrider escort had formed into a precise formation. Eight mounted warriors in red and gold uniforms, their horses stamping and snorting with barely contained energy.

The travelling wagon was loaded and secured, their trunks strapped down carefully. Tyllu was perched on top, inside a wicker cage, glowering like an angry emperor on his throne.

In the middle of the courtyard, stood a steppe horse as dark and still as carved obsidian. The kind of animal that could carry two riders across the eastern steppe without breaking stride.

But Loren’s attention was fixed on the rider, not the horse.

Up close, in the afternoon light, she noticed the sharp angle of his jaw, the silken sheen of his hair as it moved in the wind, the long sweep of lashes against pale skin.

He was disconcertingly handsome.

He was also the man whose falcon had attacked her owl.