Steel and Silk

Bound and Bridled

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."

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.