Chapter 3: The First Night's Vigil
The road to Caerwyn was a bruised and muddy artery through dying fields. Lia rode in silence, the steady clop of hooves and the jangle of harnesses the only sounds beyond the wind. She watched Gareth’s back, the set of his shoulders beneath the leather. He never looked back, but his awareness of her was a palpable thing; when her palfrey stumbled on a stone, his head turned slightly, his hand tightening on his reins until she righted herself.
They made camp as the sun bled into the horizon, staining the clouds the colour of a fresh wound.
Gareth dismounted with a grunt, his boots sinking into the soft earth. He barked orders, his voice cutting through the twilight. “Finn, perimeter. Kael, see to the horses. The large pavilion. Just the one.”
The command landed like a stone in still water. His men, a dozen hardened veterans, paused for only a heartbeat before resuming their work. One began unpacking the king’s crimson-and-gold tent.
Lia slid from her saddle, her legs stiff. She approached him as he unbuckled a saddlebag. “A separate tent would be more appropriate,” she said, keeping her voice low.
He straightened, turning. The fading light carved harsh planes into his face. “No.”
“I am not–”
He moved then, fast. His hand closed around her arm, not to hurt, but to stop her words. The grip was firm, implacable. He leaned in, his voice a low growl meant for her alone. “You are my queen-to-be. You will not sleep in a soldier’s hovel. And my men, good as they are, will not feast their eyes on you like common tavern wenches as you wash the road from your face. You sleep with me.”
The possessiveness in the phrase with me struck her like a physical blow. Before she could form a protest, he released her and turned to direct the setup of the tent.
Inside, it was sparse and grand all at once. The silk walls whispered in the evening breeze. A polished map table, a traveling chest, and two bedrolls: a proper cot with a thin mattress and a wool blanket, and beside it, on the ground, a narrow pallet of folded canvas.
He pointed to the cot. “You’ll sleep there.”
Lia stood frozen just inside the flap. “And you?”
“The floor suits me well enough.”
She didn’t believe him. It was a gesture, but one she couldn’t decipher. A test? A cruelty wrapped in courtesy? She said nothing, simply placing her small pouch with the paintbox on the chest. She ate the cold rations he offered—hardtack and dried venison—sitting on the cot while he sat on the ground, his back against the chest, sharpening a dagger with a slow, rhythmic scrape.
Darkness fell completely, broken only by a single lantern hanging from the central pole. He blew it out.
“Sleep,” he said from the gloom.
She lay down on the cot, still in her gown, pulling the blanket to her chin. The sounds of the camp settled into a distant rhythm: the low murmur of voices, the crackle of a fire. She could hear his breathing, steady and quiet from the pallet on the ground.
But she felt it. A pressure in the dark. The specific, unsettling weight of being watched.
Her skin prickled. She held still for a long time, listening to her own heart. Finally, she turned her head on the rough pillow.
He was propped on one elbow, facing her. His form was a darker shadow in the blackness, but she could feel the unreadable intensity of his gaze like a touch. She swallowed, her mouth dry.
“You are not my prisoner,” his voice came, quiet but absolute, slicing through the tentative space between them. “But you are mine to protect. Tonight, you sleep where I can see you.”
The words should have been a comfort. They were not. They were a claim, stark and simple. Mine to protect meant mine to control. Mine to watch. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. Her mother’s lessons coiled in her stomach. They will only ever want one thing. Was this the prelude? The watchfulness before the taking?
A strange, rebellious clarity cut through her fear. It was the same sharpness that had surfaced with her sisters. She didn’t shy away from his unseen stare.
“But won’t you see me every night I sleep?”
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the distant call of a nightjar. She heard the faint rustle of wool as he shifted.
“What?” The word was blunt, genuinely confused.
“I assume we will share a bed,” Lia said into the darkness, her tone pragmatic, almost light. “My parents did. I assume that’s what husbands and wives do.” She let the statement hang, a simple fact she had carried from a broken home into this uncertain future.
Gareth did not answer for a long moment. When he did, his voice had changed. The growl was gone, replaced by something slower, more considering. “Your parents’ marriage was a political match that became… otherwise.”
“It was.”
“Ours is political.”
“Yes.”
Another pause. She could almost hear him turning the idea over, examining it from all sides. “A shared bed is a place of vulnerability,” he said finally, each word measured. “For both. I have many enemies. It is a risk.”
“So is a wife who feels like a hostage in a separate room.”
A soft, gruff sound escaped him. It wasn’t quite a laugh. It was surprise. “You argue for my presence?”
“I argue for not pretending,” she said, her courage a thin, bright line in the dark. “You said I am yours to protect. Fine. Then protect me. From the chill, if nothing else. This tent is cold.”
For a heartbeat, there was only the wind on the silk. Then she heard the rustle of his blanket, the sound of him standing. His shadow blotted out the faint light from the seams of the tent flap as he moved. The cot dipped under his weight as he sat on its edge, his back to her. She held her breath.
He tugged off his boots, one after the other, letting them thud to the ground rug. He lay down on his back beside her, atop the blanket, leaving a careful space between them. He was a solid, warm presence, radiating heat like a banked fire. The scent of leather, horses, and cold night air clung to him.
“Go to sleep, Lia,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble so close to her ear.
The heat from his body was a shock in the cold tent air, a solid line of warmth that seemed to hum through the thin space between them. Lia lay perfectly still, staring up at the dark silk ceiling. His words hung there, part command, part uneasy truce.
“I didn’t necessarily mean right now,” she said, her own voice careful in the dark. “We aren’t married yet.”
He didn’t move. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. She waited for him to rise, to retreat to the pallet with a grunt of displeasure or understanding.
He did neither. He simply breathed, a steady in-and-out next to her. The message was clear; the decision was made, and he would not be moved by technicalities. A flicker of that familiar, sharp wit rose in her—she could point out the inconsistency, the sheer audacity of it all.
But she bit it back. Arguing now felt petty, and worse, it felt afraid. Her mother’s lessons were ghosts here, but her own resolve was flesh and bone. She had told him not to pretend. This was the consequence.
So she said nothing more. She simply rolled onto her side, presenting her back to the solid, unfamiliar weight of him. The wool of her gown whispered against the cot’s canvas. She pulled her blanket tighter, a feeble barrier, and closed her eyes against the dark, willing sleep to come.