Caspian drapes his cloak over his shoulder and steps out of the room without another word. His pace is calm and steady, each step echoing with purpose. He doesn’t gnce back, certain that I’d follow without warning. He knows…

  He knows about me…at least partly.

  “We’re heading to the lower stores,” he says over his shoulder. “The roads, cold storage, grain stock, we check it all. Tomorrow, we ride to the remote posts.”

  What?

  I blink, still catching up. “Now?”

  His pace doesn’t falter. “The people have done what they could whilst we were away. But I need to see it myself.” Of course he does.

  “Do you not trust your people?”

  “I don’t trust ledgers any more than I trust the frost to stay out of my celrs.”

  As we move deeper through the halls and closer to the exits, the draft grows colder with every step. My fingers curl around my arms, digging deeper into the cloth with each breeze. The silk-sleeved uniform Ni gave me, doing absolutely nothing in keeping me warm.

  Caspian flicks his eyes to me, noting the hunch in my posture and the tremble in my fingers, and looks to a nearby servant arranging winter ornaments.

  “Bring the maiden a cloak from the Lady’s crate.” The servant nods without hesitation and leaves. The Lady’s cloak? Like his ex-wife? He wants me to wear his ex-wife’s clothes?

  Fucking weirdo.

  Caspian offers no expnation. He just stands by the wall, arms crossed, waiting for the servant to return, staring down the corridor as if no exchange between them had happened.

  Within minutes, the servant returns with a folded piece of fabric and a simple silver brooch sitting on top.

  She bows to Caspian, then turns and walks towards me. She hands me the pile with a suspicious look. “You’re a sve, not a dy.” She hisses under her breath before turning away and bowing to Caspian once more. I scoff at the sheer arrogance. What was that all about? It’s not like I asked him to get me his ex-wife’s cloak? Bitch.

  Caspian nods for me to put it on. I put the brooch in my pocket and start to unravel the—

  Scarf? Is this a scarf?

  I hold out a long, wide piece of embroidered cream fabric with fur lining the other side. How am I supposed to put this on?...Like him? Half drape it on my shoulder and hold it together with the brooch? Hmm…It’s a lot longer and wider than his.

  Caspian looks at me with a sharp, assessing gaze, and his thoughts become clear to me. This is another test. I can see right through you, Caspian of Arken. If you want to keep your thoughts hidden, you’ll need to try harder.

  Let’s think, Genevieve, the people here wear a strange blend of Viking and ancient Greek clothing. The women seem to lean more Greek than Viking…So, could this be a himation?

  Well, only one way to find out.

  I throw the end of the fabric over my left shoulder and wrap it around my back. Bringing the fabric under my right arm, I bring it across my front and toss the rest over the same shoulder. I then pull out the brooch and pin the fabric together on my shoulder. I tug the excess fabric over my arm to keep it warm and look up at Caspian. He doesn’t react, only nods in approval before continuing down the corridor.

  We exit through a side door beneath the main arch and follow a worn stone path that veers behind the castle. The sky’s gone a dusty shade of grey, hinting that frost is almost due, even though the ground hasn’t caught up yet. The air is colder now than it was on the journey to Arken, making me question whether the seasons here are shorter than on Earth.

  As we walk further into the castle’s grounds, I note the way Caspian walks differently from the prince. He doesn’t walk like a noble. He has no grand posturing. No slow, dragged pacing. He walks like a soldier, like a man born into a world where he’s had to fight for his life instead of being served it on a ptter.

  “This way,” he says, guiding us to a sunken stair beside the outer wall. He takes the lead, descending first, and I follow close behind. I watch my steps, the himation is long, it was clearly made for noblewomen who didn’t bother with practicality.

  I move too quickly and accidentally catch the fabric with my foot, and jolt forward. Caspian shoots his hand out, pressing it ftly to my stomach to steady me. He doesn’t turn fully, just throws a look over his shoulder, his eyes scanning me. No words are exchanged, but his face shows a look that asks, You alright?

  Heat warms my face, and I nod, stepping back onto the previous step. He faces the front once more and continues down the stairs. I touch my stomach, his warmth lingering long after he removed it. I refocus myself and look down to see Caspian holding the celr door open.

  I walk into the celr, my mind strangely still. The walls are lined with dozens of barrels, and the air is thick with the scents of flour, grain, and smoke. Crates of dried herbs and preserved meats clutter the space. In the centre, a steward and a scribe are counting stock. They pause at the sight of Caspian, each pcing a fist to their chest in greeting.

  “My Lord, we were just about to send you the ledger.”

  Caspian nods. “How much longer can we stretch this?”

  The men momentarily pause.

  “Three weeks. Four if we start rationing now.” The scribe finally utters, his voice hesitant.

  “We’ll be snowed in for six.”

  “We know.” The steward speaks up.

  Caspian exhales slowly, crossing his arms, his tongue tracing his teeth. Staying like that for a moment, he then crouches and starts checking the line of barrels himself. He taps the lids, listening for rot and runs his hands through one of the grain sacks.

  The scribe hovers over him nervously, holding his parchment in both hands. “I-I already did the counts, my lord.”

  “I don’t doubt you, friend. But I need to see it myself.”

  I hover awkwardly in the shadows, trying not to get in the way. Trying to occupy my mind, I note that the temperature in the celr is near freezing. I’m not used to just standing around when others are working. Am I supposed to be… assisting?

  As if Caspian could hear my thoughts, he gnces back briefly, his eyes flickering over me.

  “Take note of which barrels are marked for vilges. We’ll reassess allocations tonight.”

  Right. I nod, moving to the scribe, and he hands me a piece of parchment with an inked feather. I remark on the tiny symbols etched onto his fingers as he hands me the items. They look simir to the marks on Ester’s hands…can he use magic too?

  I begin jotting down the barrels meant for the vilges.

  I turn my gaze to Caspian, staring at his back as he inspects the room. It’s strange, I expected him to delegate all his duties. To bark orders from the head of a great hall like all the lords do in books. But here he is, boots dusted in flour, checking for rat holes in the grain sacks like he’s a farmhand, and not a duke.

  As I start to write my first word onto the parchment, the ink runs out. The scribe notices and smiles, walking over to me with his palms out, dispying the carved symbols littering them.

  “Sorry, scribe hands. I forget that not everyone is ferra trained in clerical work.” He hands me a graphite stick from his pocket. That word again, ferra.

  Caspian almost killed me for not having it. But why? What even is it…magic? Surely, not everyone in this world has magic. Even if they did, I’ve not seen everyone use it.

  Maybe there are levels to it…but if I’m no more gifted than a peasant who can barely produce a spark, then why panic?

  Caspian stands fully facing me, watching the exchange take pce from the other side of the room. I meet his eyes and breathe lowly, taking the graphite from the scribe. Something in my mind clicks with Ester’s words, and I finally understand.

  “She is…without ferra.”

  That’s how he knows…I have no ‘ferra’. People from this world must at least have a low level of it, and for me to not have any…I’m an outsider.

  I can never convince him otherwise.

  I dissociate for a moment, my heart sinks, slow and heavy, like dusk settling over a barren nd. He’s smart. I py a pawn, and he reveals he knows my chess py by heart. I have no victory in this. I’ve been check-mated.

  The air seems to draw silent, and it feels as though it’s only Caspian and I in the room. His gaze is unrelenting as he observes me, empty space growing between us. What am I supposed to do now?

  If he knows everything…is this the end of me? Would I have to…

  Kill him?

  No, Genevieve, you would never be able to bring yourself to do so. “Ge…” But, does this pce even exist? How do I know this is not just a dream? “Gene…” This is so simir to the stories Dad would tell me. Perhaps this is just that, a story I’ve deluded myself into. “Genevi…” Who is to say this is not a coma? People say it feels so real, but as, it’s all in my head, so who is to say I can’t ki—

  “Genevieve.” I’m snapped out of my thoughts by two firm hands on my arms, jolting me in pce.

  Caspian stands before me, his brow low and his expression unreadable. I meet his eyes and, upon realising that I’ve come back into consciousness, he speaks.

  “You drifted,” he scolds quietly, just for me to hear. “Don’t do that in a celr. You’ll break your neck.”

  Right, yeah. If something falls and I’m not paying attention…broken neck.

  I nod quickly, swallowing whatever spiralling thoughts that had just chewed through my mind. “Sorry,” I say, my voice distant. I suddenly register the other workers in the room. “My lord.”

  Caspian’s hands fall away the second I speak, the heat of them vanishing like it had never been there before. He stands up straight, regaining his controlled and unreadable stance, and speaks loud enough for everyone in the chamber to hear.

  “Dear Gods,” he mutters with a sigh that’s sharp and clear, “I said to Ni I didn’t need a handmaiden.” He pinches the arch in his brow with crossed arms.

  What is he on about?

  He’s the one who chose me? Made me pour his wine. Dragged me out of the feast, then made me tend to his bleeding ribs like I was some sort of battlefield nurse.

  “She’ll have me buried in a week,” he adds in a dismissive tone, not looking at me.

  The steward snorts behind his hand, and I could hear the scribe sniggering to the steward about ‘being told off by the duke on your first day’.

  Ah, he’s putting on a show…

  Well done, disguise me with backhanded insults, as if that would make me like you anymore. Asshole.

  Warm hands, but a cold heart.

  He speaks to keep eyes off me, to sell a story that I’m some clueless handmaiden dragged into Arken. To hide the fact that I’m an anomaly in this world, an alien living beside them.

  I don’t say anything. I just lower my head and nod, like a foolish young girl. And just like that, the moment’s gone. No questions. No suspicion. Just another noble scolding his servant.

  Caspian turns back to the barrels without notice and begins looking at another ledger lying on an unracked barrel. The scribe steps forward and clears his throat.

  “We’ve begun setting up the ice stacks out back, my lord. Once the temperature drops, we’ll move the perishables.”

  “Good,” Caspian replies. “Have a runner prepare a list of vilge stewards. I’ll send word ahead before we ride out tomorrow.” The remote posts…

  “Finish this.” He adds, gncing at the scribe. “I want a full count delivered to my quarters by nightfall. No errors.”

  The scribe nods rapidly, and Caspian turns back to me.

  “Come.” cOmE.

  I’m not a dog.

  I mock him in my thoughts and follow him out of the room. My steps are stiff, my mood completely soured. Not only because he saw right through me, but because he humiliated me in there. That shithead is no man of chivalry.

  We walk out into the courtyard in complete silence, the cold breeze nipping at my ears like tiny needles, the cloak fluttering faintly around my legs.

  “You froze up,” he says in a neutral tone. Thank you, Captain Obvious.

  I don’t answer him, my mood sullen past the point of communication, especially with him.

  He pauses, turning to face me, the wind making strands of his hair dance gently.

  “It’s not fear that’ll see you dead, Genevieve. It’s dey…and acting like you have time to entertain it.”

  I scoff, my tone irritated. “I wasn’t aware that counting barrels puts me in immediate danger.”

  He doesn’t call me out, he just replies calmly in a stern way.

  “You’re not. Yet.”

  He pauses, his brows lifting from their frowned position, slightly.

  “But when you are, I won’t be the one drawing the bde.”

  Who’s going to be drawing their bde—

  He’s warning me.

  Not just about drifting off or losing focus, but about something deeper. About the danger of not paying attention. Of failing to realise how exposed I am…People will notice, sooner or ter, that I don’t belong here. And when they do, they won’t be as willing to negotiate as Caspian has. They won’t ask questions. They’ll act.

  I don’t reply. Nothing I could say would change the fact that he is right. If he caught me out, how long until the next person does?

  I move my head in a subtle nod, and we continue walking. The chill in the air hasn’t gone, but it doesn’t bite as harshly as it did before. Maybe it’s because I’m too tired to care…or maybe it’s because I’ve finally accepted something I’ve been too stubborn to admit.

  He could’ve made this worse.

  But he hasn’t

  That doesn’t make him or his actions acceptable, and it certainly doesn’t make me grateful. But it does mean I’m not currently dead, tortured, or rotting in some celr.

  I watch Caspian as he walks a few steps ahead of me. His strong frame is steady against the wind, and the breeze toys with his hair. The corners of his cloak tug with each pass of the bitter cold.

  I suppose…a part of me is thankful. But I’ll never admit that out loud.