"Do I have to ride in this contraption, Sir Caerwyn?" she challenged, already knowing the answer to come.
"Since the recent attacks, My Lady, this is the safest option." There was no room to argue in his explanation, he wouldn't back down on this choice.
"If you want to ride horseback, you can always ride with me," Karsyn interjected, a smirk winning across his face.
"I'd rather ride in the coffin," Rhosyn snapped back, already approaching the damned vehicle.
With a calming breath, she stepped up and ducked into the carriage, settling into a seat begrudgingly. Then Karsyn appeared, slipping through the carriage door and settled in the opposite seat.
Rhosyn stiffened. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like? I'm joining you," he replied as if it was a normal thing as the carriage kicked into movement. "You never asked why I came today." The duke sat back into the cushions, relaxing as if such a thing was possible in a moving box.
"Probably to annoy me until I break off the engagement. Because if you are, Your Grace, it's certainly working." She straightened her skirt, pressing it free of creases with her hands.
He hummed his amusement. "Well, if it was that easy, I would've stepped into your office sooner," he joked—but she wondered how serious he really was.
The carriage shuddered and Rhosyn felt it tremble through her. An echo of fear, a phantom scream, the taste of metal and then a hand anchored her, wrapped around hers. His grey eyes locked her gaze and she realised she'd flinched.
She blinked the memory away, composure settling over her as she pulled her armour back on and wore it as if the past second hadn't happened.
"Lady Valewyn," Karsyn tested, concern heavy in his gaze. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Your Grace." Rhosyn tried to dismiss his worry, but she could see him lean in.
He didn't believe her, that was certain. His eyes studied her; the way she held herself too still, the way she angled her chin as if unfazed, and the way she refused to pull her hands from his grasp—because someone who was confident wouldn't have to.
A horse whinnied and her eyes snatched away as she listened to the outside world. A cry stole into the air, heavy smoke tinged it unpleasantly and she felt the divide—the tombing walls encasing her, while the outside lived.
"It's alright not to be, Rhosyn," his tone was sombre and his northern tongue curled around her name in a warm way.
She couldn't afford the loss it'll cost her—she'd let him see a weakness. But there was something comforting in the way his hand held hers and again her heart called for Edrien. Though Edrien wouldn't hold her so purposefully. He would've laughed and changed the subject, mitigated the event as if it was as minor as sneezing—he would've let her save face.
"You're looking at me as if I'm your enemy."
When she didn't object, he nodded once and retreated his hand.
It was a strange thing. She'd only ever really seen him unbothered, or amused. Rhosyn had never seen him troubled by anything, yet his expression held tension in his brow and the way he set his jaw. It reminded her of the first night they met, when he defended his honesty on the stance of the attempt on her life. And abnormally, it stirred something uncomfortable within her.
Rhosyn grounded her teeth and stared at the floor, deploring herself even before she opened her mouth. "It was a carriage that I was captured in, when I was eight—along with the Crown Prince," she confessed, feeling the duke's eyes on her, but unable to meet his gaze. "The carriage stopped suddenly, the men slaughtered and I was all that stood between the Crown Prince and the enemy."
Suddenly the space inside was deafeningly silent and heavy. But now that she started speaking, she couldn't stop. She'd never admitted the words—never had to—and they hung around her throat demanding confession.
"I killed a man that day." Rhosyn trembled, her nails picking at the skin on her fingers. "But it didn't matter…"
They still took them. She sinned, murdered, and they still took them.
Movement flickered, obscured by the tears that pooled in her eyes. A gentle hand cupped her face and lifted her chin until their eyes met. In the quiet they screamed a hundred things, but she couldn't name them. The moment dwelled longer than it ever had before, held in his palm, comforted in the tender stroke of his thumb on her cheek.
He looked as if there were no words that could follow the ones she'd divulged, and maybe there weren't.
Then, in a swift movement, he slid next to her, pillowing her head against his chest and wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her against him. It was invasive and sudden and oddly, she found she needed it.
It had been thirteen years since she'd been held. She'd forgotten how safe it felt to bury herself in someone and let their body warm her.
With a breath, Rhosyn closed her eyes and relaxed against him. His breathing a soothing sound and heartbeat a gentle rhythm. Everything faded away and for a moment she wasn't there. Time ceased to mean anything, slipping away and she let it.
"My Lady?" the voice called into the fog and like being hit by reality, Rhosyn's eyes snapped open.
Caerwyn stood at the open carriage door, peering in at her laying in the duke's arms and suddenly the mood shifted. Rhosyn sat up, forcing space between them and feeling his warmth fade away.
When she'd failed to move, Karsyn slid out of the door and shortly afterward, his hand appeared in the doorway. She was befuddled in a way that made her second guess her next move, but she found herself reaching for it.
Rhosyn stepped out of the carriage, Caerwyn watching her out of the corner of his eye and otherwise, the rest of the street for threats. Karsyn's hand didn't fall away after her feet touched the ground. Instead, he wrapped hers around his arm, as deliberately as he did when he chaperoned her into the ball.
She ignored the way the two eyed her and led the way toward the tailor's shop. She expected a quip from the duke, but he remained silent and she wondered if he'd ever regain his temperament.
A bell rang out as she entered the fine store, linen lining one wall in elaborate patterns, where mannequins wore dresses in the southern style. Karsyn remained close, where Caerwyn stood at the door.
"What can I do for you, My Lady?" A man appeared from the back, smiling broadly taking in his two rich looking customers.
Rhosyn admired the linen, noticing the Celandrean patterns of laurels and pretty scenes of riverbanks and trees repeated in a pleasant style across another.
"I wanted to know why you are buying Celandrean fabrics rather than Aramorian produced wares?" she replied, eyes still studying the designs.
The tailor paled and Karsyn quietly watched.
"With the failure of cotton crops due to an early frost, I've had to source elsewhere, My Lady," he attempted to explain, now realising who she was.
"Yet you are still selling your goods at ridiculous prices." Rhosyn turned to face the man, reading all the signs that he was hiding something more. "All of your fabrics here are sourced overseas, not one of them are of this isle," she berated.
"But I can't afford—"
"With the new Common Charter, Lady Valewyn has normalised across the kingdom, counties are forced to regulate tax prices at a standard rate," the duke cut in, "even if demand has swelled prices, the import tax alone would make fine patterned Celandrean fabric just as expensive."
The tailor stuttered, Karsyn's height on its own, an intimidating display.
"What if there was a cheaper source?" Karsyn asked and Rhosyn couldn't help but watch as he began to barter.
It was something that came natural to him. She could see how the tailor leaned in at his words, as if the duke was promising salvation.
"In the Duchy of Harrowfen, Shearwold produces wool at the highest quality," he continued, sounding more of a businessman than a duke and she couldn't help but bite on her smile. "This year alone they've doubled sales margins. Where other more unreliable fabrics failed and tripling in price, Harrowfen Camlet has kept its prices low, attracting more buyers—we even export to the Skeldrim Thalassate."
The tailor wrung his cloth anxiously. He wanted to take the duke up on his offer and not just because the man sold the idea like a bed sold a dream. But something was holding the man back and this was what Rhosyn really came here for.
"How much did you borrow?" she outright asked and the man blanched, but his lips stayed pressed closed. "Was it Thane Worrow or Ellin Prynn who told you to import your fabric?"
The tailor's eyes widened and she knew she was right. Lord Merrow was using his front-men to strangle her peoples' businesses and poison her land with decay. Those who don't comply are forced to close and her land becomes that much poorer.
Rhosyn turned from the man. "Start buying Aramor-made goods and I'll remit a slice of your land-rent this quarter—on the condition you sell at a fair price." She paused at the door. "If anyone comes again to force your hand, tell the reeve. I'll have them held for contempt of my market peace."
"Y-yes, My Lady," he fumbled over his words. "Thank you."
Before another grovelling word could be uttered, she reached for the door, only for the duke to reach it first. He held it open for her in a gentlemanly manner and Rhosyn blinked at him a moment before she stepped out onto the street, Karsyn joining her.
Now the armoursmith.