Brute 164

Chapter 164 

ATASHA’S POV 

“My lady, it was just as you expected. Lady Kenneth’s maid sent a letter as soon as they reached the guest house,” Grace reported. 

I pressed a clump of damp soil around the base of a thin, blue–veined stalk, the dirt cool and grainy between my fingers. The greenhouse behind the infirmary was heavy with warmth, glass panes fogged at the corners, wooden benches crowded with trays, and the air thick with the scent of wet earth and crushed leaves. It was the kind of place where time slowed, where even the faint drip of water from the pots seemed loud. 

“Good,” I said, adjusting the stalk until it stood straight. “It would have been disappointing if she hadn’t.“Grace set a wooden crate on the bench beside me. “It seems that showing your ability worked.” 

“It did what it needed to,” I answered, loosening the roots of a frostbane cutting and easing it into a clay pot. Frostbane looked fragile with pale stems and translucent leaves, but boiled low it pulled smoke from lungs and soothed the throat. “If she writes to the capital, they’ll focus on me. That’s the point.” 

Grace watched my hands for a moment. “You’re certain the attention won’t turn ugly?” 

“It might,” I said, tapping soil until the cutting held straight. “But the alternative is worse.” 

I reached for a bundle of ironleaf, a tough, gray–green, serrated edges that stained the fingers. Dried and ground, it stopped bleeding faster than any cloth. I trimmed the lower leaves with a small knife, set the cutting, and pressed it firm. The work steadied my head in a way the ride back hadn’t. 

In the kingdom, fear and respect didn’t always follow strength. Everyone bowed to the Alpha King because he kept food moving and walls repaired. Generosity made rule last. 

Yet, the strongest man in the realm was not the King. It was Cassian. Everyone knew it, even if they didn’t say it. But strength without a leash scared people. His curse had been that leash for years. With it broken, the last thing we needed was eyes turning toward him and asking how, and why, and who had touched the knot that held him back. 

I had made the testing worse by acting on impulse. I’d tied my choices to him through the bond and then announced myself to an enemy who was looking for a reason to doubt the North. If I was going to be the storm they talked about, then I would stand in front of it. 

I slid a flat stick into the pot and wrote in charcoal: ironleaf A3. Grace took it and set it on the back rack with the others. 

“Any names from the mine, from the men you healed?” she asked. 

“Mendez will have them by noon,” I said. “Send broth to their families either way. Let them see we follow through.” 

Grace nodded and opened the crate. Inside were clumps of dusk nettle bound in twine, roots still damp. 

Dusk nettle was ugly, dark purple stems with fine hairs that burned the skin if you weren’t careful. Boiled with milk and a bit of ashroot it slowed poison long enough for a second dose of salve to work. I pulled on thin 

linen wraps, broke one clump into three, and set each into fresh soil. The tiny hairs brushed my wrist and prickled. I ignored it. 

“You wanted Lady Kenneth to send those letters,” Grace said, voice low. “You were counting on it.” 

“Yes.” I tilted the pot to settle air pockets. I didn’t want to explain. “The capital trusts ink more than witnesses. Her words will travel faster than riders.” 

I continued working in silence, fingers buried in soil, the air thick with the scent of earth and crushed leaves. Grace had already gone quiet, leaving me alone with my thoughts, and that was just as well. Words wouldn’t change what was already set in motion. 

Cassian didn’t need to say it, but I knew he didn’t want the court to learn about the bond, or the curse loosening. If they ever found out, they’d test him next. They’d study him like a weapon they couldn’t control, and if they couldn’t find a weakness, they’d create one. That was how the capital worked. That was how they survived, by breaking what they feared. 

I set the nettle tray aside and reached for a patch of snowmoss. It was soft and weightless, like frost that refused to melt. Useless on its own, but layered over burns, it drew out the heat and stopped scarring. I teased it apart and spread it on the drying screen, watching the faint steam curl up from the damp fibers. The smell was clean–simple–and for a moment, I wished everything could be that simple. 

The King was feared because he ruled with mercy. That was the irony of it. His generosity made men loyal, but it also made them dangerous, everyone wanted to please him, to show devotion, to feed his image of justice. 

Cassian, on the other hand, was feared because he didn’t care for such illusions. He was the strongest man in the kingdom, yet the one most bound by chains, his curse, his past, the whispers of madness that followed him like a shadow. 

Now the curse was gone. And if the court ever realized it, the North would burn before they let him keep that freedom. 

Showing my ability to Lady Kenneth wasn’t a mistake. It was a move. I wanted her to see. I wanted her to write her reports, to tell her King and her father what she saw, a woman who healed without blood, who gave without taking, who wasn’t a witch. Let them argue about me. Let them point their suspicion here, where I could control it. The farther their eyes were from Cassian, the better. 

I trimmed the edge of a redthorn stem and watched a drop of crimson sap bead on my knife. Redthorn was both medicine and poison, depending on who used it. Much like politics. 

I leaned over to reach for another pot, the ache in my body reminding me of last night’s chaos, both the fight and what came after. I ignored it. There was no room for distraction now. 

The greenhouse was warm, fog clinging to the glass panes. I brushed the dirt from my palms and glanced toward the courtyard again. For now, everything looked manageable. Once the testing date was set, that illusion would vanish. But at least this time, the first move was mine, not theirs. 

I dragged Cassian into this the moment I accepted the bond and opened my mouth in public. I wouldn’t do it again. Let them talk about me, the healer who wasn’t a witch. Let them argue, accuse, and dissect my motives. They could do that all they wanted. Cassian would stay untouched, unchallenged. 

That was all that mattered. 

I was wiping my hands on a cloth when the door opened, letting in a rush of cold air and the faint echo of footsteps from the corridor. One of the servants stepped inside, her head bowed. 

“Your Highness,” she said, a little breathless, “Sister Veris is here to see you.” 

I paused, the cloth still in my hands. Sister Veris. That name hadn’t passed my ears in months. “Now?” 

“Yes, my lady. She’s waiting by the entrance hall.” 

Of course she was. Veris never waited anywhere quietly–if she was here, it meant something had happened, or she wanted something she didn’t trust to a letter. 

I nodded and set the cloth down. “Tell her I’ll be there shortly.”