The carriage slammed into something—a rut, a hidden patch of ice, Elissa couldn't tell. The wheel crashed down with a sickening crunch, and the entire cabin jolted violently to the left.
Her body went with it. The cushion slid out from under her, boots skidding. For a heartbeat she was weightless, the wooden wall rushing toward her shoulder, her head—
A hand closed around her waist, hard and sure, yanking her the other way.
She collided not with the wall, but with a solid chest. Alistair's arm locked around her, pulling her tight against him as the carriage rocked again, then slowly thudded back into balance.
Her stomach lurched. Her breath hitched somewhere in her throat.
It was over in a second. Two, at most. Long enough for her to hear Vane swear under his breath and Kestrel's sharp "Saints—" cut off as she grabbed for the strap above her head.
Then stillness. The wheels found their track again. The world righted itself.
Elissa found herself half-twisted, one shoulder pressed against Alistair's chest, his arm firm across her middle. She could feel the rapid thud of his heart through his coat. Or maybe that was hers. It was hard to tell.
He didn't say anything.
He simply held her until the carriage steadied, until the last echo of the jolt faded. His grip loosened slowly, fingers lingering a fraction of a second longer than they needed to before he let her go.
"Is everyone intact?" Dante asked, breath a little short.
Vane pushed his hair back, glaring at the ceiling. "If your driver keeps this up, I'm charging him for emotional distress."
Kestrel's laugh came out tight. "For the love of winter," she said, hand pressed flat over her racing heart, "could we manage one trip without nearly breaking our necks?"
Her gaze swept the carriage, quick, assessing. It landed on Elissa and stayed there.
"You all right?" she asked, the words light but the tone not. "Because if you crack your skull before the ball, do you know how many treaties I'll have to re-negotiate?"
Elissa forced her lungs to work. Her ribs ached faintly where Alistair's arm had pinned them. Her face felt hot, which was ridiculous in this cold.
"I'm fine," she said. Her voice came out softer than she'd meant. "It just…surprised me."
Understatement. She'd seen the wall coming. She'd seen, very clearly, the way her head would have hit it.
You didn't even catch yourself, a cold, small voice in her mind observed. You had to be dragged back like a child losing her balance.
Alistair released the strap above his head and leaned forward to rap twice on the roof.
"Slow," he called. "Check the road."
The carriage eased, speed bleeding away. Outside, muffled shouts passed between driver and guard. The wheels crunched carefully over snow.
Inside, no one spoke for a moment.
Elissa settled back into her seat, every movement deliberate. The space between her and Alistair felt strange now, as if the air still held the echo of his hand on her.
She kept her eyes on her gloves, tracing the damp line where the leather had brushed his coat.
Kestrel watched her a heartbeat too long, then turned toward the window as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Vane muttered something about "northern roads being a crime against humanity." Dante's mouth was a firm line.
The carriage creaked to a near-stop.
A knock came from outside. One of the guards' voices filtered through the wood. "Your Highness, looks like we hit a deep rut. The road's chewed up here. We'll have to go slower the rest of the way."
"A rut," Vane said skeptically.
"A rut can break a wheel if you're careless," Dante replied. "Especially in this weather."
"A rut and a half-sawn pin," Kestrel murmured. "What a lucky combination."
Alistair's eyes flicked to hers. "Not now."
"Officially," Kestrel said, gaze still on the fogged glass, "we blame the roads, the weather, and poor northern maintenance. It's a good story. People like cursing the weather."
"Unofficially?" Dante asked.
"Unofficially," she said, "we have someone check every carriage, every wheel, every harness the moment we're back. Quietly. And we find out exactly who touched this one after we went into that tavern."
Elissa's fingers tightened around each other.
If the wheel had gone fully, if the carriage had tipped, if—
They wouldn't just lose a princess, a small voice whispered in her terrified mind. They'd lose the girl the South sent. The one bound to him Like a weapon, or more --
Like a liability.
She swallowed hard and fixed her gaze on the window. The town houses blurred past, their roofs hunched under snow, lights flickering behind thick glass. People moved out there, bundled shapes going about their day, lives untouched by the way her heart was clawing at her ribs.
Kestrel's earlier words rung in her mind: If you crack your skull before the ball…
How much work would it undo? How many careful negotiations? How much trust, already thin as ice, would simply shatter?
You're a burden, the thought came, uninvited, quiet and sure. They have to rearrange roads and guards and routes because of you. Because if you die, everything cracks.
She didn't say it. Of course she didn't. She smoothed her coat, adjusted a nonexistent crease in her skirt, nodded once as if to herself.
"I'm really fine," she added, more firmly this time, because Kestrel was still watching her in the glass's reflection. "It was just a jolt."
Kestrel's mouth quirked. "Good. Try to stay in one piece until after the ball. I've already approved the seating chart twice. I'm not doing it a third time."
The joke landed; Vane snorted. The tension loosened by a fraction, enough to breathe around.
Alistair didn't look at Elissa.
He stared out the opposite window, eyes narrowed at the passing streets, fingers tapping once against his knee. To anyone else, he looked calm. Unmoved. Crown-prince composed.
If she hadn't been here—if he hadn't had to worry about a half-trained, low-power southern princess tied to his life, her death—would his shoulders be a little lighter?
The carriage picked up speed again, though more cautiously. The familiar outline of the palace walls rose ahead, gray against the pale sky. Torches burned at the gate, small dots of orange in the white.
"Once we're inside," Dante said quietly, "I'll take the carriage to the west stables. Say it needs repairs. I'll have Merek look at the wheel himself."
"Merek doesn't gossip," Kestrel said. "Good. I'll speak to the steward about who had the key to this line today. Casually. Over tea."
Vane waved a hand. "I'll…stand around looking pretty and listening for rumors. It's what I'm best at."
"Everyone has a role," Alistair thought.
He finally looked away from the window. His gaze brushed over each of them, landing on Elissa last.
For a moment she thought he might say something—another "Are you hurt?" or "I'm sorry" or even just her name.
He said nothing.
He held her eyes for one heartbeat, two. Then he dipped his chin in a short nod, like confirmation: she was upright, breathing, functional. Then he looked away.
It shouldn't have stung. It did anyway.
You're not here to be comforted, she reminded herself. You're here to hold a title and pretend you're not terrified of failing when it matters.
The carriage rolled through the palace gates. Guards stepped aside; the massive doors began to open, spilling warm, golden light into the gray afternoon.
Outside, everything looked the same as it always did. The castle stood. The banners stirred. In two weeks, there would be a winter ball here—music and gossip and wine and laughter.
Inside the carriage, Elissa sat very straight, hands folded neatly, back no longer touching the cushions. Her shoulder still remembered the ghost of the impact that never came. Her ribs remembered the strength of Alistair's arm.
Her mind refused to forget the single, simple truth curling in her chest:
If you can't even stay on your feet in a moving carriage, how are you supposed to stand when Hollow finally comes?