25. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ariella
P ain. I ignore the slice across my palm as I continue to twirl my blade, walking mindlessly through Valoria. I’ve paced this block a dozen times, unable to convince myself to just go in.
The sun disappeared nearly an hour ago, so there isn’t much time before I need to be within the castle’s walls once more. My fist clenches around the blade and hot blood seeps down my fingers, the droplets splattering lightly at my feet.
“Get it the fuck over with, Ariella—we have a king to kill.” I swallow thickly and halt in the dark street, pivoting left to face the one place I’d never wanted to come back to.
Until now.
It’s been twenty-years since I’ve entered my parents’ home. Two decades since my father died—even longer for my mother—and yet the house sits here with barely a change to its appearance. As if it’s been preserving itself.
The dusty brown exterior touches a familiar place in my mind, but it feels like a stranger to me. Vines and unpicked weeds overrun my mother’s garden. I breathe deeply, closing my eyes—I can almost make out the rows of lavender she loved to grow. Her favorite day of the month was exchanging the wilted plants around our home for fresh ones, sitting on the floor at the center of the house while the windows allowed breeze after breeze to grace us with the light scent.
My chest squeezes. She was happy…
Before she killed herself.
I shake my head and walk over the stone path that leads to the portico, which looks less aged than I’ve become. Interesting considering no one lived here after my family left .
People claim its walls are haunted—one parent shoved a blade through her heart, and the other was whipped to death in front of the castle.
They were right about one thing…something haunted did live here. But she’s been out of these walls for many years.
My fingers wrap around the cool handle and twist.
Musty, stagnant air rushes against me as the door creaks open. I listen for the closing click before tugging on my luminal strand, shaping enough light in my hand to illuminate long-forgotten memories.
Dust motes drift lazily around the familiar space, though my eyes quickly focus on what lies beyond them. The hall in front of me is lined with faded tapestries and yellowed paintings. The wooden floors lead to the large staircase at the back wall, some of the boards slightly upturned. Surprisingly, the chandelier still hangs from the coffered ceiling, though its once bright jewels are covered in layers of dust—as are the high-backed chairs and previously tan curtains.
The colors that seemed so vivid in my memories are now dulled and desolate. I take hesitant steps forward, the house almost seeming to breathe with my movements as the groaning of settled wood and stone fills me with chills. I push open a door to my left, pausing when the faint echoes of laughter are nearly audible—a distant memory of what once was.
This room was where we spent most of our time; the cushioned chairs and couch ideally placed for conversation and activity. What used to be the vibrant red of all the fabric is now a deep, foreboding scarlet. The shapes of my parents laying together near the blackened fireplace flickers in and out of my vision, and I suck in a breath as my feet lead me through the open space into the kitchen.
The back of my throat burns when I survey the area, my heavy eyes pausing at the crusted vase on the windowsill.
This is…more difficult than I’d anticipated.
I clear my throat and spin on my heel, speeding back through the doorway and up the staircase. I do not realize my body’s intentions until I’m standing in my bedroom. The white bedding is yellow and threadbare, curtained by the transparent fabric that I was always convinced hid me away completely. It felt like my own private world, where I could just let my thoughts run free.
Pathetic, really.
I circle the room, fascinated with how the last time I was here, the furniture seemed so big compared to my six-year-old body. Now? I tower over the decaying pieces.
My back straightens, heart fluttering as I walk to the closet. My hand lifts to illuminate the carvings in the doorway, where my parents used to mark our growth. Something tugs at my lips at the two highest lines with Ariella written on top.
They are a couple inches apart, yet were carved the same day.
On my sixth birthday, my parents brought a blade to my room the moment I woke—it was my favorite time of each year. I was obsessed with growing. In height, mind, strength…I was constantly pushing myself to be better at everything.
Including my parents.
Each year, I insisted I was so close to reaching their carved lines at the top of the doorway. But on this particular day, I was frustrated with how far I had left to grow. My father carved a line at the top of my head and attempted to hold in laughter when I became angry because my hair was tied up, making me taller than he’d carved. After very little convincing from my mother, and a dramatic eye-roll, he carved a second line.
He chuckled as his body straightened and told me how crazy it was that I grew two inches in the matter of minutes .
“That’s why you should always be scared of me…I’ll be taller than you before my next birthday!”
Dramatic, but true.
Not one year passed before I stood higher than his crumpled, bloodless body.
I sigh, rising to my full height. Something deep tugs at me when my mother’s line rests just above my vision.
Valyria.
How similar would we look now?
My shoulder bumps the corner of the doorway as I pivot to stalk from the room. I halt just outside, gulping several measured breaths before turning right to stare at the uncanny hallway that leads to my parents’ room. My hand trails the walls while I trudge forward, upturned pieces of wallpaper catching my fingers every few steps.
They began leaving the door to their room open when nightmares plagued my every sleep. I would wake screaming of chaos in the realms and beg them to never leave me like they did in my dreams. I chuckle, tapping a finger against my thigh.
I falter before their room, bile rising to my throat.
I do not wish to remember that piece of my past as a deteriorating, musty space. I just barely can recall its details, and I know seeing it in this state would erase every good memory I still hold on to .
The moment I commit to avoiding that area, my lungs allow me to inhale a full breath as the tightness lessens in my chest.
“Why the fuck did I come here…” I whisper to myself, turning back toward the staircase. I’m muttering to my weak mind when something grabs my arm; I jolt, immediately pulling my blade to shove it in their throat, but freeze when I turn.
There’s no one there…
My ears become hypersensitive, listening for the smallest of movements but finding none. I look to the floor, where only my footsteps imprint the layer of grime coating it. Slowly, each of my muscles loosens and I drop my arm while keeping hold of the weapon. I tug on my umbral strand and send a pulse through the quiet house—I’m the only one here.
Unless whoever is here doesn’t have essence? I snort and sheathe my blade.
A strand of light catches my eye, my head snapping up to the crack in the door next to me.
My father’s office.
I push the creaking wood open, my heart beating faster with each foot of space presented to me. My jaw clenches—his office somehow still smells of stale paper and worn leather. I step into the room and run my fingers over the stacks of paper and folders that are still on the large desk, all of them addressed to Lord Erendor Mistaire .
He was a nobleman—always in the castle, meeting with the king, other nobles, and advisors. Somehow that makes what happened to him even worse…Thalion knew my father on a personal level. Anyone that knew him would have seen just how dedicated he was to his work and the kingdom.
So when Thalion executed him on accusations of treason, without investigating or even defining what he did that was treasonous?
Metallic liquid covers my tongue, and I release my cheek, forcing my fist to let go of the paper it has crumpled. I adjust my stance to move when something catches my eye…
Fix the accord.
Three words scribbled over and over in a notebook—journal, I realize as I pick the small book up. I fan through the pages and catch dozens of entries written by my father’s hand. My abdomen clenches when I stop on a random page and the words Valyria and death seize my eyes. I slam the journal closed and press a hand to my chest, willing my breathing to slow.
“Fuck this.” My hand clutches the journal as I stalk from the room, hurrying down the stairs and through the front door. I pull back my luminal strand before returning to the portico—knowing the king, he most certainly has someone trailing me.
I’d thought being outside would ease the lump in my throat, but it doesn’t. Shaking my head, I walk down the steps, faltering slightly when my vision blurs at the edges, creating a tunnel to the street. The moment I’m off the property, I crouch and scrunch my eyes closed. It takes heartbeats longer than it should to gather myself and will the emotions away once more.
I do not have time to feel things I’ve already dwelled on.
My mother, father, Isaiah…they are dead. I am not. There is no room for anything other than the sheer truth.
The king and I have matters to settle, starting with his son…whom I just stabbed in front of the entire court. I force my feet to run before the pressure inside my head becomes more than I can handle. Bitter wind cools my skin, my brows furrowing when the exhale of my breaths becomes visible ahead of me.
He’s going to hate me…and I deserve it. Even if part of me wishes I didn’t.