Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
G orgeous gray light filtered through my stained-glass window, casting vivid colors across every inch of the space. My mother had let me design it—a tribute to the beast of legend. A creature Sebastian and I had claimed as ours long before either of us understood what it meant.
The signet of the realm. The guardian of fire. A Cindralyx.
A monster born of myth and ash.
A wolf with the wings of a phoenix—feathers forged in flame, eyes glowing with the fury of a dying star. Branded by fire. Blessed with eternal life. A creature too wild for worship, too sacred for slaughter. It was destruction and resurrection, fury and salvation, bound in one immortal shape.
I looked up at the window.
The stained glass shimmered with color and heat, fractured by sunlight peeking through cracks in the clouds. The wolf was frozen mid-leap, teeth bared in a snarl, wings flared wide behind it.
Each feather had been cut from slivers of ruby, amber, and obsidian, catching and scattering every flicker of flame. Fire danced through the reds and golds, casting shards of molten light across the floor.
The wings alone stretched the length of the arch.
And the eyes—Gods, the eyes—followed you.
It didn’t look like a myth.
It looked like a warning.
A large wooden wardrobe stood against the far wall, its surface meticulously carved with the depiction of a sprawling forest. Beside it, a full-length mirror framed in deep mahogany caught the beautiful light, its glass shimmering like a portal to somewhere else; like it belonged in a different realm.
A queen-sized bed sat against the far-right wall, covered in plain white sheets. And draped across it—the most beautiful dress I had ever seen.
It was made of the finest satin, layered with delicate tulle gathered to perfection, crafted in the most breathtaking shade of royal blue. Thefabric was so soft it seemed to glide through my fingers like water, leaving me utterly speechless.
For a long moment, all I could do was stare, feeling strangely... untethered.
Light rain splattered softly against the windowpane, misting the world outside in silver. The kind of day where the edges of reality felt thin. Like if I blinked too hard, everything might dissolve.
Without wasting another second, I wrestled my way into the dress, struggling to tighten the bodice by myself. Ten infuriating minutes later, breathless and swearing under my breath, I finally succeeded.
Fully dressed, I stood in the center of my room, facing the full-length mirror. But I kept my gaze lowered, unwilling—afraid—to look.
Instead, I absently toyed with my bracelet, the one I never took off. The ruby set in its center caught the light, casting waves of scarlet fire across the room. Tiny flares of crimson danced across the walls, painting everything in bleeding color.
I was stalling.
And I knew it.
As stupid as it sounded, I was terrified of my own reflection. Terrified of the person I might see staring back at me. Of the girl I had become without my father. Had grief mangled me so badly that even my face would betray it?
Gods, that would epically suck.
Sucking in a lungful of air, I shoved the fear aside.
I lifted my gaze. Emerald eyes blazed back at me from the mirror—sharp, fractured, dangerously close to shattering.
Pain.
Despair.
Desolation may as well have been scrawled across my forehead, branding me as damaged goods.
I barely recognized myself.
Tears burned my eyes before I could stop them.
No.
I was stronger than this. I had to be.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I forced the lump in my throat down, locking the tears behind my lashes. With a heart that felt like it might never be whole again, I did the only thing I could: I buried every Gods-damned emotion until nothing remained but numbing abyss.
Sunlight–bold and unapologetic–pierced the thinning veil of clouds, filtering in through the window. It caught the dress, making the brilliant sapphire glow—a dazzling contrast against my olive skin. The gown clung tightly to my chest, tracing the curve of my waist before falling away in cascades of flowing skirts. Even I couldn’t deny how perfectly it fit.
Even with the red tinge around my eyes, even with the cracks running invisible lines through my soul—for a fleeting moment, if I didn’t look too closely, I almost looked beautiful.
I moved toward the door—then hesitated, glancing back at the wardrobe.
Maybe I should throw on some leather pants.
Not a day passed when I didn’t sneak a pair on beneath whatever dress my mother had stitched for me. She even designed the gowns now with secret stitches and hidden buttons, so I could run, climb, breathe—even in a world that told me I was forbidden.
They were perfectly hidden. Perfectly defiant. Because Elinthia forbid a woman wear pants.
Screw it.
Before reason could catch up, I stormed back to the wardrobe and yanked on my favorite pants and calf-high boots.
Straightening, I swept my thick brown hair over one shoulder, the strands tumbling in natural waves, a touch of gold catching fire in the filtered light.
I gave myself one last spin in the mirror, tugging the dress just enough to keep the pants hidden. Satisfied, I crossed the room and pulled the door shut behind me with a gratifying thud.
A sharp intake of breath greeted me as I stepped into the main house.
My mother beamed, her entire face softening as she took me in. "Emylia," she said, voice thick with awe, "you look stunning. As pretty as the lost princess."
Of course, no one actually knew what the lost princess looked like—she was lost, after all. She could’ve been as ugly as Nexus, the graveyard of lost souls, for all we knew. But people depicted her as beautiful. Because that was the way of the world—turning what was missing into something gilded and perfect.
Not even two decades had passed since Agertheria fell—first to a warlord who toppled the crown, then to a stranger who cared nothing for power, only revenge—yet already the tale of the long-lost princess had slipped from fact to fable, whispered into prophecy:
When fire reunites with shadow and blood touches stone,
The heir shall rise—blade in one hand, scepter in the other.
She will bind what is broken, claim what was lost,
And silence will fall upon the realm.
But beware the echo beneath the crown,
Wholeness forged from fracture does not hold—it shatters.
For the union of two becomes death.
I hoped she was everything I wasn’t—beautiful, radiant... enough. Because Gods knew I was far from it. Still, it meant something—something I didn’t dare name—that my mother saw me that way.
Compliments made me feel unbearably awkward. My mother accepted them with effortless grace, like thanking someone was a kindness, not arrogance—as natural as breathing. I was nothing like her. Where she was warmth, I was recklessness stitched into every line of my soul.
I’d tried charm once. The blacksmith’s son had complimented a new skirt my mother had made, and I, of course, made an absolute idiot of myself. Sebastian had been there, so of course, he witnessed everything.
I smiled and dropped into a curtsy–just as the smithy's son swung his hammer. I dove to avoid the collision, narrowly missing the impact–but somehow—because the Gods had a vicious sense of humor, I ended up sprawled in the mud. Skirt soaked. Dignity nowhere to be found.
Sebastian had nearly died laughing.
Safe to say, that was the last time I ever tried to be someone I wasn’t. After that, I embraced myself—flaws, sharp edges, and all. It was epic, sure. But as the years passed, believing anyone could see something good in me only grew harder. It felt like they were complimenting something that simply didn’t exist. I learned to brush aside compliments quickly, never really knowing how to accept them.
Heat flooded my cheeks as I awkwardly fumbling for a response. "Ah, thanks. You look stunning too."
Her fingers traced the curve of my cheek.
“Thank you, my precious gem.” Her eyes shimmered like cut stone–beautiful, unyielding–carrying the quiet grace of someone who knew I’d flinch if she offered more tenderness than I was ready to receive.
"Well, we better get moving," my mom said, casting a glance toward the window.
"By the time we make it into Ophelia, the contests will be half over." Her voice softened, threading into something fragile. "The Gods have blessed us with the sun after all," she whispered, voice trembling like she was trying to believe it was a good omen.
But it felt wrong—like the sun should’ve refused to rise.
Dimmed in mourning. Curled beneath the horizon and hidden itself from a world that no longer deserved its light. Because how could the sun still burn so brightly when he was no longer standing beneath it?
No warmth, no light, could ever fill the hollow echo of him left behind. And it wasn’t just the ache of his absence that broke me—it was the cruel, relentless rhythm of the world continuing without him.
Morning still dawned. Laughter still dared to triumph. The Earth had the audacity to spin.
It brought me to the edge of breaking.
But I did not shatter.
Because I was my father's daughter.
If I were anyone else, I might have crumbled.
But I wasn’t.
As much as his death destroyed me... I was a fighter. And not even losing him would be enough to break me.
Not a single tear escaped as we saddled the horses, minutes dissolving into nothing until we were ready to ride.
Taking Stormfire’s reins—named for the fierce gray-speckled hide she wore like armor—I led her down the familiar trail, every step heavy with the weight of everything I was leaving behind.
Hedges of orange blossom lined either side of the path, their sweet, heady perfume weaving through the air until it wrapped around me like an invisible shroud.
Above, the storm clouds had cleared, unveiling a brilliant, careless blue sky that felt almost cruel in its brightness—yet with it, the faintest whisper of hope stirred.
I shifted in the saddle, feeling the ache of the leather against my thighs, the warm strength of Stormfire beneath me. Everything around me looked the same—but I wasn’t.
The path wound through the fields, and I let Stormfire move at a slow, steady pace. Each hoofbeat drummed against the earth like a heartbeat I no longer trusted.
"Can you please wait a second?" I called out, my voice rasping with something raw and half-broken.
Before my mother could answer, I swung down from the saddle, boots hitting the dirt hard enough to jolt through my spine.
I didn’t hesitate—I ran.
The willow waited expectantly at the edge of the path, as though it knew I would return. Its silvery leaves whispering in the breeze like it knew I needed one last thing before I could walk away–as if the tree itself understood I wasn’t ready to let go just yet. I pressed both hands against the rough bark, breathing in the sharp, earthy scent.
The runes I had carved still glistened faintly under the touch of something I could only explain as magik, their grooves warm against my fingertips.
A hum stirred inside me. Maybe it was the tree. Maybe it was the echo of him. Maybe it was the part of me I hadn’t buried yet.
"I love you, Daddy," I whispered. The words clawed up my throat, brittle as dry leaves, nearly shattering in the air.
I rested my forehead against the trunk, letting the grief pour out—not in tears, but in the silent throb of my heart against the ancient wood.
I stayed there until the ache in my chest dulled to a low, constant thrum. Then, without a word, I turned away.
I swung back onto Stormfire’s back, hands trembling as I gathered the reins. The leather was rough against my palms, grounding me.
Soul heavy with shadows, I urged her forward. The wind caught my hair, tugging it free in wild ribbons as we rode, our house shrinking to a pale speck behind us.
I didn’t look back again.
I couldn’t.
A knot tightened in my stomach, curling cold and sharp beneath my ribs. I drank in one last breath of the sea air, the scent of salt and magik thick on the wind.
Until my father’s death, I had believed our home was the most beautiful place in the world—cradled between forest and sea, blessed by ancient magik.
It had always felt eternal.
Untouchable.
But now... now it was just another place grief had hollowed out.
The trees no longer sang; they keened.
The ocean no longer whispered; it howled.
The beauty was still there—wild, stubborn—but it couldn’t reach me anymore.
Not where the fractures ran too deep.
And as I rode farther, as the cliffs fell away behind me and the horizon stretched vast and less familiar ahead, I understood something I hadn’t wanted to admit:
It wasn’t just the world that had changed.
It was me.
I was no longer the girl who ran barefoot through the woods, fearless and whole. No longer the girl who believed in unshakable things. Something inside me had cracked—quietly, permanently—and the pieces would never fit the same way again.
And whatever awaited me at the festival... the girl who left today would not survive it.
Because she was already gone.
Not because the world had changed.
But because grief had carved her into something unrecognizable—and there was no way back to who she used to be.