Chapter 7 #2
“Pity.” Mora’s sigh was closer to a growl.
She laid her top on the dresser’s surface, before rifling through the drawer once more, searching for trousers.
The air in this room was too stale. Too stained with the reek of boiled flesh and hints of rot, her misery resonating off the walls.
She needed to leave. Needed Berwick Castle to disappear over the horizon.
“I’ve answered your questions, Princess. Now answer mine. What happened to you? Why did you call me Keeper?” Castellan rubbed his jaw. “Are you some kind of rare Halfling? Is that why you appeared like a creature made of shadows?”
“Halfling?” She paused her search, tilting her head to the side and examining his reflection. “Do you not mean Forbidden?”
His lips twitched into a frown. “I’m not fond of the term. It adds to the fear and hatred festering in Berwick. Halflings are people. They deserve to be treated as such.”
What a beautiful sentiment, but was it truly how he felt?
Dother smiled as he fed you pretty lies, she reminded herself.
And you loved them for a time, his ghost whispered back.
He’s dead, she chanted, clinging to those words like they were a raft keeping her afloat while an ocean storm raged, eager to consume her whole.
A shiver crawled up her spine, its featherlight touch too much... too invasive.
“How gallant, Castellan.” It was impossible to keep the bitterness from spilling into her tone.
“Let’s see how gallant you truly are when you understand the truth.
” She turned to face him, crossing her arms and leaning against the dresser.
“You found my flask. My power is yours. How do you intend to use me to empower yourself?”
Castellan blinked. “I don’t understand?”
For a breath, she was back in that bed, suffocating under an endless sea of black silk, Dother seething down at her while his palm pressed firmly against her mouth.
I may have cursed you to fulfill my every desire, and that of my bloodline should you not agree to be my queen, but anyone can use you for three wishes. Would you like me to pass you around like a common whore?
No. Oh gods, no.
Mora closed her eyes, readying herself. Praying Castellan was truly as gallant as he claimed to be.
“The dead king at your back killed the Princess of Berwick and molded what was left into something else. A creature whose magic bends to the whim of those who hold the bottle he so viciously bound her to.” Her face hardened, rage and anguish glinting in her eerie stare.
“It’s your turn. What do you want from me? ”
His broad shoulders stiffened, brows lowering in confusion. Castellan crossed the room, back to the flask he’d dropped on the floor. Picking it up, he examined the daisies gleaming so beautifully in the sunlight. They mocked Mora, the gold far too lovely to decorate something so sinister.
“The king cursed you,” he breathed, his grip tightening around the strips of golden bark covering the bottle’s neck. “To what end?”
Mora dug her nails into her arms, willing herself to remain still. Her wounds were too raw—she couldn’t bring herself to voice them. Not to a stranger.
“It hardly matters what Dother wanted,” she seethed. “You have my flask, my power is yours. That’s what Dother did to me. Make a wish. Make three if you’d like. Until someone else takes that bottle from you or you’ve used all your wishes, I belong to you.”
Castellan stared at her, mouth falling open, his face taut with disbelief. “You belong to yourself.”
Mora ignored his declaration and went back to rifling through the drawer.
“Were you a Halfling before...” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Quite the scandal, isn’t it?” she said, plucking a dark pair of breeches from the pile of folded clothes.
“So, the Laws were ended for you?”
“That they were.” She grimaced as she thought of Dother, pushing her to take the throne in the name of their people. Had he truly wanted to create change, or was that another part of his ruse?
“What kind of Halfling are you?” Castellan asked in a failed attempt to sound casual. He ran his fingers through his curls, pushing a few stubborn strands back.
“The kind that can do almost anything you ask, within reason.”
Pity softened his face, his square jaw working as he surveyed the room. “Were you the one who ended the rebels?”
She clutched her new clothing, desperate to feel something other than the weight of his stare.
Mora felt too heavy already, burdened by fury and grief.
Painted with gore. That damned dripping sound splashing incessantly in her ears.
She didn’t need Castellan’s attention pressing against those wounds.
“I ended a king,” she spat, passing him on her way to the window. Desperate for a breath of fresh air—the caress of the sun on her face, bleeding through the windowpane, was as suitable an alternative as she could find.
“If you’re curious about what I can do, gallant knight, make a wish.
Though I caution you to remember the dead in this room.
I will twist your desires into something wicked if you deserve it.
” A mass of gray clouds slipped over the winter sky, snowflakes drifting down to the carnage below.
Fires swayed in the courtyard, carts and pitchforks scattered on the earth.
There were a handful of dead, but some rebels stood in the cold, staring up at the castle as they spoke.
She bared her teeth, nails scraping against the glass—as far as she was concerned, they’d all killed her mother.
If only she could make every last one of them pay.
“I’m sorry this happened to you.” The guard came to stand at her back, his head held high, arms within reach of his weapons.
It was almost as if Philip were there, watching over her again.
A crushing feeling in her chest nearly squeezed the life from her heart, the organ fluttering against her ribs.
“Can we get this over with?” she muttered, a tear spilling down her cheek. Mora wiped it away with her forearm, furious at herself for appearing so weak in front of a stranger. A Keeper who would surely use her.
“I can’t promise to undo what was done,” he said, soft voice soothing, “but there is opportunity here.”
Opportunity. Mora scoffed. The only one with something to gain was him.
He watched her. Silently assessing. Waiting for Mora to turn and give him her focus. Instead, she continued to stare at the snow, her breath fogging the glass.
“We can work together,” he offered, moving closer to look down at the rebels. “Change the kingdom for good.”
The people outside began chanting, their voices rising like a whirlwind to assault Mora’s ears. Over and over, they said it. Each word cutting like a blade.
Death to the Crown.
“Somehow, I doubt that,” she said quietly.
She couldn’t breathe. Castellan was too near, the heat of his body reaching out and touching her skin. A piece of her mother lay within the ash by the doorway. And Dother still clung to her, his arms circled around her as if he held her against his chest.
Mora’s hands shook as she unbuckled her belt, tearing it off her waist. Ripping a piece of herself free.
The weight of Dother’s touch evaporated, her body sagging with relief.
She took a deeper breath, skirting Castellan as she turned toward the bed and tossed the pouch and belt onto Dother’s corpse.
Pressing her hand to her chest, she begged her heart to slow. Her breathing to steady. The torn fabric of her dress was no longer held in place by her belt, too much of her body exposed, but it was worth it if it meant another piece of Dother no longer touched her.
“The kingdom is broken, Castellan. There is no fixing it.”
The guard leaned against the windowpane, frowning as he watched the madness below. “All is not lost, Princess. Not yet.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“Because”—he raised her flask between them, light glimmering in his eyes—“you and I are going to save Berwick.”