Chapter 9 Cassiel
The door clicks shut behind Thornvale, and silence settles over the room like a heavy cloak. I exhale slowly, shifting against the pillows. The worst of the ache has passed, leaving behind a tightness low in my stomach—not quite pain, not quite relief. Mostly, I’m aware of the absence of her touch.
When was the last time someone touched me like that?
When was the last time I let them?
I don’t like anyone bearing witness to any kind of pain or discomfort I’m in.
I half wanted to bark at her to leave me to my humiliation in the bathroom, but I couldn’t quite find the energy to, and in any case, I was a little concerned by my ability to find my way back to bed without her.
There was something in the way she asked, too. How she didn’t fuss or fawn or assume.
Do I really hate help… or just the fact that I need it?
It wasn’t awful, letting her help me. I don’t know if I let her touch me because I was desperate for some kind of relief, or because she didn’t make it seem like a problem. She didn’t seem frightened by pain in the way my family usually are.
Then she shared a little of her own.
A dead mother. No father mentioned, no siblings. Just a grandmother. It didn’t sound like there was a great deal of warmth in her childhood.
There was a lot in mine.
Until I lost my sight, losing my father was the worst time in my life. One day I had a father, the next day I didn’t. A corpse came back to the castle instead of him, and his absence took its place at the dining table.
But even in grief, there was warmth. There was Mother and Evander, and Runara not long afterwards. There were my father’s parents, courtiers who knew him, people who loved him. There was sadness, but never loneliness.
Not like there is now.
Thornvale, I think, has known loneliness.
I sigh, turning over in bed. My stomach has finally settled.
I doubt I’ll have need of the bucket she’s so kindly left out for me.
All that’s left now is the residual aches from today’s training regime.
My body—Saints, it’s become so weak. I can’t even handle a full meal.
I lost every exchange. I could barely keep up. And yet—
A faint twitch tugs at my lips.
It felt good. The weight of a weapon in my hand, the rhythm of movement, the give and take of attack and defence—it was familiar. Real. My muscles burned, my lungs struggled, but for the first time in longer than I can remember, I felt something that wasn’t just the ache of existing.
Just like in the kitchens.
I let out a quiet breath, tilting my head back into the pillow.
I can still smell the bread, still taste the ghost of honey.
And eating hadn’t been a battle. I’d sat with people.
Talked. Listened. The scrape of dishes, the low buzz of conversation—none of it crushed me. It had been… fine. Maybe even pleasant.
When was the last time I felt that? The last time I just existed, without being stifled by the weight of it?
The sun had been out earlier. I’d let it warm my face for a moment, almost enjoying the sensation.
I’d almost enjoyed so much of today.
My fingers twitch against the blanket, then still.
It’s not much. I’m not who I was. I may never be again. But today—today didn’t feel impossible.
You still can, she said.
Not gentle. Not like my mother or Evander, tiptoeing around the permanence of my injuries. Thornvale said it like I’d insulted her by thinking otherwise. Like believing in anything less was absurd.
It leaves a slow burn in my chest. Not pain. A question.
What else can I still do?