Chapter 14 #2
He grins at that, pulling books seemingly at random from various shelves. “Poetry for the heart,” he says, handing me a pocket-sized leather-bound book. “History for the mind.” Another follows. “Tales of ancient lore for the soul.”
I stare, puzzled. Does he truly know each work, as if it were an old friend? Marveling as my arms grow heavy with the trove he bestows on me, I still find my gaze drifting back toward that barred chamber lying in wait. A quiet pull I can’t quite ignore.
We settle at a large table in the center of the immense space, a diverse spread of works around us.
Ace dives in, sharing his favorite lines while I flip through pages, parchment beneath my fingertips in tune with the melody he strums quietly on his lute.
The quiet ease between us feels like something rare.
Proximity becoming familiarity, and familiarity becoming…
friendship? It’s as foreign to me as the calm I find myself settling into.
I find I am thankful for the stewardship and company alike.
As much as I could get lost exploring the stacks of books here, having a sense of direction and someone leading the charge unburdens me.
“Is it true you lived in a cave?”
I choke on the laugh that follows his boldness, pulling myself together long enough to answer. “For a time, yes.” The look on his face is a mix of confusion and awe. “And I would choose it over life back in the village every time.”
He slides into the seat next to me, setting the lute aside as he lowers from his perch atop the table. The normally boisterous bard yields to my telling.
I do not know if I share so freely because of the comfort I feel with him or perhaps because I feel I have little left to protect. Yet the words flow from me none the less.
“It never felt like home. I never fit in there. And near the end…” My voice trails.
I remember the fear of walking alone, the nagging sensation of being followed.
The nights rattled by the sound of shattering glass, a stone thrown so near my bed it would have struck me if sorrow and fear hadn’t kept me awake.
“I was better off fending for myself in the woods.”
His hand finds my arm, a touch light but sure, sympathy ringing true even from someone so primed for theatrics.
“Trouble is, you won’t be free of that here either,” he says. “People at court—half of them won’t like seeing you so close to Vale. Closely seated to the king is as good as carving your name into a prophecy, and they all have their own visions of what his destiny should look like.”
I don’t pull from his touch, only from the weight of what he’s said. I am a stranger in these walls, but there is more to it.
“Vale told me a little of prophecy,” I say quietly. “That it was once common among your kind.”
“Common?” His laugh is short and bright.
“Aye, more common than sense some days. Prophecy was given as freely as a name. Everyone had one tucked under their pillow or scribbled in a margin. Some were grand and terrible, speaking of kings rising and kingdoms falling. Others were so fanciful you’d think the gods were jesting—a child with eyes of flame who’d sing the stars from the sky, that sort of thing. ”
I tuck a fallen strand of hair behind my ear. I will not shrink from this.
“There’s that fire I heard about,” pride beams through his grin.
“You’ve already done more than most who strut through these halls.
Vale and I… we’ve had our scraps. He’s hauled me out of the fire, and I’ve kept him from toppling off a cliff or two.
But saving him the way you did? That takes something different.
Makes me think I’d best stay on your good side. ”
“Thank you,” I say softly. “I appreciate that. And I appreciate having a friend within these halls.”
“If I were a betting man”—he cocks his head, a single brow raised—“and I am… I’d put my money on you over prophecy or discontented courtiers any day.”
The quiet between us stretches until the scrape of the great doors announces someone else. Soria enters, shawl in hand, her brows lifting with mock reproach. “You’ve spent the whole day buried in parchment and song. Lord Vale will be most put out if I return you to him too late for supper.”
I blink at the light slanting differently through the windows—gods, how many hours have passed?
Ace leans back in his chair, smirk quick to return. “Taking her away so soon? Well, only if our king demands it so.” His eyes gleam as he turns to Soria. “And Soria—you still owe me a dance from last night.”
She shakes her head, though the faintest smile betrays her. “You’ll have to earn it, bard.”
Ace presses a hand to his chest as if wounded, then winks at me. “See? Everyone here conspires against my charm.”
Soria claps the shawl lightly over my shoulders, gentle but brisk. “Come, Mira. He’s waiting.”
A delicate cream-colored shawl drapes across my arms, a feeble defense against the chill that creeps in with night, while Soria’s fingers weave through my hair. Loose tendrils frame my face as she tucks the braid into place.
“Gilded perfection,” she says with a smile, shifting my golden locks just so.
We stand before the same chamber where I once shared supper with Vale, the banquet room now silent, shadows stretching long across the floor as we cross the breadth of the castle to reach him.
“From what I hear, the day has taken much from him,” Soria murmurs, her voice soft with understanding. “I can see why he wants nothing more than peace with you, dear. Go. You both deserve this.”
At her signal, the guards swing open the doors.
Vale is not by the table as he was two nights past. He stands waiting—just beyond the threshold—as though the distance itself has weighed on him. The moment he sees me, he closes the gap in swift, sure strides, as if gravity itself pulls us together.
“Mira.” My name is no longer bound to duty, no longer restrained by morning reluctance. His voice burns with hunger and relief. One arm encircles my waist, the other claims the back of my neck, and then his mouth is on mine.
I melt into him, lips parting, tongues meeting in a private language only we speak. His kiss is consuming, steady and wild all at once.
Heat surges through me, awakening everything I have tried to temper in his absence.
Though I haven’t eaten since breakfast, my appetite is not for the meal that waits beyond us.
It is for him. Relief and fire take over, no longer having to ignore the longing I’ve carried with me through the day since his parting at dawn.
When at last we sit, our lips are raw, our clothes slightly askew. I lay a napkin across my lap, smoothing my skirt in the process—a feeble attempt to regain composure.
“The day kept me from you far too long. The burden of duty…” He shakes his head, a laugh and sigh breaking his attempt at self-control. His gaze slides over me, intent and unblinking, and the air between us stills.
“So tell me, flame. What did you get up to today?”
I tell him of Ace, the library, and the small moments spent hidden among the ancient stacks. “Ace is a great companion,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “He seems to know the corners of the palace as well as he knows its books.”
Vale’s mouth curves at that, a glint of amusement flickering across his face. “He always did have a knack for slipping into places best left forgotten.”
I let the words hang for a beat, then stir my wine, eyes fixed on the deep red as though it holds only idle interest. “There are a few places like that,” I say lightly.
“Corridors where the light dies long before the torches end. Rooms that seem to breathe secrets. I stumbled past one today—a chamber kept dark even at midday. Near the back of the library. Iron bars…”
“Ah, yes…” His tone is smooth, but something in the way his gaze shifts betrays that it is not mere disinterest. “What’s behind there would be of no use to you.
Old prophecies in languages since lost.” Too casual for something that feels as though it had reached for me, lingering in my mind even hours later.
“How does one lose a language?” I ask, levity masking the depth of my desire to understand what waits in the dark.
“The Fade,” he says it plainly.
The question lingers on my face, and I realize—at times, he forgets how much of an outsider I am within these walls.
“That’s what we call it,” he adds, quieter now. “Magic didn’t vanish in a single cataclysm. It faded. Slowly. Unevenly. Cruelly.”
He leans back in his chair, a far-off look settling into his eyes like a tide rolling out.
“It’s been centuries since the Fade took hold,” he says quietly.
“We didn’t only lose magic. We lost the means to interpret what had been given to us.
Entire lifetimes of wisdom, of translation, of understanding—gone.
Those who could read the old tongues, those who could wield the spark that brought meaning to the words…
most didn’t survive the famine and the wars that followed.
And without them…” His eyes flicker closed, as if the memories themselves burn.
My hand moves across the table almost on its own, resting lightly atop his. No mystery is worth making him relive what must be a wound deeper than time.
The touch softens something in him. He exhales, a small surrender, and returns to me. “Now it’s just a collection of scribbles and script across parchment,” he murmurs. “Collecting dust. Best forgotten.”
I turn his hand in mine and lace our fingers. For a heartbeat, we simply breathe, the table between us feeling smaller than it did when the meal began.
A knock sounds. Not timid. Certain.
“Enter,” Vale says, voice returning to steel.
Odrin steps inside with a sealed parchment. He inclines his head to me before setting it by Vale’s plate. “From the lower watch, my lord. Marked urgent.”
Vale breaks the seal. I watch the change in him as his eyes move over the page. The weight of being ruler returns to his shoulders like armor reclaimed.
He folds the parchment once, then again, and looks at me instead of Odrin. “I am needed.”
I nod, though my throat tightens. “Go.”
His hand reaches across the table, closing over mine once more. “I would stay if I could.” The words are soft, meant for me alone.
“I know.” I try for lightness and almost find it. “Besides, if you lingered, we would not eat.”
A corner of his mouth curves, helpless and warm. He rises and comes around the table. I stand to meet him without thinking. He lifts my hand and presses his mouth to my knuckles, then to my forehead, lingering there as if he can leave a promise upon my skin.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs against my brow. “Find me after the council breaks.”
“Tomorrow,” I answer.
He steps back, the distance feeling larger than the few paces that separate us. At the door, he pauses, as though memorizing me in that light, then is gone with Odrin, the echo of their steps fading into the long hush of the hall.
I sink back into my chair. The candles gutter lower, throwing small seas of light across wine and plate.
I trace the rim of my goblet and think of all the dinners we have already shared like this, hands nearly touching across wood and flame.
I carry it differently now, wanting held at bay by duty instead of doubt.
The silence he leaves behind hums—faintly, like a chord struck in stone—slipping through hidden corridors and listening walls, reminding me that this palace is awake and that I am no longer invisible within it.
Soria appears at the threshold, quiet as ever. “Shall I see you back, dear?”
“Please.”
We walk deeper into the private royal halls, far from the route we took to arrive.
The palace feels different at this hour, its edges softened.
The library and its hidden sanctum lie farther behind with every turn, yet something from that dark place tugs at me, steady as a tide.
I draw the shawl closer, as if its warmth might guard against the odd chill that sets in as we move away from that call.
In my chamber, I lay the shawl across the foot of the bed and stand a moment in the quiet. Night presses gentle at the windows. I can still feel the shape of his kiss at my brow, the weight of his hand closing over mine.
Soria helps me out of the gown and into my shift for sleep.
As her hands loosen the braid, as the bodice slips free, I catch my reflection and wonder how the woman in the mirror—the one who fled the village in favor of a life in the wild—has found herself in such a place.
And more so, how I feel less a stranger in these halls than I ever did in my old life before it all.
I slide beneath the covers and pull them to my collarbone, breathing in the faint primrose that clings to the linen.
Somewhere in the westward hush of the halls, a draft moves through stone. I tell myself it is only night settling. Tomorrow, I will see for myself.
Sleep comes slowly, not for lack of peace, but because longing and contentment have twined together, and I am learning the strange sweetness of feeling both at once.