Chapter 2
Mirielle felt as if she were floating in black waters. There was a buzzing in her head that wouldn't let her sleep. She wished it would just go away so she could sleep a little longer.
Mirielle.
My name.
Mirielle!
Something hot and itchy welled up on the side of her body and neck. It was uncomfortable.
"Mirielle!"
Her eyes flew open. She gasped for air, filling her starved lungs. Light flooded her senses, muddling any coherent thought. She tried to blink it away, her body unprepared for the violent intrusion.
Deep brown eyes looked down at her. She knew those eyes, that concerned, pallid face, that furrowed brow and that shaggy hair that seemed perpetually disheveled.
Bael.
Bael was holding her.
As if the world felt the need to double down on her already overstimulated return to consciousness, pain crashed across her body. Her ribs and throat felt like they were on fire. Her arm and leg throbbed as though they had been struck by a blunt object.
But pain was good. Pain meant she was alive.
"Oh, thank the gods." Bael dropped his head and let out a shaky breath. "You're okay, Mirielle. You're okay." The words came out cracked and uneven, spoken more to himself than to her.
Mirielle blinked at him as though blinking might somehow make sense of her reality.
Then she remembered—cruel eyes, her cousin's command, Gregorat's grinning face. The memory sank into her heart like a slow blade. Her body began to tremble. Tears stung her eyes. She shoved them away.
"I'm alright." The lie emerged, a small broken thing.
Bael's jaw tightened. "No, you're not." There was anger in his voice. Not at her. At what had been done to her. At the sight of her sitting on the floor trying to pretend she wasn't falling apart.
Mirielle flinched away.
"I'm sorry." The apology came instantly, reflexive, automatic. As if she expected punishment for being hurt.
Bael bowed his head. His hand curled into a fist. "I'm not angry with you," he said with forced calm. The words were painfully careful, like he was afraid of breaking her more.
Mirielle lowered her eyes. Then he stepped closer and slipped an arm gently around her shoulders. "Please," he whispered, "let me help you."
To his relief, she relented. He carefully helped her rise. The instant she put weight on her side, agony lanced through her. Her breath vanished from her lungs. Her knees buckled as she stumbled into him.
Bael caught her before she could hit the ground. Unfortunately, that only caused more pain from her side. A small whimper escaped her.
"Careful." The word came out rough.
She leaned on him heavily, her tiny body slumped into his large shining frame.
She wanted to see Nyteny. She wanted to hold her, to feel her warm little body pressed against her chest. She quickly dismissed the idea as utterly terrible given her current state.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. She would see her tomorrow.
With that thought tucked safely against her heart, she let Bael carry her from the room.
*
Her room was clad in soft grays and silvers. A canopied bed sat close to large glass doors that led to a small balcony.
Mirielle was alone. Bael had lit the candles and then retreated to his post outside the door.
She felt her shoulders slump. Her bruised neck and her sides gnawed at her viciously.
She stared out the glass doors for how long she wasn't sure. Dusk slipped away beyond the windows. Shadows gathered in the corners of her chamber, fighting the candlelight. She watched until the waning moon cast quiet, playful shadows over the garden below—the world outside oblivious to her plight.
Across the room, the washroom doorway became a black mouth. The darkness within seemed to drink the candle's light.
Mirielle stared at it. She knew there was nothing there, no guard to pull her from her bed, no king to prod at her. Yet her chest tightened anyway.
Several maidservants appeared and prepared her bath. They also brought her a tray of food. She hardly registered them. She was sure she would be eating nothing.
After they left, she slowly willed herself to her feet and undressed, being careful not to disturb her angry flesh. She let down her hair, removing each pin.
She walked into the blackness of her washroom and shut the door behind her. Her fingers clenched into fists as she braced against the oppressive dark. It pressed on her chest as the light left her skin.
She stuffed a towel against the door's threshold and lowered herself into the copper tub. It was hot, too hot. It burned her angry flesh along her ribcage but she didn't care.
She just breathed, sitting in darkness, listening to the rise and fall of her chest in her ears. Her long black hair floated through the waters like black clouds beneath the surface.
When the darkness started winning, she lowered her heavy eyelashes and put her thumb to her pointer finger.
A tiny ball of brilliant light pooled between her fingers.
It illuminated the iridescent swirls of the scented oils that wove through the water's surface.
Radiant, shimmering light danced along the copper planes of the tub, weaving through the dark plumes of her hair.
It banished the dark, submitting it to dancing shadows cast on plated walls.
Her magic warmed her with its tiny heartbeats. It tickled and flipped, curling light between her fingers.
It reminded her of tiny hands grabbing her thumb, of sleepy giggles, of Nyteny curled against her chest. It spread glowing warmth through her chest all the way to her toes.
How could something like this belong on a battlefield?
She knew this magic was not meant for war. It was too innocent, too pure. It would be a great wrong, like sending a child to battle. She knew she would do anything to protect it, to prevent that, to hide it.
She watched the light die as she willed it to sleep. She closed her eyes and allowed the tears to come.
Then she cried as quietly as she could.