Chapter 18 The Empty Room
The Empty Room
Afterward, servants dress us in loose pale gowns and guide us back into the upper halls.
Alarna reveals itself differently when I am not being judged.
The corridors open rather than close, the ceilings generous, light moving freely through the architecture without obstruction.
Water runs in narrow channels along the floors, clear and constant.
It is beautiful in a way that feels considered.
It does not feel like home. Not yet. Though I am not sure Rathmor ever did either. It didn't matter because Colsar was there, and he was home.
By the time we reach the next set of doors, the sky has already begun to darken.
“Dinner will be served in the Great Hall shortly,” Queen Petunis says.
“I would prefer to take mine in my room,” I say. “I am exhausted.”
“That is to be expected,” she says. “You are of a bloodline that can pass the wards, but it is not without cost. Bringing others through requires far more.”
I frown. “Then how did I—”
“Your entrance was not ordinary,” she says, cutting me off. “What was done to bring you here was woven long ago, by your grandparents, after your mother was lost.”
I go still.
“Old magic,” she continues. “Not something easily repeated. And not something meant to carry so many.”
She pauses, as though expecting a response.
I do not give her one. I have had enough half-answers for one day. My hand moves to my stomach, slow and controlled, a quiet reminder placed exactly where she will see it.
Her expression shifts. “Very well,” she says. “I will have something sent to you.”
“I would also like to see the healer,” I add. “And Aunt Jularin. This evening.”
“I will arrange it.”
Her attention turns to Nyara, her expression softening in a way that feels practiced. “You will join us at dinner. I have already asked that you sing.”
Nyara blinks, caught off guard, the color rising quickly in her cheeks. “I—yes. Of course.”
“Lord Eskalin will be in attendance,” Petunis continues. “He owns the theater near the capital. He is visiting tonight.”
Nyara’s entire face changes. The surprise gives way to something brighter, something she cannot hide.
I feel it beside me and manage a small smile. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I would come if I could.”
“You should rest,” she says quickly.
I let her believe that, though in truth it is not exhaustion that keeps me from going.
I should be exhausted, and yet the scouring has ignited something in me.
There is too much pressing in at once. I do not understand why Aunt Jularin could sense my child when for days all I had felt was weakness or nothing at all.
She had said he was strong. The thought brings me comfort.
And then there was memory of the light, of the ward, of what I touched and what it might mean.
And beneath all of it, quieter but harder to ignore, the image I cannot shake.
Teorin, surrounded. The moment I stepped through the wards and left him there.
Something pulls tight in my chest at the thought.
“Come,” Petunis says.
We follow.
At the next corridor, she gestures for Nyara to continue straight, toward a set of doors framed in gold and carved stone. “The royal guest suite is this way.”
Nyara hesitates, glancing back once, but whatever waits ahead of her pulls harder. She smiles, a little breathless, and disappears down the corridor.
I take a step to follow, but Petunis stops me with a single lifted hand.
“No,” she says gently. “You are not a guest.” She turns and leads me in the opposite direction.
The palace grows quieter the further we go.
The movement of servants fades. The sound of water softens.
The space opens again, but this time there is no one in it.
We pass through a final set of doors.
“This is yours,” she says.
An entire wing. I step inside and the space unfolds around me, larger than anything I have ever been given.
The polished floors stretch beneath my feet, the walls carved with delicate patterns that catch the light in ways that feel almost alive.
Curtains fall in soft layers around tall windows, though they are unnecessary.
The ceiling above me is glass. Night has settled fully now, and the sky stretches wide and unobstructed, deep and endless, scattered with stars that feel closer than they should.
It is breathtaking, but it is empty. I stare at the bed and am suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. I wish that Colsar were here tonight to hold me, to call me his Asha Bear.
“Wait,” she says.
I turn. Something fine hangs between her fingers before I can make sense of it. Gold, thin and intricate, deep red stones threaded through it.
Rubies.
“For you.”
I hesitate, but she is already moving toward me, already lifting it. I understand what it is as it falls into place. A lattice meant to trace the face, a drop at the brow, finer strands to anchor along the ears and into the hair.
Like hers.
“It is worn by the women of Alarnan royal blood,” she says. “Not always. But often.”
A brief pause.
“Your mother wore them often.”
That stops me.
“Rubies,” I say quietly.
“Among others.”
She moves behind me, her hands efficient, fitting it into place without asking permission. The gold rests cool against my skin and then warms, as though it has decided to stay.
When she is done, she presses something small and solid into my hand. A box.
I look down at it, then back at her.
“Some were mine,” she says. “Some were your mother’s. Some were hers before that.”
My fingers tighten slightly around it.
“Alarnan women have always ruled,” she continues. “With or without partners. We favor jewels over crowns. The reason is practical.”
Her eyes flick briefly to my reflection. “We do not have time for crowns to fall when we are fighting wars or wielding power.”
“These do not fall.”
She presses something else into my hand, lighter this time.
I open my fingers. A circlet rests there, gold worked into a narrow band, darker stones set along its edge.
“If you insist on tradition,” Petunis says.
I glance up.
“We do not require them,” she continues. “But we do not forbid them either.”
Then she steps away. I feel the difference in the air almost immediately, subtle and difficult to name, but present.
I cross to the glass without thinking about it. The reflection looking back at me is not entirely one I recognize. Gold traces my face in fine lines, the ruby at my brow dark and unignorable against my skin.
It does not make me look soft. It makes me look like something.
“It suits you,” Petunis says. Her voice is not kind, but it is quieter than before. I do not answer her, but I do not take it off.
The door closes behind me, and the silence that follows feels heavier than anything I carried with me into this place.