Chapter 25 The Aurelin Theater
The Aurelin Theater
The carriage turns toward the capital as the last of the daylight fades into night.
I lean toward the glass, catching what I can through the narrow pane as we pass.
Light spills across polished surfaces, catching in fabrics as people move through the streets.
Something in me lifts toward it without permission.
"I can open it," I say, my hand already near the latch.
"No," Petunis replies.
"I only want to see—"
"You are being seen whether you wish to be or not."
I let my hand fall.
Something like anticipation builds as we move deeper into the city.
I had wanted this once. Badly enough to believe Yvara and fall into her trap.
The memory comes quickly, the echo of what I had thought I was being given before it was turned into something else.
I press the thought down. This is not that.
When we arrive, the Aurelin Theater rises before us and I forget to move.
Layered arches, lanterns glowing along its exterior, people gathered beneath in small composed groups.
Inside the levels open upward, tier upon tier surrounding the stage, gold lining the edges in restrained detail, velvet absorbing the light so that what remains gathers at the center.
Petunis leads me into a private box. From there the entire room unfolds beneath us.
She speaks beside me, her tone different here, less severe, more inclined to explain than correct. She names the performers without hesitation, outlining their strengths and failings with equal clarity. I find myself listening. I realize, quietly, that Aunt Petunis loves the theater the way I do.
When Nyara steps onto the stage, everything else fades.
Her gown moves with her as though it belongs to her body, deep blue layered with silver that catches the light.
And when she sings, the room belongs to her.
Her voice fills it without strain, moving through in a way that feels almost physical, settling into the body itself.
I lean forward. The palace, the danger, the burden of whatever waits for me tomorrow. The ache of missing Colsar. All of it fades.
This is the first thing I have done in a while that is not about surviving.
This is exactly what I had wanted.
A wave of nausea rises before I expect it, low at first, then violent, pulling through my stomach and throat at once. I press my hand lightly against my lap, willing it to pass. It lingers longer this time.
Petunis turns her head. "You are unwell."
"I can stay," I say, though another wave rises stronger than the last.
She stands. "We are leaving."
Reluctance catches in me. But I follow, because I know Aunt Petunis will bring me again.
This is not Rathmor Palace. Alarna is dangerous and full of its own wrongness, but it is not a prison. I am not alone here. As I leave the theater I realize this moment has already been enough to remind me there is something beyond survival waiting for me, whether I am ready for it or not.