Chapter 37 Hidden
Hidden
Iwake slowly, the dull weight of wine still heavy in my head and the taste of it clinging to my tongue.
Light filters through the curtains in a thin, unforgiving line, bright enough to hurt.
I have clearly slept through half the day.
My body feels brittle, as though I have been pieced together incorrectly and any wrong movement might undo me.
I do not rise at once. I lie there and stare at the ceiling, letting the day exist without me for as long as it will allow.
My birthday has always been like this. Quiet at first before turning dark.
My father liked to find something I had done wrong, something deserving of punishment, so that gratitude could be instilled properly. A lesson disguised as care.
I tell no one, because it has never mattered.
The sounds of the palace drift faintly through the walls, footsteps and distant voices reminding me that life continues without my participation. I remain still, wrapped in yesterday’s exhaustion and the echo of humiliation, until a soft knock comes at the door.
A summons from the Prince’s study. Naturally.
I sit up slowly, pressing my palms into the mattress while the dull spinning in my head fades. Dressing requires little thought. It is a habit learned early: rise when called, move when expected, give the day no reason to linger on you.
As I fasten the buttons at my sleeves, my thoughts drift unwillingly to the night before, to the moment something inside me answered when I reached for it and to the warmth of blood running down my face while the King watched with an attention that felt far too knowing.
Perhaps it means nothing, the way most things do.
My fingers brush the pendant at my throat before I realize what I am doing, and I let it fall back against my skin. Survive long enough, I tell myself. Then leave.
Stepping into the corridor, I notice something immediately.
There is no tray waiting outside the study for me to bring in. The absence bothers me more than it should.
I knock. A voice answers, already weary.
“Come in.”
The study smells faintly of tea and parchment.
Colsar stands near the table, his ash-blond hair loose this morning, uncombed in a way that suggests he did not sleep well.
His expression is controlled, but his eyes look tired, shadowed by something he has not chosen to name.
I still have not grown accustomed to the strangeness of them, one eye gray and one eye blue.
It looks beautiful and frightening at the same time.
A teapot sits between us.
“Sit,” he says.
I barely hear him. Habit carries me forward. I lift the pot and step closer, intent on pouring, intent on doing what is expected so the moment can pass.
His hand closes around my wrist. The touch is light, gentle.
But it is enough. The room disappears.
I am younger. Smaller. My brother’s grip is iron. Water spills over my hands, scalding. I scream. I am punished for the noise. My father’s face is furious, not with him, but with me. That night I am sent outside. It is cold. I curl into myself and learn how to breathe quietly.
“I didn’t mean to,” I hear myself saying now. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.” I cannot see him anymore. I cannot hear anything else. The panic takes me whole. I wrench free and run.
"Asharin."
I hear someone call my name, but it does not matter. I do not remember the halls. I do not remember the doors. I only know that my feet carry me where they always have when I cannot stay.
The forest. The land beyond the gardens is familiar in a way the palace never is. At first, the path is neat, bordered by trimmed hedges and lantern posts. Then the ground softens. The trees grow closer.
I know this way. I used to walk it as a child, slipping through the woods until I could see the docks from a distance.
The ships were freedom to me. Their very existence meant there might be places where joy and curiosity and strange fruit existed.
Places where life was built around joy, not punishment.
I veer off before that now, toward the ravine. It is not deep, only a narrow cut in the land, hidden by roots and brush. At the bottom, half concealed by shadow and moss, is the cave.
My cave. I climb down carefully and crawl inside. The air is cold, but familiar. The walls curve inward protectively. I huddle near the back, where I once carved small marks with a stolen blade. Cakes. Rough circles with lines for candles. One for every birthday I spent pretending.
I trace them with trembling fingers. Here, no one ever hurt me. I used to crawl inside and pretend I was a bear, sleeping through winter. A bear with someone who loved them. A bear who would wake to warmth and food and safety waiting outside.
My teeth chatter as the memories come too fast. My body folds inward, trying to make itself small enough to disappear into the rock.
It is my birthday, and I do not want to be brave today. I want one day without pain. One day where I am not corrected, touched, or measured.