Chapter 71 The Invitation
The Invitation
Iwake to darkness and the hollow sensation of having slept too hard, as if my body collapsed out of sheer refusal rather than peace. For a moment I do not remember where I am or what has happened. Then the memory of burning parchment and sour bile rushes back in a single wave.
A knock sounds at my door. I sit up slowly, the room lit only by the faint glow of banked coals in the hearth. My robe is still draped across the chair where I left it, and I pull it around myself before crossing the chamber barefoot. Another knock, lighter this time.
When I open the door, the red-haired page from earlier stands there holding a silver tray, eyes fixed somewhere just over my shoulder in a valiant attempt at propriety. He cannot be more than sixteen. The sight of me in my robe makes him flush a violent shade of red.
“What is your name?” I ask gently.
“Edrin, Your Highness,” he says quickly. He lifts his chin slightly. “My father is General Rorin, one of the Prince’s most trusted soldiers.”
General Rorin. The name sounds familiar. I study the boy more carefully now, realizing that perhaps he told me that for a reason.
“A message from the King,” he says, swallowing, eyes still averted. “His Majesty invites you to dine with him this evening.”
I stare at him for a moment, long enough that he shifts uncomfortably. The audacity. I almost laugh. I would rather vomit goat soup all evening than dine with him.
“Tell the King I politely decline his invitation,” I say, my voice even.
Edrin blinks, clearly unprepared for refusal.
“Yes, Highness,” he manages at last, though doubt passes across his expression before he bows and steps back.
I take the tray from him and close the door.
The folded note rests atop it, sealed but not with wax.
A courtesy rather than a formality. The parchment feels heavier than it should.
I break the seal and unfold it. His handwriting is controlled and immaculate.
Princess,
I have cancelled Lady Nyara’s visit for today.
In light of recent attacks and the strain they have placed upon you, I fear the stress may have affected your health more than you are willing to admit.
I have consulted the healers, who recommend isolation and rest for a condition as delicate as yours.
Liar. No healer would say such a thing.
I believe it wise that we resume our meals together. Effective tomorrow, any dinner you wish to partake in while I am in residence will be taken in my presence.
The words sit quietly on the page, deceptively simple.
Tonight, I invite you to join me. I would prefer you do not continue this pattern of isolation.
If you have declined, then fear not, the new guards I have stationed have been instructed to lock your door immediately once the page provides your answer.
This will ensure that you may rest until daybreak tomorrow.
I stare at the door. He has locked me in this room. He has cancelled my dinner with Nyara. Heat floods my skin.
He continues.
Tonight's dinner was a request. Tomorrow's will be a command. It is important that I see to your strength personally.
My stomach drops.
For tonight, I am aware that your constitution is in gentle straits. I recommend rest and water. We will resume properly when you are feeling better.
The note ends there.
For a moment I simply stare at the words, my mind struggling to reconcile the tone of care with the reality of what he has done.
He has canceled Nyara. He has cut off the only person left that I trusted to speak to freely.
He has framed it as concern. Isolation and rest. My skin feels as if it is boiling from the inside.
Any meals you wish to partake in will be done in my presence.
The nausea that had faded during my bath returns with brutal clarity.
He is not worried about my health. He is denying me food as punishment for refusing him.
He is ensuring that every bite I take from now on is taken under his eye, as if nourishment itself belongs to him.
Earlier, I had taken comfort in convincing myself the King was playing a game, a game that could be won. I was naive. Kings only play by their own rules. In a game of tyranny, the only measure of victory is survival.
My hands begin to tremble.
Colsar would never have imagined this. Even at his most ruthless, he would never humiliate through hunger. Even with Yvara, with all her cruelty, he would not starve her into submission. He would burn cities before he denied bread.
Remember yourself, Asharin, I command. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself not to disappear, not to revert to the Asharin that hid behind a veil, that hid somewhere in her own mind when cruelty became overwhelming.
My fingers crumple the edge of the parchment before I force myself to smooth it flat again. I refuse to give Sevrin even that small victory.
Something warm slides over my lip. I touch my nose and pull my hand back to find blood staining my fingertips. I press a handkerchief to it and lean against the door, breathing slowly through my mouth. The words Sevrin once said echo in my mind despite myself.
"You have hidden your ability for so long that it harms you when you use it now."
I hate that I remember it. I hate that part of me wonders if it is true and knows that the surge of magic I used earlier is what has left me tired and bleeding now. It slows after a minute. I fold the stained cloth carefully and set it aside.
Hunger begins to take over. My head feels light. I cross to the table and pour water into a cup, forcing myself to drink slowly even though my stomach protests. Water will not quiet the hollow twisting inside me, but it keeps me upright.
Nyara is gone from my reach tonight. Matron Oramin’s chambers are not far from here. Perhaps she would help me if I asked. Or Maridale. But if Sevrin has already begun tightening the circle around me, their help would not go unnoticed. I will not risk drawing his attention to them.
I press my palm to the edge of the table and let my thoughts gather. I will not sit here and weaken. If my magic tears at me when I use it, then I will use it until it does not. If he denies me food, I will feed myself.
The cave lies beyond the northern ridge, tucked into the rock face where I used to go before the palace swallowed my days.
The path is narrow and easy to miss if one does not know it.
The forest around it still yields small game.
I have hunted before. This is not the first time someone has attempted to starve me, I think bitterly of the Baron.
I can do it again. I straighten slowly. I will leave before the guards change. I will return before dawn. He will think me obedient and resting while I walk beyond his reach for a few precious hours.
I move to my writing desk and scribble a brief note to Maridale.
I am sleeping and unwell. If anyone inquires, tell them I have not stirred.
I hesitate only a second before folding it.
Maridale has protected my secrets before.
She will do so again. I change quickly into the clothes I have not worn in months, trousers and tunic dark enough to blend into the night.
The fabric feels strange against my skin after weeks of silks and embroidery, but it fits as it always has.
I braid my hair tightly and tuck it beneath a cap.
For a moment I stand by the window and wonder what Colsar would say if he saw me now. He would disapprove of the risk. He would say the Threns prowl at night and that I am reckless. But he would hate the idea of me hungry more. He would hate the idea of me punished.
I exhale softly and push the window open.
The night air slips into the chamber, carrying the scent of pine and distant water.
The courtyard below lies quiet. I swing my legs over the sill and lower myself carefully until my boots touch the grass.
For the first time since the dining chamber I feel something other than containment.
Hunger drives me forward. So does fury. I begin walking toward the trees, telling myself that I will return before dawn, that I will eat, that I will think, and that by morning I will have the beginnings of a plan.
The palace rises behind me, dark and watchful, but the forest ahead breathes with a different rhythm.
I recommend rest and water.
Fuck him.
Tonight, I will eat.