Chapter 84 The Sun
The Sun
Ispend most of the morning crying. The confinement is familiar now, a pressure I have learned to carry. What undoes me is how easily hope had taken hold at the thought of music and laughter only hours ago. I cannot remember the last time I stood outdoors in the daylight.
The tears come quietly at first, then harder, until I am left hollow and embarrassed by my own weakness.
At some point a tray with food slides through a narrow slot near the base of the door.
The sound startles me. He really did think of everything.
The door is solid, heavy, fitted with a mechanism that allows food to be delivered without opening it.
The room contains a washroom discreetly hidden behind carved panels, stocked and immaculate.
A cage constructed for comfort. But I am not an animal.
I open the wardrobe and a slow chill moves through me.
Inside hang my old veils, the plain garments I wore when I worked in the Baron’s household, the clothing I believed had been donated or discarded after I moved to Rathmor palace.
Instead they are preserved here, folded with care, arranged as if they are relics.
He did not save them for charity. He saved them for this room, and the certainty presses slowly into my stomach. He has been here alone, surrounded by painted versions of me.
There are no books, no quill, no parchment, and the absence feels intentional, as though nothing that belongs to me is allowed to exist here without him. And still, some quiet, traitorous part of me cannot ignore it: I am the only thing he has chosen to keep.
I want to think of Colsar, to hold onto the memory of him as an anchor, but the moment I allow his name to surface fully in my mind, my chest tightens with a pain too vast to contain. I push it away. I cannot survive missing him inside this room.
Exhaustion finally overtakes grief, and I fall asleep on top of the bed that does not belong to me, beneath painted eyes that do not blink.
The sound of metal turning in the lock pulls me from sleep hours later.
I sit upright at once, heart pounding. “Who is it?” I call, my voice rough.
The door opens, and to my astonishment it is Yvara. She stands framed in the doorway, dark curls arranged flawlessly around her shoulders, lips painted a deep red. For once there is no overt disdain in her expression, only something unreadable.
“Hello, sister,” she says.
“Yes, Yvara?”
“I am here to let you out,” she replies, almost grudgingly.
My instinct is suspicion. “The King ordered me to remain here,” I say, unwilling to invite punishment upon myself when I am already so worn thin.
She exhales with impatience. “Yes, he did. And he has ridden out to the south quarter and will not return until morning. Your friend, Nyara, is in the courtyard. She wishes to see you since you are not permitted to attend the theater tonight.”
At the mention of Nyara, something in me lifts despite caution.
“I cannot reach the courtyard without being seen,” I answer.
Yvara laughs softly. “You do realize no one here would report you, don’t you?
The servants adore you. They whisper constantly about ways to help.
” Her tone shifts slightly, darker. “Rumor has it that someone lost their hand for attempting to sneak your mail to you.” She giggles, covering her mouth with a delicate hand.
“His Majesty does not tolerate divided loyalty.”
The words strike like cold water.
She shrugs. “Still, there is no need to worry, the walk to the courtyard is mostly unguarded. You would know that if you paid attention.”
There is pride in her voice, the kind that suggests experience earned in ways I do not care to imagine. She turns and steps out of the painted room without waiting for me to follow.
I hesitate only a moment before crossing the threshold after her, leaving the walls of my own face behind.
We step back into the chamber where I had stood only hours ago, asking for permission I would not be granted.
The map remains spread across the table, the gloves still set beside it, as though nothing here has shifted at all.
I cross to the desk before I can think better of it. There is parchment laid neatly beside his maps, a quill resting in ink not yet dried. I hesitate only a moment before writing quickly.
Went to the theater with Nyara. I will return before you.
I leave the note where he will see it and stand at once, unwilling to linger.
Yvara crosses to one of the towering bookshelves and presses her palm against a carved emblem.
The shelf releases with a muted click and swings inward, revealing a dim passage beyond.
For a moment, hesitation grips me. The passage is dark and cramped, and something about its secrecy sets my pulse racing.
Yet the thought of sunlight, of air that does not smell of oil paint and obsession, is too powerful to resist.
I follow her. The corridor twists in tight angles, damp and unlit, and for a fleeting second I wonder if this is another form of confinement. My steps echo in my ears as we walk, and I nearly turn back.
Then, at last, light spills ahead. We emerge into the courtyard.
The sky opens above me in a wide expanse of pale blue, and the sunlight strikes my face with such unexpected warmth that I have to close my eyes against it.
The air feels enormous after the suffocating room.
I inhale deeply, almost greedily, and for a moment I am nothing but a body rediscovering something simple and essential.
The sun. I had not realized how desperately I missed it. A smile finds me before I can stop it, small and genuine. I lift my face toward the sky, letting the warmth sink into my skin, then lower my head and turn to Yvara.
“Which way is Ny—”
The impact comes without warning. Pain explodes at the side of my head, and the light vanishes. Darkness closes in before I can even form the rest of her name.