11 Eira
Eira
Hugo snatched Eira closer to him, his hand pressing against her arm just a little too tightly. “You’re hurting me,” she said,
shocked at the roughness of his hold.
“Where is she?” he hissed, his eyes sharp with a hint of dark green in the dim light of the alley.
“Where is who?” Eira asked, tugging her arm back to loosen his grip.
He released her, putting the same hand on his forehead. They were so close that Eira could feel his hot breath on her skin,
making her shiver involuntarily.
“You and I both know that the two of you were always together and I thought . . .” He trailed off. “I thought if I found you
that I’d find her too.”
Who was he talking about? He’d been doing this the whole time, acting familiar when he didn’t know her.
“Hugo, I don’t know who you’re talking about, and I don’t know why you keep making comments like I know who you are. We met
yesterday,” Eira said, tipping her head back to look him in the eyes, his face turned down in frustration.
“Why are you playing this game with me?” he said, hands shaking in frustration.
She hated that she found it attractive, but even more, she hated that she didn’t know what he was talking about.
“I am beginning to genuinely believe that you have mistaken me for someone I’m not,” Eira said, hands raised in his direction
and voice as calm as she could manage.
“Eira, you cannot expect me to believe that you don’t recognize me . . . it’s only been three yea—” He stopped himself, looking
into the distance in deep thought. His steaming breath became less pronounced in the cold air as his breathing slowed, calmed
down.
“Eira,” he finally said. “Tell me exactly who you are.”
Their eyes connected, him challenging her to answer and her not wanting to. Why was this man asking her for her life’s story
when they’d only just met? But Eira wasn’t a fool; she knew something was happening here. A quiet voice in the back of her
head was telling her that this was something that had been brewing for a while. The misplaced familiarity in Hugo’s gaze made
her want to speak, to answer.
“I’m Eira Eckhart. I’m an alchemical witch from the small town of Cilirien. I opened my potions shop three years ago. I’m
just a woman who happens to be able to do a little bit of potions magic.”
“And who are your parents? Do you have siblings? Where did you grow up?” he spoke again immediately with his brow furrowed,
throwing rapid-fire questions at her like he was trying to figure something out.
But Eira didn’t perform well under pressure, and neither did her memory. Eira knew she had family; she had to have had parents,
and she could see the silhouette of a sibling in her dreams sometimes. It was just that though, silhouettes. No names came
to her, no physical features—the same as it had been for three whole years.
Whatever had happened to her, her memory had never come back, and the local doctor could only guess at some sort of traumatic head injury. Except Eira didn’t have any scars from a head wound . . . which wasn’t something she liked to think about too much.
“I have one sibling and two parents,” she hazarded an answer.
“And their names?”
“The doctor in Cilirien thinks I took a fall . . . I don’t remember.”
He looked at her, eyes flicking between hers frantically. “No,” he said finally, hand moving to his mouth.
Eira watched as his eyes softened, hardened, and softened again. What had he realized?
“How long have you been a witch in Cilirien?” he finally asked.
“Witches are born with magic, so my whole life,” Eira responded with a scoff.
“And what is the furthest thing you can remember in the past?”
Eira thought about it and hit a wall, the same wall she always hit. “My whole life,” she lied, feeling sick and racking her
brain for anything past three years ago. It was empty.
“Don’t lie to me,” he growled as he pointed at her. “What is your most distant vivid memory?”
“Three years ago, as I walked into my home in Cilirien.” It slipped out before she could stop herself.
“What about before then?” he demanded, stepping closer to her.
Eira’s stomach lurched.
“I don’t . . .” Eira hesitated. “I don’t remember anything from before then.”
Silence enveloped them, puffs of cold breath permeating the dimly lit alleyway as Eira waited impatiently for Hugo to speak. “What did you just realize, Hugo?” Eira asked softly, breaking the silence.
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.” Hugo closed the small gap between them, placing his hands on her arms with a gentleness
she didn’t expect. “You’re not from Cilirien.”
“This isn’t funny,” Eira whispered, afraid of what Hugo was going to say next. “I thought you said you don’t like games.”
“I’m not joking. Not only do I not like games—I don’t play them,” he said, hands still on Eira’s arms, firm and warm. They
watched each other for a moment that felt like it stretched into an eternity.
“Eira,” he whispered, tilting her chin up to look into his eyes. “I suspect someone has removed your memory with a spell.”
Her stomach lurched again as she pushed away from Hugo, and she quickly placed her hands on her knees in case her dinner came
back up. Memory magic was forbidden—no one did memory magic anymore. No one hated Eira enough to cast memory magic on her
illegally, right?
“That’s not possible.” Her words caught in her throat, threatening to turn into panic. “Why would you say that?”
He took a deep breath, looking away for a moment.
“Hugo,” Eira spoke again, all the moments where Hugo had insinuated that she was playing games and pretending to not know
who he was in the past day falling into place. “What do you know about me?”
He exhaled loudly before looking back at Eira, his breath visible in the cold air.
“You’re the Viscountess Eira Westcotte. You were the heir to your parents’ lands and title as their only remaining child . . .
and you disappeared three and a half years ago.”
Eira felt time slow as she processed what Hugo had just said to her.
“I said this isn’t funny,” Eira said as she stepped away from him, prepared to flee this alleyway. Not that she had anywhere to go . . . What had she done? The Viscountess Westcotte? She didn’t even know who that was. Sure, she didn’t remember anything beyond the past three years,
but that didn’t mean she was nobility. She’d just taken a fall. That was it; she just fell. A fall that left no wound and
no scar. A fall that only took her memory. A fall that had left her in a town where no one knew her, but she somehow had already
established her home and shop. Eira started hyperventilating, her heart racing so fast she could hear it in her ears.
“Eira, you have to breathe,” Hugo said, touching her shoulder. He rubbed circles where his hand lay with his thumb until Eira’s
heart slowed down enough that the frantic thumping wasn’t the only sound she could hear.
“Eira, this is not a joke, but there is more.” He paused before continuing, giving her time to respond. She remained silent,
dreading his next words. “What’s more important is that you were the crown princess’s best friend, and she’s the only living
member of the De Clare dynasty left—the true heir to the throne. She’s missing, and we need to find her.”
“Ha,” Eira said dryly. “This is where you took it too far. There’s no world where I’d believe that. Even I know that the whole
royal family was killed after the Iron Empire rose.”
The best friend to the heir to the throne? It was almost comically impossible. “If I’d been best friends with the former future
queen, I know I’d remember that,” she said, certain and indignant. The De Clares were dead. They’d been dead for as long as
Eira could remember.
“That’s precisely my point,” he said, stepping toward her, his voice hushed. “You, of all people, should remember her, and
you should know that she got away that night . . . with you.”
“Well, I don’t!” Eira exclaimed far louder than she should have, an echo reverberating through the empty cobblestone alleyway. “You have the wrong girl, and now you’ve taken me from my home and my life for nothing, because you thought I was someone I’m not.”
She had let this man take her away from Cilirien under the guise of her being in danger, only for him to turn around a day
later and expect her to be okay with him being too familiar with her and telling wild stories about her life that weren’t
true, that couldn’t be true.
“So is this your plan?” Eira said, panic rising in her again. “You whisk women away from their homes, telling them they’re
in danger, only to tell them how special they are so they . . . what? Fall for you? How many women have you done this to?”
She angrily stepped forward, pointer finger jabbing his very firm chest. Eira wished she hadn’t noticed that part, but she
had. Hugo could be a scam artist and attractive at the same time.
He laughed, and it was not one of disbelief, but a genuine laugh. “This is the most like you I’ve seen you since I walked
into your damned store.”
He grabbed her hand, calloused golden fingers grazing over hers like they had in the bar just minutes ago, and a shiver rolled
down her spine at his touch. “We are in danger. I have not lied to you about that,” he said. “You and the princess fled the
night of the uprising. I didn’t know how you got out, and I didn’t know if you were going to come back. I half wondered if
both of you were dead.”
“If this is true, which it’s not . . . how did you even find me?” Eira tentatively asked, pulling her fingers away, leaving
them tingling from his gentle caress.
“I’m very good at finding people” was all Hugo said.
“And you came here for the princess . . . I can’t remember her name. Shouldn’t that be enough of a sign that I don’t know
her?” Eira shook her head in disbelief, trying to convince Hugo that he had the wrong woman. Once he understood that, she
could go home.
“All I know is that you did know her, and for some reason you don’t remember anything from your life in the capital, but we have to figure it out.”
“How do you know I’m . . . what was her name—the Viscountess Westcotte?” Eira said, crossing her arms. “Maybe I just look
like her, and your hunt has been for nothing.”
Hugo was silent, watching Eira for a long moment. His eyes were sad as Eira waited for him to answer. If his story was true . . .
he had to have a history with her.
“Eira, I was your family’s personal guard for seven years before the Iron Empire’s uprising,” Hugo said. “I know your face
better than my own.”
Ten years? He’d known her for ten years? Eira suddenly felt like Hugo had the upper hand. If he’d guarded this viscountess’s family, it meant he had years
of experience with her, knowing how to handle her, that she wasn’t even aware of. He knew more about this alleged version
of her than she did.
But he didn’t know Eira Eckhart. Hugo knew whoever the Viscountess Westcotte was, but Eira Eckhart might be different. Eira
Eckhart had three years of doing everything for herself that Hugo didn’t know about. And what if . . . what if the princess
hadn’t wanted Hugo to find her? Maybe Eira needed to protect someone who was once her friend.
“Maybe the princess doesn’t want to be found,” Eira retorted.
“Maybe it’s not up to her anymore,” Hugo snapped back.
A stone skittered down the alleyway, pinging off Hugo’s boot and startling them both out of their argument and into a breathless
silence. Someone else was here. Someone else had heard them.
The hairs on the back of Eira’s neck stood up.
The moment he noticed the hooded figure at the end of the alleyway, Hugo’s demeanor changed. He moved to stand in front of
Eira, his hand brushing her waist as he positioned her behind him.
“Stay behind me, and if this goes badly . . . you need to run,” he whispered, barely loud enough for Eira to hear him.
Before she could speak, the hooded figure did.
“Hugo Venton,” the voice said from a few meters away. “Betrayer. It is your time to die.”
The voice, which sounded almost like a woman’s voice, was eerily hollow in a way that Eira had never heard before. It felt
like the alleyway grew three degrees colder, and a shiver ripped through Eira’s body. It felt wrong.
“Perhaps it’s yours,” Hugo said, unsheathing his sword.