Chapter Twenty-One #2
I have to hold on to the promise that this pain will mean something. That my village will be blessed. That all of this—every death, every scream, every choice—will amount to more than just survival.
It has to. It’s the only thing keeping me together.
The next thing I know, I’m waking to the sound of gentle knocking and the soft creak of my door opening.
A woman steps inside. She has faint blue tattoos along the sides of her arms. Her dark hair is braided in a thick rope down her back, and her expression is unreadable as her warm-brown eyes flick over me.
She gives a short bow. “I’ve been sent to prepare you for the ball, Your Majesty.”
The title still makes my stomach turn.
I push upright in bed, heart thudding from being yanked from sleep. There were no dreams. No nightmares. Just a void that should’ve been restful but instead left me groggy and confused at the silence.
“I … right. Of course.” My voice comes out rough, my throat dry.
She gestures toward the adjoining room where a steaming bath waits.
I rise, still sluggish, and move to the room, quickly taking out the ribbon from my hair as I run my fingers through the braid. Setting it on the smooth stone counter, I call out, “Please don’t move this ribbon. It’s important to me.”
A soft response of understanding carries through the space.
The moment I step into the water, the tension in my shoulders finally begins to unravel.
For the first time in days, I can cleanse myself.
A fruity, floral scent clings to my skin as I quickly wash. I close my eyes as I sink lower into the warmth and scrub away the evidence of the journey here, but the memories are harder to wash away.
I think back to the moment I saw Rhune for the first time, still cloaked in dirt and stench, my braided hair a wild mess.
Here I thought the worst part of that moment was how he looked at me like I was nothing.
Now I realize I probably smelled like I’d been fighting wolves in the mud for three days straight.
Not my finest moment.
The Dromin attendant doesn’t speak much as I emerge from the bath. She dries my hair with a gentle wave of her hand, the strands lifting and twisting as warm air surrounds me. I’m startled by the magic, but quickly compose myself so I don’t offend her.
I try to offer a soft smile and ask what her name is, hoping to establish an acquaintance, but she simply says, “Call me Enari,” and moves on.
Perhaps the previous queens preferred quiet relationships. I try to not dwell on the abrupt answer and continue on.
The dress she helps me into is unlike anything I’ve ever worn. Light blue silk that ripples like running water every time I shift. When I turn slightly in the mirror, it catches the light and shimmers, almost glowing. My wavy hair is pinned half-up, the rest cascading down my back in soft curls.
Then comes the crown.
Enari lifts it with reverence, as if it’s not just metal, but something sacred.
The moment she sets it back on my head, I feel the weight of what comes with it. A reminder I don’t need.
I glance at her reflection in the mirror and try again for a connection. “Do you like it here? In the Dromin Court?”
Enari’s hands pause for only a heartbeat before she smooths down a fold in my gown. “I serve,” she says simply. “That is what matters.”
I nod, unsure what to say to that. Her tone isn’t unkind, but it is distant and clear she doesn’t wish to lower her walls.
I hope not everyone treats me this way, or else the depths of my loneliness will truly know no bounds.
I press my hands to the fabric of the dress and take a breath.
A ball awaits. A court awaits.
I can do this.
A soft knock echoes against the chamber door and Enari turns without a word and opens it. Her head dips slightly in a bow for whoever waits beyond the threshold.
“Your escort is here.”
I barely have time to register her words before she glides from the room.
Then Rhune steps in.
His boots are silent against the stone floor, his posture sharp and guarded, but the second his gaze finds me, everything about him changes.
He stops mid-step, as if the sight of me has knocked the breath from his lungs.
The silence stretches as his eyes drag down from the crown nestled in my hair, over the shimmering folds of blue silk clinging to my frame, then back up to meet mine. There’s something unspoken in his stare. Something dangerous and spellbound and entirely unguarded.
My skin prickles with his attention as my heart skips far too many beats.
He doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t have to, because I see it—the awe, the hunger, and the confusion.
I shift slightly and his throat bobs as he swallows. His hands stay clenched at his sides, as if he’s fighting himself not to reach.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I feel bare beneath his stare, exposed, as if I weren’t wearing a dress. My fingers twitch at my sides, suddenly unsure of where to put them. My entire body buzzes with the weight of his attention.
Then he blinks, his expression shuttering again, and I remember where I am … who I am now.
I’m not a girl in a dream anymore. I’m a queen about to walk into a room full of strangers who expect something from me that I’m not sure I know how to give.
My hands shake as I smooth them down the silk at my sides.
I cannot reach for him and I cannot fall apart.
So I step toward the threshold and brace myself for the weight of every eye waiting for me.