Total pages in book: 214
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
The room feels smaller somehow, more intimate with just the two of us alone again. I'm acutely aware of his presence, of the way the candlelight plays across his features, softening the usually harsh lines of his face. With his scars faded, he looks the same, but different. Though I wouldn’t have imagined it possible, he’s even more handsome than before, as Mireen so bluntly pointed out.
In a way, it feels like I'm seeing behind the shields he so carefully maintains. It's like I'm seeing who he was before whatever happened that made him so… hard.
"Thank you," he says finally. "For what you did. For saving my life."
I meet his gaze. "You would have done the same for me."
"Yes," he agrees without hesitation. "I would have."
Something shifts in the air between us, charged with possibility. The tether between us pulses, warm and alive, and for a moment I think he's going to move closer, maybe even…
But before either of us can speak again, exhaustion crashes over me like a wave, and I feel myself sinking back toward darkness. I try to fight it, not wanting to break this moment between us, but my body refuses to cooperate.
"Rest," Raith says, taking the half-empty bowl from my hands. His voice and his touch are heartbreakingly gentle. I can feel a pulse of something, too, like the ghost of an echo through our thin tether.
If it's a hint of how he feels about me, then… gods. If that's how Raith feels, he's a fucking master at keeping it hidden.
"I'll be here when you wake," he says.
It's only moments before I slip back into sleep.
I drift through a dream that feels too solid, too real to be just imagination. I'm looking through someone else's eyes, feeling someone else's emotions.
Marble floors stretch before me. Tapestries hang from high ceilings, depicting battles and coronations. Everything is opulent, rich with history and significance.
I know this place, even though I've never been here. The knowledge sits in my borrowed consciousness with comfortable familiarity.
Home.
I move through grand corridors, my steps light and quick. I'm smaller than I should be, younger. A child's perspective. The adults around me tower like giants, their faces indistinct except for the warmth in their eyes when they look down at me.
"Your Highness," they murmur as I pass, bowing slightly.
The title feels natural, expected. I acknowledge them with a child's imperious nod, mimicking the grave dignity I've seen in my father but unable to fully suppress the bounce in my step. I’m expected to behave like an adult, but I’m still so young.
I round a corner and enter a sunlit room where a woman sits by a window, her back straight as she embroiders something with long, delicate fingers. She looks up as I enter, her face achingly beautiful, her smile gentle.
"There you are," she says, setting aside her work. "I was beginning to think you'd hidden away in the library again."
Mother. The word echoes with such love that it hurts.
"Father's coming home today," I say in a voice that isn't mine—a boy's voice, high with youth and excitement.
"Yes, he is." She stands, smoothing her elaborate gown. The fabric catches the light, so beautifully intricate and well-made it looks like art.
I flicker between feeling like the boy and feeling like myself, watching behind the boy’s eyes as the woman—the queen—takes the boy's hand and leads him through more corridors to a grand balcony overlooking a courtyard.
Below, men on horseback are arriving, their armor glinting in the sun. At their head rides a tall figure with a golden crown, his beard streaked with the same auburn as the boy's hair.
The king.
But not just the king. He’s my father. The boy’s father.
My perspective continues to shift, making my brain hurt with the effort of remembering who is who. Remembering me when it feels like I’m overwhelmed with the feelings and thoughts of the boy.
"Father!" I call, waving.
He waves from the courtyard, but I notice something in his mannerisms that strikes me as odd. A stiffness. An edge to his smile that feels wrong. I push the thought from my mind, writing it off because I know he sometimes comes back from the front lines distant for a few days. The death and constant war takes a toll on him, though he tries not to show it around us.
"Will he come to see you?" I ask my mother.
"Soon. He'll want to say hello to your siblings first. Saving the best for last," she adds with a wink and a smile.
I smile back, thinking how beautiful she is.
I bounce on my toes as I roam the room with the nervous energy of a small child. I want him to be proud that I waited here with Mother. I want him to see I had the patience not to rush through the castle to greet him first.