Raven's POV
I was late.
Not by much—just enough for the weight of it to settle in my chest like a stone. The palace loomed in the distance, its white stone façade gleaming under the midday sun, a beacon of opulence and power. Yet, with every step, I moved slowly, deliberately. I had the strength to hasten my pace, to arrive sooner if I wished, but my body was not the issue; my mind was in a different realm, tangled in shadows.
The orphanage was far behind me now, its familiar walls a distant memory, swallowed by the labyrinthine streets of the capital. I had opted for the walk over a carriage ride, despite the distance stretching before me like a yawning chasm. I craved the time alone, the silence that wrapped around me like a comforting shroud, and the illusion of control that came from propelling myself forward, however slowly.
My head was heavy, burdened by the remnants of sleeplessness. The night had been a relentless cycle of tossing and turning, where sleep eluded me like a ghost just out of reach. Every time I dared to close my eyes, the same haunting images clawed their way back to the surface, refusing to let me find solace.
With a slow, deliberate exhale, I continued on, my feet rhythmically striking the cobblestone beneath me.
The city was alive around me, vibrant and chaotic, in a way that felt almost cruel. The marketplace thrived at its zenith, a cacophony of overlapping voices, merchants vying for attention with their shouts of prices, and laughter bubbling forth from clusters of children darting through the throng. The air was saturated with the tantalizing aromas of freshly baked bread mingling with the sharpness of spices. As I brushed past a vendor carrying a bouquet of flowers, their fleeting fragrance briefly lifted my spirits before dissipating into the bustling atmosphere.
Life moved on.
It always did.
I slipped through the crowd like a shadow—present yet separate, an observer in a world that spun on without me.
"You look miserable," Morivaine's voice purred within my mind, silky yet edged with an unsettling sharpness. "Why didn't you stay home and rest?"
I didn't falter in my stride.
"I can't sleep," I replied silently, the words echoing in the recesses of my thoughts. "And being alone with nothing but my nightmares only gives them more space to breathe."
I adjusted the strap of my sword across my back, the familiar weight a grounding reminder of my purpose, a tether to the reality I was trying to navigate.
There was a moment of silence, a stillness in our exchange.
Then, unexpectedly, Morivaine's tone softened. "Try not to push yourself too far. I would prefer it if you didn't collapse in the middle of the street."
A small laugh almost escaped my lips, a fleeting moment of amusement in an otherwise heavy day.
A smirk tugged at my mouth. "Are you worried about me, or am I just imagining things?" I teased, the words laced with sarcasm.
Her presence shifted, a gentle ripple in the fabric of my consciousness, like a shadow stretching lazily in the sun.
"Of course I'm worried," she replied smoothly, the depths of her concern apparent. "You are my vessel. If something happens to you, it affects me as well."
"Right," I muttered, rolling my eyes "I completely believe that."
Her laughter echoed softly in my skull, a sound both amused and unbothered by my skepticism.
I resumed my walk, my pace unyielding.
As I approached the upper districts, the streets widened, the noise softened into a distant hum, and the throng of people thinned. The air felt cleaner, cooler against my skin. With each step towards the palace gates, I instinctively slowed, as if the imposing structure held some gravitational pull that demanded reverence.
I didn't rush.
I was already tired, the weight of the day pressing down on me like an anchor, but I couldn't allow myself to falter—not yet.
The morning's events replayed in my mind like an unwelcome specter, haunting the corners of my thoughts. The long table had been set with an array of opulent dishes, the air thick with the mingling scents of roasted meats and sweet pastries. Polite smiles adorned the faces of the gathered nobles, but beneath those practiced expressions lay a weighty expectation—a gaze that felt as heavy as armor.
Then there was Lord Aldren's offer, delivered with the smoothness of silk yet carrying the weight of iron chains.
"A personal knight," he had proclaimed, his voice dripping with promise. "Status, wealth, power."
The allure of such a position was undeniable, shimmering like a mirage in the desert. Yet I had refused without a second thought, my voice steady as I turned him down. It wasn't that the offer didn't tempt me; it was precisely because it did. I knew all too well the invisible chains that came with such gifts. Expectations would wrap around me, ownership would seep in, and control would be the price I paid for my freedom.
I had no interest in trading one cage for another.
My thoughts shifted to the orphanage. The children needed me. Their laughter, their innocent dreams, and their unwavering trust were all that mattered. I couldn't abandon them now not yet . , not when I hadn't yet found the spell .
Still, a faint image surfaced unbidden, a ghost of a memory that tugged at my heart.
Silver hair that glinted like moonlight, soft eyes that held the weight of unspoken words, a hand pressed nervously to her chest.
Lyria.
A frown creased my brow as I recalled her demeanor during breakfast. She had looked… tense, more subdued than I had ever seen her. Her gaze had lingered on me, searching, only to dart away the moment our eyes met. What was brewing beneath her calm façade? Had something gone awry?
I shook my head, attempting to dispel the thoughts swirling within. I was overthinking, as I often did. The princess had her own duties, expectations, and pressures that I couldn't fully comprehend. If she had seemed distracted, it was likely due to the politics swirling around her—noble families scheming and maneuvering for power, a world far beyond my concern.
I wasn't meant to linger in her thoughts.
As I approached the palace gates, the familiar sight of the grand structure brought a sense of comfort. The guards recognized me immediately, stepping aside without question, their faces a blend of respect and familiarity. Inside, the well-trodden paths unfolded before me—courtyards bathed in sunlight, stone corridors echoing with history, and training grounds waiting just beyond the inner walls.
Rolling my shoulders subtly, I eased the stiffness from my muscles, bracing myself for what lay ahead. Today's training with Lyria would demand my utmost focus.
She had been improving remarkably fast—perhaps too fast for someone of her stature. Her movements were still hesitant, a delicate dance of uncertainty, yet her determination shone bright. She wasn't learning for the sake of praise; she yearned for strength, the kind that would allow her to stand tall amidst the chaos around her.
I respected that.
And for reasons I dared not examine too closely, I didn't want to disappoint her.
Taking a deep breath, I exhaled slowly, steadying my resolve. Focus, I reminded myself. Just another training session. Nothing more.
As I stepped deeper into the palace grounds, sunlight spilled across the stone beneath my feet, illuminating the path ahead. I pushed the remnants of exhaustion aside, straightening my posture with a newfound determination. Whatever shadows the night had cast upon me, I would not let them show. Not today. Not in front of her.
The training yard was already awake when I arrived, vibrant in the early light. Sunlight spilled across the stone ground in pale gold streaks, warming the chill that lingered from the night. The air was thick with the familiar scents of dust and iron—a grounding reminder of what I was about to undertake.
I spotted them immediately.
Princess Lyria stood at the center of the training yard, wooden sword gripped firmly in both hands. Her stance was cautious yet ready, an embodiment of the determination I had come to admire in her. She wore simple training clothes that allowed for freedom of movement, her hair tied back in a practical braid, though a few loose strands danced in the gentle breeze, catching the light like spun silver.
Beside her, Kara stretched lazily, her posture relaxed in a way that only someone with true confidence could manage. She was the kind of friend who radiated energy, and her easy demeanor was a stark contrast to the tension I felt creeping into the air.
And off to the side—
The younger princess sat quietly on a stone bench, her feet dangling just above the ground, hands folded neatly in her lap. She watched the scene unfold in silence, her large eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.
For a heartbeat, I didn't move.
I drew in a slow breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle around me like a cloak. I forced my shoulders to relax, reminding myself that I needed to be the steady presence they both relied upon.
Get yourself together, I told myself firmly.
I squared my shoulders and walked toward them, each step measured, my expression calm and composed. When I reached their side, I allowed myself a small, apologetic smile, hoping to ease the tension that had gathered in my chest.
"I'm sorry I'm late," I said lightly, trying to infuse my voice with a casual ease. "I had something to take care of before coming."
Before I could say anything else, Kara stepped forward and slapped my shoulder with a force that was far more than necessary, her grin wide and infectious.
"Relax," she said loudly, her voice bright and cheerful. "You're barely late. Everything's fine."
She turned away almost immediately, heading toward the weapon rack to retrieve her own wooden sword, as if the matter were already settled and my lateness a triviality.
But Lyria didn't move.
She was watching me with an intensity that made my heart quicken. Not openly—no, she tried to hide it beneath a façade of calm. But her eyes lingered on my face, searching, studying me as if she were trying to decipher a puzzle.
I frowned slightly, concern flaring within me.
"Princess," I said gently, my tone softening. "Are you all right?"
She blinked, seemingly pulled from her thoughts, her expression shifting from contemplation to something more vulnerable.
"You seem… quiet," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. "You've looked sad since this morning. Are you feeling unwell?"
For a heartbeat, she said nothing, the silence stretching between us like a taut string.
Then she stepped closer.
Too close.
Her hand lifted hesitantly, fingers brushing against the fabric of my shirt. She caught the edge of it between two fingers, as if afraid I might vanish if she didn't hold on tight enough.
Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke. "I should be asking you that. You look tired. Pale."
She lifted her gaze to meet mine fully now, her eyes searching mine without hesitation, as if trying to unravel the secrets I kept hidden.
"Are you all right, Raven?"
In that moment, I froze.
Not outwardly—no, I maintained my composure on the surface. But inside, a storm of emotions swirled, the familiar instinct to guard my feelings rising like a tide.
Morivaine's voice slipped into my mind, amused and sharp, cutting through my internal turmoil.
It seems you're not as good at hiding things from her as you think, she murmured, her tone laced with a teasing note. How endearing. She noticed immediately.
I ignored her, focusing instead on Lyria's earnest expression—too sincere, too worried. There was a tension in her demeanor that didn't belong to someone who had slept peacefully.
I forced a smile, a small, controlled gesture meant to reassure her.
"I'm fine," I said softly, even though I knew it didn't reach my eyes.
But Lyria didn't let go.
"No," she said, her tone firmer now, infused with determination. "You're not. I can tell. You're clearly not fine."
Her fingers tightened slightly on my shirt, a silent plea for honesty.
"Please," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "Talk to me."
For a fleeting moment, I almost surrendered to her request. Almost.
Then the familiar instinct rose within me—automatic, practiced.
Deflect. Redirect. Move forward.
"I didn't sleep very well," I said calmly, forcing a note of nonchalance into my tone. "That's all. Nothing serious."
I gently eased back, creating a small distance between us, hoping to deflect her concern.
"If you're ready," I added, keeping my tone neutral, "we can begin training."
Her lips parted, as if she wanted to argue, to press for more answers.
But then she nodded.
Silently.
She stepped away and took her place beside Kara, gripping her wooden sword more tightly than before, a flicker of determination igniting in her eyes.
I exhaled slowly, relief and frustration mingling within me.
Well handled, Morivaine commented dryly. Avoidance suits you.
I didn't respond, choosing instead to turn my attention toward the younger princess.
She was still sitting quietly on the stone bench, her eyes lowered, shoulders slightly hunched in a posture that screamed vulnerability. I picked up a wooden sword from the rack nearby, setting my real blade aside deliberately, making sure she saw the gesture.
Crouching slightly, I positioned myself so I wouldn't tower over her, my voice gentle and inviting.
"Are you here to watch your sister train?" I asked softly.
No answer came.
Her eyes remained fixed on the ground, the weight of unspoken thoughts heavy in the air.
I tried again, softening my tone further, willing her to feel safe. "If you'd like to join us, you're welcome. We train here every day, at the same time."
For a moment, her eyes flicked up, a glimmer of hope sparking within them, widening just a little.
But still, she didn't speak.
I smiled faintly, my heart aching for her as I carefully reached out, resting my hand lightly on her head. My movements were slow, deliberate, a gesture meant to convey warmth and safety.
"I won't force you," I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper, hoping to reassure her.
Straightening again, I turned away, sensing her gaze linger on my back, a silent connection that spoke volumes.
She's still afraid of you, I thought, the realization settling heavily in my chest. And perhaps she has reason to be.
I returned to the center of the training yard, the wooden sword gripped firmly in my hand, its familiar weight grounding me as I faced Lyria and Kara. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that often accompanied the beginning of a training session.
"Let's begin," I said calmly, my voice steady despite the turbulence I felt brewing within.
As I took my stance, a sense of focus washed over me, but then it hit me again—
That subtle pull.
Lyria's eyes were on me, a gaze that felt different this time. It wasn't just the usual scrutiny of a student eager to learn; there was something deeper, something heavier lingering in her expression.
A vulnerability.
Something fragile that seemed to hover in the space between us, a delicate thread woven from unspoken thoughts and emotions that I couldn't quite grasp. It was as if she were reaching out to me without words, her eyes searching for something beyond the physical—an understanding, perhaps, or a connection that both intrigued and unnerved me.
And for reasons I didn't yet comprehend, the weight of it unsettled me more than any nightmare ever had. It was a disquiet that wormed its way into my chest, twisting and turning until I felt the urge to look away, to dismiss the intensity of her gaze as mere distraction.
But I couldn't.
Instead, I held my ground, forcing myself to meet her gaze fully, to confront whatever it was that lay behind those soft, searching eyes. I could sense Kara shifting slightly beside her, the tension in the air palpable as she too noticed the shift in atmosphere.
"Raven, are you ready?" Kara asked, her voice breaking through the heavy silence, light and teasing, trying to lighten the mood. But even her playful tone couldn't dissipate the gravity that lingered between Lyria and me.
I nodded, taking a deep breath to steady myself, attempting to shake off the unease that gnawed at my insides. "Yes. Let's start with the basics."
As I began to demonstrate the first stance, I could feel Lyria's gaze still fixed on me, a weight that wrapped around my heart like a vine. Her expression was a mix of determination and concern, and I couldn't help but wonder what thoughts were swirling in her mind.
Was she worried about me? Or was it something deeper, perhaps a reflection of her own struggles? The uncertainty gnawed at me, drawing my focus away from the training, and I fought to keep my thoughts anchored to the task at hand.
"Remember to balance your weight," I instructed, my voice steady, though my heart raced. "Keep your feet planted firmly on the ground."
Lyria nodded, but her eyes never wavered from mine. I could sense the unspoken questions lingering between us, a fragile thread connecting our thoughts and fears. It was almost as if she were waiting for me to share something—something that I wasn't ready to reveal, even to myself.
As we continued, I felt the tension in the air shift, a dance of vulnerability and strength that left me feeling exposed. Each swing of my sword was accompanied by the weight of her gaze, forcing me to confront the emotions I had kept tightly locked away.
"Focus on your breathing," I urged, trying to redirect my own spiraling thoughts as I watched Lyria practice the movements I had shown her. She was improving, her form becoming more confident, but the fragility in her expression remained, a reminder of the weight we both carried.
So I pushed through the discomfort, determined to guide her, to help her find her own strength even as I struggled to find mine.
"Let's try again," I said, my voice firm yet gentle, urging us both to move forward, to break the chains of uncertainty that bound us.
As we trained, the sun hung high above us, casting golden rays across the yard, illuminating the space where our fears and hopes collided.