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Not once in my life did I have the right to choose what to wear. In a way, I’m not really choosing now either, but it’s all made for me, and I see a powerful woman in the mirror, someone who’ll fight for what she believes.
Yes, I’ll adapt.
I leave the bathing room and see Nelsin, who raises his eyebrows, lifting his top ears as well. It’s funny how I find them normal now.
“You look radiant, my lady.”
“More comfortable.” I don’t need any effort to smile.
Well, I can move, I can breathe, and it’s incredible to realize how important those things are.
The training in the afternoon goes much better, and I even get to use my sword. I’m still not sparring with it, but learning some basic movements. Nelsin says that it’s important to make it feel like an extension of my body and also strengthen my arms so that I don’t get tired when wielding it.
Tired is the last thing I’ll feel. I know it’s wrong, and it’s a stolen sword, but I can’t help it, I love it. I love the feeling that I can be in control, that I can attack, that I can be dangerous and powerful and not need to hide any of that. I mean, of course I’m still far from dangerous, but the thought that I can be any of that is freeing.
Exercising here, with the earth touching the soles of my feet, birds singing above me, the river and the enormity of the mountains around me, makes my heart swell. I know that this is not forever, this is not my life, but I can enjoy this moment, pretend that this is who I am.
I close my eyes and feel the sword, its weight, its balance. The sound of the river water and the wind relax me and remind me to let my body flow. I can definitely feel the sword, and the movements I just learned slowly become my own, become natural.
I can even sense Nelsin approaching me. No, not Nelsin.
I open my eyes and realize it’s Marlak—much farther than I thought, staring at me. I don’t know if he’s puzzled, surprised, or what. I could think perhaps fascinated, but that’s my creative mind seeing things for no reason.
Either way, I barely get a glimpse of his expression, because as soon as he notices I see him, he looks away and walks inside. I’m guessing he’s too royal for a simple hello.
At night, I read the history of the Crystal Court. So far, nothing’s majorly different from what I learned. I do eye the book with the Tiurian history, but that topic always hurts too much.
I don’t know if I’m prepared to open that wound, that odd wound that never heals and yet hides itself so well. I like it like that, where I can’t feel it.
When I open my eyes this time, there are no awkward or embarrassing memories of strange, food-fueled dreams. There are also no empty palaces or mentions of lost towers.
All I remember is him, on top of me, inside me, rolling slowly like the water in the river. Slowly, as if we had all the time in the world. Slowly, just because we wanted to extend that time as much as we could.
That was how I felt, and if I close my eyes I can still feel Marlak inside me, as if he didn’t belong anywhere else, as if two parts kept apart had been joined at last.
None of that is true, none of that is reality, and yet in these early hours of the morning when even the light is not quite up yet, it’s easy to get confused, it’s easy to even wish it was real.
No knocks on my door, no censure, and perhaps I can enjoy the dreams for what they are, for those moments of sweet illusion.
I get dressed and leave my room and almost stumble into Marlak, who’s leaving his as well.
Will he confront me?
His eyes travel down and up quickly in a disinterested stare. “Are you happy with your new clothes?” At least his voice is kind.
“They’re comfortable.” I don’t want to seem too grateful. After all, it was his choice to bring me here. And then again, he could have left me with the rough, tight dresses. “Thank you,” I add, and no piece of me falls out because I said that.
I know I need to gain his trust, but the trick is doing it without making him think I’m trying to seduce him.
He’s awfully quiet, though. Did he dream it too? Did he feel how close we were?
I’m starting to think that even if we share the same dreams, I’m the only one who feels them.
They must be dreadful if they are just some random sexy oddness without that deep connection. Then again, connection or not, I’m sure I would like to stop this craziness a lot more than even he does, but what can I do?
It’s just us in the kitchen this morning, and I can hear my steps on the floor in that silence. There’s bread, jelly, and fruit on the counter. I serve my plate while Marlak serves his, then I rush to the cabinet where he keeps the ice and the milk, meaning to take it, just to break our routine, but the door doesn’t move when I pull.
“The ice locks it,” he says, standing behind me.
