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After a century of being forced to lay with Solaris, she found it difficult to find joy in anything these days, and not even the abrasive tension in Mira’s tone was enough to trigger fear.
“I imagine Lady Levina is disappointed, as am I, Lord Solaris,” Mira said. “Would you imagine why that is?”
Solaris shifted his stance, sending a waft of spices, like fire-roasted wood shavings and clove, up Naia’s nose. His scent had changed since earning his new title as High God of Fire. She could not muster up enough sentiment to miss his old, familiar lemongrass one.
“Lady Mira, as you’ve seen with your own eyes, Naia and I are doing precisely what you and my mother asked of us. I believe the reason Naia is not with child yet is due to her being sterile.”
Naia wasn’t sure if she was more upset over hearing him refer to her as if she was not standing beside him, or how it had been the first time in decades she’d heard him speak her name.
Every night was the same. Impersonal as they could make it. Raksa escorted him into her bedchamber and stood in the corner and watched.
Some nights, Solaris downed a draught to perform. Her bed was off limits. She did not wish to demolish the safety of which it provided. Only her loneliness was burdensome and she was willing to accept any form of closeness handed to her.
During their encounters against her wall, she indulged in the feeling of his hands and lips on her.
Afterwards, once he’d leave, she’d clean herself up and pray to the High Goddess of Fate.
It seemed Lady Ruelle answered her prayer.
“Gods are not born imperfectly,” Mira replied.
“Then, perhaps it is Lady Ruelle’s doing,” Solaris said.
Naia noticed the minor change in Mira’s marble-slate eyes, like water freezing. The prospect of Naia’s pregnancy had been a bead of hope for her. And now, it was gone.
A bitter laugh scuffed up Naia’s throat.
Mira and Solaris both spun their heads to look at her.
Naia wasn’t sure where her burst of careless courage came from. After the last century of stretching herself emotionally thin, perhaps. Or dissociating night after night with Solaris thrusting inside of her, disgusted with herself for being too fearful of the consequences awaiting her if she said no. Detaching from herself, too exhausted to sort out her feelings. Avoiding them was the easier solution. A solution that only worked for so long—until Naia mentally broke down on Gianna for forgetting to bring her favorite marmalade for breakfast.
The servant was always sweet and apologetic, and most certainly did not deserve to be the outlet for Naia’s outbursts.
She learned to plan her emotional breakdowns then, with a clay jar of wine and isolating herself deep in the jungle away from the palace grounds. She discovered a waterhole, and it quickly became her place of seclusion. Drunkenly stumbling into the water, staining her skin starlight silver. It was her weekly therapeutic purging. Though it did nothing to lighten the depression latching onto her like a toxic shadow.
“It’s quite genius on Lord Cassian’s part,” Naia said to Mira. The pit of her stomach swirled, but she continued anyway. “He assumed you would attempt to defy the laws of his curse, in which he struck a deal with the High Goddess of Fate to give you a sterile daughter.”
Solaris’s mouth fell open, gaping at her. “Naia?—”
“Now that I am of no use to you until my eight-hundredth year”—Naia kept her chin elevated, unafraid—“I wish to explore outside of Kaimana.”
Mira laughed.
Naia paled. She had never heard such a vivacious, sinister sound come from Mira.
“You wish to leave my kingdom?” Mira’s malevolent smile aimed down at Naia, her furious power radiating off her like tidal waves.
Instinct had Naia bending her knees to beseech forgiveness, but she locked them before they gave in. “Yes.”
Mira remained unblinking, with a glare potent enough to evaporate the oxygen in the room.
Naia’s lungs constricted, and she brought her hands up to her throat, remembering the scraping of seaberry wine.
“My eldest daughter,” Mira said, “if I must suffer in this cage, then you will suffer in it with me.”
In Naia’s four hundredth year, Finnian was born.
The moment her father passed the little ball of black hair and bright green eyes to her arms, some of her internal, dreary fog lifted. Rays of sunlight sneaking through the darkness. Hope reappeared within her. Getting out of bed became easier, as if she had shed some of the rotted skin clinging to her.
