The Heiress
Nerkam
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Eyes fluttering open, I was greeted by the dance of orange flames casting their glow upon the ceiling. A sight that would normally soothe now only intensifies the throbbing in my head -a less than ideal start to what I assume was morning. But was it? The passage of time eluded me; had I succumbed to slumber for mere hours or the entirety of the day?
The blanket rustled against my skin as I turned towards the window, finding myself nestled in the familiar comfort of my bed. The curtains remained open, yet the world outside was veiled in darkness, the Palace lights failing to penetrate the night's shroud. We had arrived in daylight, which means my rest was either brief or a day had slipped unnoticed.
Which means I still have no idea how much time has passed.
Sitting up, I wrestled with tangled locks, my eyes searching in vain for a comb amidst the dimly lit chaos of my bedroom. It could be anywhere -lost among papers, buried in clothes, forgotten in another room. My hair quickly became an afterthought as I caught sight of Steven.
There he was, ensconced in an armchair by the fire, swathed in a thick blanket. Odd, considering the perpetual warmth of the South, the exact opposite of the snow-kissed lands of his home.
He appeared to be sleeping, a peaceful reprieve I was reluctant to disrupt. His world, I imagine, was not fraught with the perils that shadowed my steps, where a simple afternoon walk could spiral into a fight for survival. Drawing my knees to my chest, I watched him. His hair slicked back -a noticeable change. His features were obscured, but I could have sworn a smile played upon his lips. “I’m not sleeping,” he murmured, stirring from his feigned rest.
Steven’s feigned slumber in the armchair was a tender sight, his presence a silent vigil in the flickering firelight. “Then why are you crouching in that chair?” I asked, my voice a hushed murmur, betraying my concern.
His eyes snapped open, a weary smile gracing his features. “You’d rather wake up in bed next to some guy?” he teased, fatigue etched into his face softened by humour in his voice.
“I certainly wouldn’t complain,” I replied with a nonchalant shrug, getting up from the bed. The clothes I found myself in -a shirt emblazoned with a gold lion and loose pants- a stark reminder of the child I was no longer. “Excuse me,” I murmured, brushing past him, noting the change in his attire as well. The black sweater he now wore seemed more fitting, more ‘him’ than the formalities of before.
After a swift change into something more bearable, more ‘me’ -tight pants, a tank top, and a sweater- I returned, understanding his need for the blanket as a chill clung to my skin. In my hands, I carried the promise of warmth: two glasses and a bottle of golden liquid that caught the fire’s glow.
As I settled into the armchair opposite Steven, the bottle’s seal broke with a soft pop, releasing the scent of caramel and elusive fruit. “Maybe you shouldn’t drink alcohol,” he cautioned, his hand hesitating over the glass.
“Why? What did Katherine tell you?” I inquired, curiosity piqued, the glass resting lightly against my chin. Regardless of her warnings, the night called for a drink, and I intended to answer.
“Not much.” Steven’s attempt at deception was almost adorable, a bright contrast to the solemnity that had settled between us.
“You shouldn’t lie to the Immortals. They don’t take it well, you know?” His frown deepened, yet he remained silent, perhaps pondering the weight of my words.
Katherine’s influence lingered in the air, her penchant for lengthy admonitions and vivid storytelling a trait I found both exasperating and comforting. Her dedication to healing, a blend of magic and medicine, was unparalleled, yet I sensed a weariness in her methods, a longing for simpler times when stitches were just stitches, and rest was the best medicine.
“I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry,” I assured him, the whisky’s warmth spreading through me, a hint of pear lingering on my palate -a reminder of the western provinces and their bountiful orchards.
“I hope so,” he replied, his voice a quiet echo in the room. Silence resumed its watch as the fire consumed the wood, transforming it into a bed of embers. His sudden gratitude caught me off guard. “I should thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” I dismissed, but he pressed on, a playful accusation in his tone.
“Because you would do it for any damn pup with a nice smile?”
His words drew a laugh from me, a sound that felt foreign in the stillness. “So, Jonathan did stop by. I knew it!” The realisation dawned on me, a mix of annoyance and affection. He still sees me as his little girl, a notion I’m both ready and reluctant to dispel.
“Charming fellow,” he remarked dryly, a hint of sarcasm lacing his words. Jonathan, my father, has a reputation for being an acquired taste -rarely making a stellar first impression, or second, or even third. It takes patience to uncover the man beneath the brusque exterior. Fortunately, I inherited the more approachable side of the family.
“How well do you know him?” I probed, curious about the extent of their acquaintance.
“Not very well. Our paths have crossed a few times,” Steven replied, his hand supporting his chin. I noticed the signet ring on his finger, very similar to my own, yet I haven't paid any attention to it till now. The letter ‘S’ was etched elegantly, surrounded by delicate triangles symbolising Athran. A simple design, yet unmistakably his.
“Em didn't like him at first either,” I mused, my thoughts drifting back to our earlier conversation. My glass joined his mid air.
He reached for the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and frowned. “Em, as in Emmett?” his green eyes narrowed, a shadow of annoyance flickering across his face. “I'd almost forgotten how close you two are,” he muttered, his frown deepening at the sight of alcohol.
I had to remind myself that Steven's view of brother differed vastly from mine. To me, Emmett was an integral part of my life, his friendship and incessant banter irreplaceable. For Steven, Emmett was just a brother who occasionally graced the family table. It never occurred to me that Emmett rarely spoke of Steven; it was mutual silence.
“We haven't gotten along much for the last couple of years,” Steven confessed, a bit of regret in his voice.
“I figured as much,” I responded, averting my eyes. “He hardly ever mentions you, though he hardly ever shuts up.” Emmett's complaints about Steven were usually tied to their father -a topic I tended to tune out.
As the fire's glow dimmed, so did the light in Steven's eyes, casting them in shadow that seemed to reflect a sudden shift in his mood. “Funny, he talks about you all the time,” he said, his voice carrying an edge that bordered on anger.
“Sorry, I,” I began, but his laugh cut me off, surprising me with the swift return of his good humour. “It's not your fault we don't get along,” he assured me. “Forget about him for now. What I wanna know is what you said before you passed out.”
His directness was disarming, and I found myself drawn to it, perhaps more than I should be. “I'm not sure what I said,” I admitted, though I felt I should remember. His eyes were a riddle I couldn't solve, a vibrant green that seemed out of place compared to the hazel eyes of his brother and father.
“It was something in the old language,” he said. I'm getting a bit lost. I have no trouble speaking it -in fact, I prefer its complexity to modern imperial language- but it offers no clue to my fading memories. “It started with something like ‘ini’.”
“Inni?” he nodded, prompting me to continue. “Rest?” had I really spoken to him about rest in the old language, while losing blood? It seemed trivial, given the circumstances.
“I think I told you I don't know how it works, but I hope you just need some rest to… you know, not die?”
Understanding dawned on me, I couldn't help but laugh. He, like many others, held misconceptions about my Immortality, believing it was just a matter of simple rest and recuperation. “Inni sur Nirlawirn.” I said, watching as recognition sparked his eyes. “Rest does not belong to the Immortals,” I explained, it was an old adage and a bit of an inside joke. "Rest won’t change anything for us. There's always something to be done. And death isn't the answer."
“That dagger wouldn’t kill you,” he stated matter-of-factly, not seeking confirmation, yet I found myself nodding in silent agreement. “Your father mentioned that even if it did, it would be inconsequential.”
Jonathan’s words often echoed with a blend of wisdom and warning, his favourite being the caution against needless risks. “it does matter,” I countered, feeling the weight of my own mortality -or the lack thereof. “Sure, I’d return, but it would take a lot longer. And it would ruin my whole day.”
His curiosity was palpable. “You’d come back? Just like that?”
“It’s far from simple,” I whispered, leaning closer, sharing a secret with the shadows between us. “Immortality is bound by complex enchantments, but its essence is to defy death, isn’t it?”
I watched the gears turn in his head, the silent contemplation of immortality’s mystery. As he pondered, I poured more of the amber liquid into our glasses, yet my own remained untouched. Nausea was beginning to gnaw at me. Or perhaps it was his presence, the way my heart stumbled over itself with every glance into those verdant depths. His candidness within me -akin to vertigo, yet entirely distinct.
“You don’t age,” he observed, a statement rather than a question. I shook my head in response as he leaned forward, bridging the gap our chairs dictated. “How old are you?”
“Take a guess.” I challenged him, masking my surprise with a playful tone. His question was unexpected, a rarity that no one dared to ask outright.
He reclined with ease, arms open in an inviting gesture, beckoning me to join him. Wordlessly, I complied, drawn by the curiosity and warmth that radiated from his proximity. He studied me intently, taking in every detail -the unruly strands of my hair, the deep pools of my dark eyes that seemed to absorb the scant light, the pallor of my skin that defied the sun-kissed norm of the South. Even the sweater that enveloped my weary form caught his attention, his touch igniting a trail of heat on my skin.
“You have no idea,” I chuckled, his breath a warm whisper laced with the scent of whiskey. It was intoxicating.
“Quiet, I’m thinking,” he murmured, his grip firm yet gentle. His determination was endearing; he knew so little of me, yet he was unwilling to concede. My age was a close-guarded secret, absent from any tome or record, leaving him with nothing but conjecture. “Twenty-five,” he ventured after a moment.
“Twenty-four, actually,” I corrected, a hint of honesty in my voice that I seldom allowed. “But that’s not really what you’re asking, is it?”
He laughed off the misstep, his features setting into a look of resolve. “My father is older,” he mused aloud, “but both Emmett and Luke are younger.”
“You could guess for ages that way,” I teased, reaching for my drink. His hand held fast, preventing me. I turned back, encircling his neck with my arms.
“Just answer, please,” he implored, a feigned annoyance in his voice belied by the smile on his lips.
“Edgar is indeed older, and your brothers are younger,” I affirmed, locking eyes with him, the green of his gaze alight with curiosity. “Do you want to know how much?”
“No, that would be too easy and no fun,” he replied, amusement evident as I rolled my eyes in mock exasperation. “I’ve narrowed it down to about three hundred years in two questions.”
“A vast expanse of time, indeed.” I acknowledged.
“The second rebellion on Aet’Reon. Were you there?” he asked, his voice a blend of awe and inquiry.
Without a word, I rose and took off my sweater, offering it to him. The air, briefly scented with lotus, gave way to the lingering aroma of cedar. His gaze followed me intently as I lifted my shirt, revealing a fresh, pink scar still tender from recent bleeding. Yet, it wasn’t the mark I intended to show. Below it lay an older, nearly vanished scar -a silent testament to a past encounter. His thumb traced the ‘Z’ etched into my skin, a mystery even to me. All I knew was that it marked the end I once met. As if on cue, the old scar vanished, with the new one set to follow. Releasing the cloth, his hands intervened, gently kissing the healing wound. Each one was a warm puzzle that thawed my chilled skin and stirred my entire being.
In a swift motion, he stood and drew me in with an urgency that spoke volumes. Since our first encounter, the thought of him had consumed me -his electrifying touch, his scent, and those fucking eyes. Now, enveloped in his embrace, his lips meeting mine, I laid bare a desire that eclipsed all before him. A desire that frightened me.
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Shifting on the bed, I relished the cool caress of the sheets. Steven lay beside me, eyes shut, possibly awake. He seemed too restless for sleep, much like myself, unwilling to squander precious moments that could be filled with excitement. A blanket lay across his legs, and for a moment, I watched the tranquil rise and chest of his chest -a mesmerising sight. As I reached out, he caught my hand, guiding it to rest over his heart. Its steady rhythm was a stark contrast to the fluttering of my own -a calmness I usually embodied, now elusive in his presence. He had an uncanny ability to unsettle me, leaving me breathless with anticipation for his next words, his next move. His green eyes, enchanting smile, and deliberate gestures were now joined by his tender touches and kisses.
I had hoped his proximity would soothe me, yet it only heightened my senses. My focus scattered, thoughts of duty and danger intruding. I knew I should get up, act, do something -anything. An unknown threat loomed over us, one that had already targeted my soldiers. The questions of ‘why’ and ‘who’ echoed in my mind, demanding answers.
Lying on my back, hands cradled behind my head, I pondered his silence. He had stayed through the night, peppering me with questions, yet never the ones that mattered. Did he not care about the events that led us there? His familiarity with Alryne surpassed mine; he must have been as startled by the attack at the city gates as I was. Yet, he remained mute on the subject. Could it be that they already held the answers?
“Have you given any thought to yesterday’s events?” I ventured.
“Should I?” His feigned surprise irked me. “Jonathan dragged me back there, but beyond the corpses, there was nothing. He seemed unfazed, claiming they were merely undead.”
“Right,” I muttered, scepticism lacing my tone. The noble Duke of Parlasse wouldn’t bother for mere undead. Steven’s disbelief mirrored my own.
“It’s not my concern,” he mused, “unless you’re suggesting we push the envelope or involve my father.”
How could it not concern him? His life had been at risk. “Edgar is already aware.”
“If that were true, he’d be here by now,” Steven retorted, eyes still shut -a gesture I found maddening. All I could see with closed eyes was him. “He’s preoccupied with his little experiments.” If Jonathan hadn’t informed him, then secrecy was his desire. A notion I despised, though Steven seemed content.
Turning to face him, I pushed aside thoughts of duty. My affection for Steven was undeniable. Why not indulge in the morning’s embrace, just the two of us? Eternity awaited my attention to the country’s affairs, but Steven’s time was finite. “Did you explore the Palace?”
“Only a trivial section. I understand your aversion to Alryne. It has a peculiar charm, and not all is gilded,” he chuckled, running fingers through his hair before facing me. “Growing up here must have been intriguing.”
“I hardly grew up in Nerkam. The city and Palace were reduced to ashes when I was seven or eight.” I replied. His frown deepened -a silent calculation, perhaps?
The capitol’s inferno is etched into our history as “The Morning of the Sunset,” a calamity so vast not even the Second Heir could obscure it. The blaze began here, a few floors below, devouring an entire wing before leaping to the city. The Palace to city span should have been a barrier, yet the fire bridged it effortlessly. By dawn, the city was choked in ash, the sun’s rise obscured by smoke, and the empire’s heart lay in ruins.
The cause of the fire remains a topic of debate, its origin as elusive as the flames were inextinguishable. There is one who knows the truth, but I’ve never dared to ask, sparing him -and myself- from the pain of those memories. In the ashes of Nerkam, my father’s world was lost, a world Jonathan strives to resurrect, a world I’ve never truly known.
“Do you remember the fire?” he inquired, my mind wandering back.
“I was in the library. There was an eerie silence, then sudden chaos.” The library was a hub of life and still is, but I can’t recall a single soul present that day. “In an instant, everything was ablaze.”
“The fire originated in the library, didn’t it?” His voice was captious, his body tense.
“I didn’t do it,”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You considered it,” I countered. It’s a logical assumption. A child might accidentally ignite a book, but such a small act couldn’t lead to this catastrophe. “The fire was feral, indiscriminate. It didn’t spread -it erupted. Flames replaced books on shelves, the ground seemed to burn. It was as if the air itself was alight. I stood encircled by a barrier I had drawn for protection. Then Marcus appeared, sweeping me up and leaping through the stained glass window. Outside, the Palace was a silhouette against the smoke, the citadel’s golden roof melting away before collapsing under the inferno’s wrath. The loudest sound I’ve ever heard marked the end of it all, and Marcus carried me away from the devastation.”
“It must have been terrifying, a little girl amidst such destruction,” he said, aghast.
“I wasn’t scared… Odd, isn’t it? The memory is so surreal, that I’m not even sure I remember it correctly. Jonathan, usually so protective, was absent that day, consumed by rage. He ensured my safety and departed. I stayed with Marcus for days. And you can’t be too scared when your guardian is a towering fortress of muscle,” I chuckled. It was an odd time. Shouldn’t parents be frantic over a child nearly perishing in flames?
“Marcus, the towering blond?” I confirmed with a nod. Marcus, Jonathan’s trusted confidant -though ‘friend’ is his preferred term. “I’ve seen him downstairs, likely awaiting the medic, Katherine.”
“He better,” I said, amused by his puzzled look. “Katherine is his wife.”
“He’s married?” Steven’s surprise was genuine, I merely shrugged.
Our conversation was delightful, but I yearned to continue it elsewhere. Dawn’s first light kissed the Palace walls, turning them to gold. I eagerly awaited the completion of the second wing, my future sanctuary where sunlight wouldn’t merely reflect but reside. The family library and laboratory awaited on the other side, yet despite their readiness, I hesitated to make the move. To unpack and settle felt like a commitment too grand.
“Where did you grow up?” he asked, breaking my reverie.
“What?” I was momentarily lost.
“If not here, where did you grow up?” he repeated, his smile disarming, those green eyes captivating. Beneath the light blanket, warmth spread through me, his gaze making concentration a challenge.
“To the east,” I gestured vaguely towards the bathroom door, “there’s a grand house with a fountain gracing the entrance and a lion’s head above the doorway.”
“The Hale family estate,” he recognized. “But now, you reside here, correct?”
I positioned myself on his lap, reminiscent of the moments before we retired to bed. My fingers traced his abdomen, cold to the touch until he covered them in his warmth. My heart raced yet again. “Do you always ask so many questions?”
“I’m just trying to get to know you,” he replied, thumb caressing my hand. “It’s rare for commoners to be so close to the Heirs.”
“That largely depends on the specific Heir in question,” I mused. Jonathan was no stranger to the company, and my beloved uncles, well… “Besides, you’re hardly common.”
He raised his hand, the ring on his finger catching the light. “So, would I stand a chance without this particular adornment?”
“Your lineage doesn’t matter. It’s those eyes that saved you, Steeles.”
“Thanks, makes me feel so special…” His gaze drifted to the windows, a tingle of melancholy in his voice. “I’m really glad you’re okay,”
“Don’t even start,” I cut him off, unwilling to let the morning’s light fade. “You wish to understand me? Very well. After breakfast, we’ll head to the training grounds. I’ll show you I know what I’m doing with my life.”
“You’re challenging me to a duel?” His grip tightened, next thing I knew I was beneath him, our noses nearly touching. I would have kissed him if I weren’t pinned down.
“Unless you’re scared.” I teased.
The sun was yet to fully rise, but the clanging of steel and cacophony of voices from training grounds were unmistakable. Above all, the commander’s booming voice dominated the air. Poor soul, whoever he’s berating. Hamilton, a seasoned leader, had a penchant for shouting that grated on my nerves. I preferred the tranquillity that my family embraced.
“We’ll have an audience,” I noted, releasing his hand and hastening my steps. The grounds were bathed in light, revealing the exhausted faces of the men. Hamilton was unyielding in his training regimen. Michael and Lukas sparred fiercely, while Kaleb, Yess, and Cayden, less fatigued, greeted me with laughter and waves. That’s when Hamilton caught sight of me.
“Aren’t you up early?” His grey eyes flickered with a mix of disdain and respect. It took him a moment to notice I wasn’t alone. “Your Majesty?”
“People seem overly concerned with my whereabouts and waking hours,” I retorted dryly. “I need this place. Gather them.”
At my command, Hamilton rallied the men into formation. He stood out in his complete uniform, a bright contrast to the others who were dressed for rigorous training. They hardly resembled the royal guard.
“Gentlemen, I apologise for the interruption,” I addressed them with a commanding tone. “His Royal Highness, the Heir to the Throne of Athran, and so forth,” I glanced at Steven, curious about his reaction to my beautiful introduction. He offered a wry chuckle. “requires a moment of clarity on these grounds. Right now.” The soldiers saluted in response.
“Just for the record, I don’t need any clarification,” Steven muttered under his breath.
“Of course not,” I said, looking over at my man. “I’ll need two swords.”
“You need just one.” Steven retorted, vaulting over the railing with a fluid grace, sword already in hand.
“Show-off,” I murmured, accepting Cayden’s sword and stepping onto the sandy arena. The guard's swords were uniform -blue steel bladers, light and stronger than traditional steel, each etched with golden triangles, the emblem of Light bestowed by my grandfather.
Steven wouldn't strike first; he had made that clear when setting rules at breakfast, forbidding magic and outside interference. He saw me as an equal, not an Heiress to be coddled. His stance was defensive, ready to disarm rather than engage.
With a smirk, I initiated the duel, my blade gliding over his in a swift arc, the clash of metal punctuating the morning air. I pressed on, varying my strikes, but he parried each effortlessly, refusing to counterattack. His agility was unexpected, surpassing even Emmett's, yet he left his flank exposed. Seizing the opportunity, I landed a flat strike to his side.
“Why are we doing this again?” He asked. I taunted, goading him into action. His response was immediate -a powerful strike that reverberated through my arm. “There are other thrilling pursuits that end with shower, you know.”
The truth was, I sought to uncover a flaw in him, a reason to quell the thoughts of his green eyes, his scent, his touch -anything to dissuade my heart. But as our swords danced in the morning light, I feared it was already too late to deny my feelings for another Steeles.
The clash of our swords crescendoed into a symphony of steel, each strike more fervent than the last. I refused to yield, leaping back in a series of somersaults, gaining the distance I needed. Whirling around, I unleashed a rapid assault, my blade meeting his with a resounding clang that echoed through the training grounds.
The blue steel in our hands was renowned for its shock absorption, yet the vibrations still sent a shiver through my grip. Steven retreated, and for a moment, we both paused, assessing. The next exchange would be decisive. Our swords met again with a thunderous crash, my fingers quivering from the impact. I knew that, with one more strike like that, my weapon would fly from my hands.
Steven’s eyes narrowed, a silent acknowledgement of the impending endgame. I braced myself to dodge, but his gaze betrayed his intent -a horizontal slash. Dropping to my knees, I plunged them into the sand, bending low. His blade whistled overhead, missing its mark, while mine halted at his chest.
Steven gasped as he released his sword, extending his arms in a gesture of camaraderie amidst the cheers and applause of the onlookers. “Well fought,” he offered, helping me to my feet. His sweat mingled with mine, his breath as rapid as my own, and those green eyes sparkled with an intensity that left me breathless.
“Now would be the perfect time for that shower, don’t you think?” I whispered, a hint of mischief in my voice. He responded with a soft kiss on my cheek.
“Perhaps later. Jonathan’s coming.” he chuckled, his hold on me unwavering.
“Does he seem angry?” I asked, reluctant to witness his reaction firsthand.
“Annoyed,” Steven replied, a term often misattributed to Jonathan’s stoic demeanour.
I drew him closer to a kiss, surrendering to the connection between us. “Do me a favour. Go and talk to Ed, tell him about yesterday. It’s the best he hears it now and from you.”
Steven bit his lip in agreement, a gesture that didn't escape my notice. I despise the little lies that weave their way into our lives, complicating everything. Releasing him, I watched as he disappeared from my sight. Time to face reality.
Approaching the group by the wooden railing, I observed Cayden animatedly explaining something, his hands punctuating every word. I handed back his sword without delving into the reason behind his fervent gestures. My attention was drawn to Jonathan and Deacon, deep in conversation.
As I joined them, they fell silent -a typical reaction. Jonathan enveloped me in a tobacco-scented hug, a scent that always brought back memories of him by the fireplace, engrossed in a book with a cigar in hand. If it weren't for immortality, smoking would have claimed him long ago. Hamilton just bowed, resuming his commands in a stern voice.
“Good to see you on your feet,” Jonathan remarked, his hands resting on my shoulders, his gaze intense. “You do realise there's a world beyond Edgar's sons, right?” his grip on my chin forced me to meet his eyes, a gesture I've always loathed.
“Thanks for the insight, Jon,” I replied with heavy sarcasm, pulling away from his hold.
“Mind you tone,” he warned me, his dislike for sarcasm evident. He motioned for me to accompany him back to the Palace. “Steven is not like Emmett.”
“No one is, that's the point.” I retorted, unable to resist the sarcasm despite his disapproving look. “Oh, for the love of the Light, I'm sorry,” I added quickly.
“I just want you to consider your actions. Everything has consequences, and my concern extends beyond you,” he said, his smile emerging for the first time. “Besides, he might be too young for you.”
“Is that why you're here? To tell me I'm old?” I couldn't help but laugh, and to my surprise, he joined in.
“I worry you might hurt yourself. You have a knack for it, Anie.” it's moments like this that remind me to visit him more often. “But that's not the only reason I'm here.”
“Why then?”
Jonathan halted on the white hexagon path, his voice heavy with concern. “I've cleaned your sword,” he began, the weight of his words hanging between us. “The first fucking this I told you,”
“Nothing happened,” I interjected, eager to dismiss his worries.
He signed, the frustration evident in his tone. “You returned with your own dagger embedded in you. Can you imagine the shock of discovering that? And to learn you entrusted your sword to another? It's reckless.”
I reached for my sword, my thoughts drifting to Steven. I hadn't even considered the black substance on the blade until now. “What was the black thing on the blade?” I asked, a sense of unease creeping in.
“Just dried blood,” he replied, his patience thinning. He removed his coat and presented my sword, the reluctance clear in his gesture. I grasped the hilt, feeling the familiar weight of the weapon in my hand. It was immaculate, restored to perfection. “It couldn't be blood,” I murmured, more to myself than to him.
“Why couldn't it be?” he questioned, his voice steady and calm, challenging my certainty.
I hesitated, my confidence faltering. Had I remembered it all correctly? “Did you have time to look around during your play on the heroine?” he pressed, his words hinting at a truth he seemed intent on shielding me from.
“I had enough time.” I insisted, though doubt gnawed at me.
“Andrea, I've checked everything there. Let it go,” he commanded, not as a suggestion, but as an order. I nodded, though every fibre of my being resisted. Arguing with him would be futile.
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