Desi would have to know something. She spent all hours of the day surrounded by people whose only source of relief from their mistreatment was to gossip and concoct assassination plans that would never come to fruition. In a time like this, in this moment of ill-advised curiosity, the servants would be her friends. Accomplices, even.
When she finally approached her room door, one of the servants lifted their heads. She was a young girl, maybe ten years younger than herself, with large brown eyes and red ringlets that were tied away from her face with what looked to be an old rag. Nymiria smiled, but the girl’s terrified expression didn’t ease. She merely stared at her with the same look of fear that everyone else did.
That familiar pain dug into Nymiria’s chest, the sinking feeling that came with their rejection. “Hello, my name is Nymiria.” The girl’s back straightened, her eyes darting from door to door in search of something or… someone that could save her. “I’m not going to harm you, you know? You shouldn’t believe every story you hear.”
She watched as the girl wet her dry, cracking lips. “I know you.” The girl stated lowly, resuming her folding of the purple satin sheets that were one of Nymiria’s favorites. “I’m Phyona.”
Nymiria’s smile faltered. It was a wonder she hadn’t seen it before—the shape of those eyes, the dimpled chin. “You’re Owen’s sister.”
Phyona nodded, finally showing another emotion other than fear by giving her a sad smile. “I am.” Her voice was small and riddled with the sound of unhealed wounds. “He told me that you were good. I’m just… I wasn’t ready to talk to you.”
How could she blame her for that? She appreciated her honesty and Nymiria wasn’t too sure that she was ready to face anyone that loved Owen. But now, she couldn’t turn away.
“I know that it may be long overdue, but I am sorry for your loss.” The words didn’t even begin to describe what she wished to say—how she wished she could fall at that young girl’s feet and beg for forgiveness. But no one knew how Owen died. It was believed he’d killed himself in an undisclosed location. If Phyona knew that Nymiria was the one holding that blade…
She shook the thought from her mind and offered another gentle smile, one filled with warmth and promise. Even if Phyona refused to help her, Nymiria would do everything in her power to ensure that the girl was taken care of. It was the least she could do. “Do you know Aziel, Phyona?” She asked in a low whisper.
Phyona’s eyes began dancing around the doors once again, her cheeks flushing with a soft pink. “I knowsomethings. The other servants speak of him conspiring against the king. It is believed that he is helping Mystics escape the camps.” Nymiria knew that much, but now she knew where the gossip had originated. If Phyona was caught speaking of this with anyone outside of her station, the punishments would be severe. Lashings or a proper stoning, depending on how murderous their king was feeling that day.
Nymiria glanced over her shoulder, checking to see if the others were still gone. Upon confirmation, she turned back to the girl. “What doyouthink, Phyona?”
“I think that he is conspiring against the king and funneling refugees into an unknown location.” Her eyes narrowed, flickering over Nymiria’s face. The girl spoke through gritted teeth next, her words sharp and precise. “He doesn’t deserve to die for what he is doing. His royal highness may believe that what Aziel is doing is deemed traitorous, but heishelping people. People likeyou—likehim.”
They stared at one another for a moment. Nymiria let Phyona’s words ruminate, as ominous as they were. They sounded more like a warning than mere fact. “Thank you, Phyona.” Nymiria gave the girl a small smile, extending a hand to pat her on the shoulder. About halfway to the girl’s body, Nymiria pulled her hand away and curled her fingers into a fist. With one final glance at the girl and her upturned eyes, Nymiria straightened herself and headed towards the door.
“You don’t have it, do you?” Phyona called out. Nymiria paused, her stomach tumbling. She didn’t have the courage to face her, but the desire to reach into the bodice of her gown and retrieve Owen’s final gift to her was stronger than ever. “I hope that you aren’t mad. I searched through your things and I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
Nymiria closed her eyes, forcing away the feeling of warm blood running through her fingers.
Its not real.
"I don’t.” Her words were harsher than she intended, but her jaw did not want to relax enough to soften her tone. She drew in a breath to ease the emotions coursing through her. “I’m sorry.”
Spending one more moment in Phyona’s presence would break her. Even if she wanted to tell the truth, she’d made a promise. The tíortha was still tucked close against her heart, warmed by her body and forever safe on her person. It belonged to Owen’s family, but the artifact had been given to her for good reason.
When Owen discovered her true lineage, it’d sparked something inside of him. He began concocting plans and doing research on gateways and keys to unlock them. Before his death, he’d discovered an old tíortha that his grandmother had said helped people jump from one realm to the next. Some believed that it was how the Yaarboroughs arrived on their continent, but the truth was that there were only three tíorthas in existence and Nymiria was in possession of one. The others were merely a myth. Only a story until proven to be factual.
There was no telling what hell Dorid would unleash upon that girl if it was discovered amongst her belongings. The gods only knew.
Nymiria walked the hall and kept straight, peering out of each arched window she passed until the light from the setting sun faded in the dimness of the stairwell that led up to the tower. She drew in a ragged breath and closed her eyes, hoping to ease the ache that came along with thinking of him. It didn’t help. Neither did the feeling of her glamour. The skin she wore felt like a corset tied too tight, or being cramped inside of a tight space without a single beacon of escape.
She ascended the stairs, moving out of the way of the servants that rushed past her. When she finally crested the landing of the tower, she paused.
He was outlined by the sun that filtered in through the deep purple and red stained glass, his gloved index and middle finger lazily holding a cigarette. His face was splotched with dried droplets of blood, already crusted and browning. One perfectly arched brow raised in her direction, a small smile forming at his lips as she took that final step onto the landing.
They observed one another closely. Nymiria with her arms hanging loosely at her sides and Aziel with one arm propped against the wall beside the lone window. Crows cawed in the distance.
An omen.
When the final servant left the tower after delivering the last bit of Nymiria’s belongings, Aziel tossed his cigarette to the floor and stomped it out with a simple twist of his booted foot. Her heart rate accelerated, her skin flushing at his sharp scrutiny as he sauntered towards her. Her brow furrowed, lips pursing when he paused mere inches away from her.
“Since we will be sharing this space, I would expect you to knock before you open any closed doors.” Aziel smirked. “You never know what nefarious things you’ll run into.”
Nymiria flashed him a wicked grin of her own, refusing to back down despite how close he was. “Considering what I saw of your performance in the game room, I’d say that whatever dooryouare behind contains something rather lackluster.”
Aziel blinked down at her, his smirk twitching just slightly before he leaned closer to her—close enough to feel the decorative badges on his jacket brush against her shoulder. “What you saw in the game room was someone needing a quick and easy fuck, who was rudely interrupted by a crude woman with absolutely no manners. If you’d have stuck around, I assure you would have witnessed a rather happy ending.”
Gods, her blush was spreading to her chest. And even though his words made fire course through her veins, she stood her ground. She had to. “You don’t seem the type.”
