She gestures to the dressing table. “Would you mind sitting, Your Highness, so I can redress your wound?”
I catch a glimpse of my hand, momentarily distracted by a shimmer of happiness, only to realize the blood seeping through the bandage hasn’t stopped. With a nod, I wander to the dressing table and take a seat. Solena fetches a bowl of warm water and fresh bandages, then pulls up a stool to sit beside me. As she unwinds the bandage, each layer brings a fresh wave of pain, and I wince. Solena notices, her gaze curious, but when the last layer falls away, I see her throat bob with a swallow of concern.
“What is it?” I ask, peering down at the wound myself.
The cut across my palm remains open, as raw and bloody as if it had just been inflicted.
Solena shakes her head in disbelief. “I don’t understand. Even a human should heal faster than this.” She rises. “I’ll brew more limmeth tea.”
I quickly shake my head, and she hesitates, slowly resuming her seat. “That didn’t help the first time,” I say, my voice firm. “I’d rather not have to swallow it again.”
Solena says as she scrutinizes the wound. “What could cause this?”
I don’t tell her that I think Baev’kalath is poisoning me. I can’t let anyone know that this nightmare world, with its lack of sun and soil where nothing can thrive, is the reason I can’t heal. I’ve always been one with life and the power of nature, and this place disrupts my very essence. If the Mordorin discover I am vulnerable, they’ll see me as weak enough to control.
“I have no idea,” I reply. “Please, dress the wound and you may go.”
Solena studies me for a moment, and I can’t shake the feeling that she sees right through me. But she says nothing, focusing instead on cleaning the deep cut, navigating the raw flesh and washing away the blood. Be it a little gentler than the first time. Once she binds it firmly, she tidies up and stands before me with her head bowed.
“Will that be all?” she asks.
“Yes. I will have no need for you until the evening.”
Solena nods, then leaves the room in silence, and though I reveled in the maid’s displeasure, the satisfying feeling is fleeting. I realize it will take me longer to be as comfortable being unkind as they are. I wander to my vine and it is a small blessing that no leaves have fallen today, though her coloring is just as somber as mine.
I trail a finger down her smooth skin. “Will you not speak to me, friend?”
She doesn’t reply, and her silence sends a pang of ache through my chest. Though I’ve only been here a few days, the absence of the earth and the voices of the Souls makes me feel utterly isolated. Their whispers are usually a constant presence, a comforting hum in the back of my mind. My chest tightens. My spirit, my health, and now my connection to what I treasure the most.
Baev’kalath continues to take from me.
Now that I’m dressed, my stomach so overly full of apples that my corset presses uncomfortably against me, I find myself at a loss for how to spend the rest of the day. The thought of climbing imaginary stairs to rooms that don’t exist and encountering floating hands again doesn’t appeal to me. I’m still unsure if that was real or just another trick played by this meddling fortress. But if I linger here too long, will I invite the attention of the haunting apparition whose cryptic whispers seem laced with ill intent?
When there’s a knock at the doors and Arax enters, I’m pleased for the distraction.
“Your Highness. The king and queen wish to inform you that after forgiving your behavior last night, you are now permitted to eat,” he decrees.
My eyes subtly glance at the silver tray on the bed, but thankfully I have eaten the evidence.
“Will the king and queen be there?” I ask with a scowl.
Arax shakes his head. “The king and queen are late to rise. But food has been prepared for you in the dining hall.”
The offer is suddenly enticing. This room and its four walls are suffocating, and if I do not have to endure the king and queen, I will gladly eat a second breakfast.
“Very well,” I say, doing my best to focus through the sickness that clings to me like a heavy fog.
Arax bows before turning on his heels and guiding me through the hushed halls toward the dining room. As we pass by the tall arches, I catch a glimpse of the sky, perpetually gray, with sheets of rain cascading down, drumming against the fortress in a steady rhythm.
As I walk behind him, my gaze roams over Arax's armor—the sturdy pauldrons resting on his shoulders, the plated vambraces encasing his forearms, and the chain mail that shields his hands.His long, flowing cloak with silver runes etched along its edges is the same gray of the clouds that veil the sunlight. When he turns a corner and the wind catches the fabric, I catch a glimpse of the webbed harnesses across his back and the rune tattoos that mark where his wings would burst forth.
Again, I am reminded that this was not the armor he wore when I first met him.
“The Mordorin armor,” I start, my thoughts finding a voice. “Are there different kinds?”
“Yes,” he replies in a low grumble.
“What kind is yours?” I ask, even though his tone is not inviting of more questions.
