I averted my gaze, the sickness twisting my stomach.
“You can’t stay here.” Caleb broke our silence. “Unless you want to burn.” He started towards the palace.
I turned towards the palace; my eyes searching Mother’s passage in the distance.
“Go to the cabin, Cordelia.” Caleb pushed past me without sparing a glance. “Wait for me there.” He said over his shoulder before stepping out of the sanctuary of the forest.
“I’m not—” The words deflated on my tongue: the perimeter of the palace caught aflame.
Chapter 4. Brother.
The warmth of the fire reached my skin as my eyes adjusted to the brightness.
“What in the Kingdom?” I stumbled backwards, my back meeting the bark of a willow tree.
A wall of flame surrounded the palace, keeping Wurdulacs safe within the stone walls: forcing intruders away from their sanctuary.
Despite the frustration that spread through my veins, I couldn’t help but marvel at the effort the Wurdulacs put into keeping the palace secured during the daylight. Though my appreciation was short-lived, for the rays of sunshine grew from the horizon, ushering me towards the only nearby shelter.
The woods ended its dance with the snowstorm long before I turned onto the small path towards my sanctuary.
My heart galloped inside my chest when the old, beaten down cabin appeared from its hidden spot in the meadow. Seeking shelter in the one place Caleb expected me was foolish no doubt.
If I wanted a chance to finish what I’d come here for, I needed to escape the cabin before Caleb arrived.
The wooden steps by the door’s threshold creaked as I retrieved the hidden key from the slit in between the door frame.
I supposed Francis worried not for the intrusion on his family’s home when it held nothing of value but his memories. Though the guilt of being here without permission still left a sour taste in my mouth.
I yanked the lock open.
The house seemed to have aged at least a hundred years since the time I was here last. The floors creaked with every step I took, the quiet whispers of the walls silenced.
A strong smell of sandalwood hit my senses when I entered the room I’d resided in before.
Children’s old paintings and books with worn out covers still occupied every corner of the room, yet... As though a hurricane went through the room, it felt more disorganized than usual; it felt odd, it felt empty.
It felt empty despite the small bed that almost took up the entirety of the room, despite the wooden chest of drawers in the corner, overflowing with dozens of trinkets.
A painting of two people laid atop the chest. The oil canvas cracked and yellowed with age, dust covered the faces of a couple. A man and a woman sat in an embrace, their smiles shone through the painting.
The woman’s features were similar to Francis’: brown curly hair, warm, tawny skin, sharp cheekbones, her eyes the color of onyx. She was a true beauty as she leaned against the man in their embrace.
The man was the exact opposite: white as snow hair, nearly translucent, ivory skin, his eyes' rims carried the color of ruby. He shared his smile and the shape of his eyes with Francis.
