Oraphia pulls the chair from the vanity and sets it in the usual spot before the tall mirror—where I usually sit while she works on my appearance. She gestures to the seat with an open palm.
“We have an hour,” she says.
“Have fun with that,” Eve laughs and Oraphia’s eyes dart to her.
“You’re to be dressed too,” Oraphia counters and Eve’s laughter dies. “Your attire should already be in your quarters. Raevi is there to assist you.”
“Wait, what? Why doIhave to be dressed? She makes sense,” Eve scoffs, and she watches me with a sharpened glare as I rise from my seat. “I’m simply the guard.”
Oraphia levels a cool, less than impressed stare across the room as I take the offered seat.
“You knew that was a lie before you uttered a single word,” Oraphia replies. “And yet you chose to utter them.”
It’s my turn to laugh.
And I’m quickly pierced with a daggered stare.
With a dragging groan, Eve stands and marches reluctantly toward the door. “I hate all of this,” she says, pulling the door open.
It closes behind her.
And I can’t help but laugh.
Oraphia, shaking her head, waits. Likely expecting Eve to return and try to argue her piece. When it doesn’t open after a few moments, she nods, satisfied by the silence, and sets to work.
Her hands move a brush through my hair with a skill honed through decades of service to the Witherhorn family. By this point, I’ve grown accustomed to her grooming assaults. Her ability to turn me into what a Sovereign Queenshouldlook like is hardly believable. She’s unmatched.
It’s during these times I get to learn more about thehumanwoman unafraid of the centuries-old Sovereign King she serves. To say the least, Oraphia is refreshing.
She’s proud of her service to the royal family, proud of her children—they’re her whole world. While they’re both employed at the castle, I’ve yet to meet them. But, even so, Oraphia is quick to share their accomplishments.
Today, it seems, the conversation will be all about her daughter, Cadence. She’s recently taken a specialized position in the kitchens, a pastry chef. I might have to meet her after all. And by meet, I mean visit to pilfer her creations.
If the topic isn’t her daughter, it’s her son, Gideon. He works in the stables, and it’s strange to see a woman unafraid of Ryc fret over a horse. Apparently the beast he’s working to break has already maimed two handlers.
While she talks about her family, tells me stories about her children, it reinforces the fact my siblings and family couldn’t be farther from functional. It makes me hesitant to share anything about my history when she asks.
Thankfully, she’s never offended by my silence.
She fills it with stories—stories that make it too easy to imagine what it would be like were she my mother.
The concept of mothers is foreign in the world of demons. Newborns are raised by their House as a whole, not a singular creature. It’s to encourage emotional detachment—Houses and members within them change. Often. A demon needs to be able to turn blade upon anyone regardless of history.
Mothers, in the sense ofbirthing, don’t exist. Maternal death isguaranteed when a demon is created. The death is considered the newborn’s first offering to their House.
The brush in my hair stops, and I lift my gaze from my hands in my lap.
“How are you really?” she asks, her voice low as her brown eyes meet mine in the mirror. “After… after today?”
A weak smile reemerges on my face.
Oraphia is a doting mother. The embodiment of motherhood within Castle Erus. We’re all her children, regardless of species or age.
Lowering my gaze to my hands, I pick at the laced edge of my night camisole. Thoughts of Vaelyn, the council, the ascension as queen, the veil… they all swirl in my head.
“I’ll be better once Fate is finished with me,” I answer in a long sigh.
“Fate is never finished,” Oraphia says, her voice soft. The brush begins to move again. “Fate is the fire in which we forge ourselves.”
