Aneirin laughs again. “You most certainly will not. You will be a queen.”
I march toward him, rage flaring. “Take that back!” I shove him as hard as I can, my hands connecting with his middle, but he barely budges.
He holds his sword out, his arms wide open, afraid he’ll accidentally hurt me. Or more likely, that I’ll hurt myself. “Are you having big feelings again?”
Big feelings—it was a patronizing euphemism for my mood swings. “I am not!”
He regards me as though I’m a wounded pet in need of tending to. “Are you cross with me, then?”
It’s not him in particular that I’m cross with. It’s the conversations I’ve overheard: the talks of my future marriages, strangers plotting my betrothals to outsiders. It’s my tutors insisting that I learn embroidery and harp, and that I ride sidesaddle in a stupid dress. It’s the pressure to be a perfect, demure princess who wouldn’t be able to defend myself against Dark Mages and Shadow Wielders like the heroes in my book.
Instead, I’m only allowed to watch my brother as he trains. He’s the best in the fortress. So fearless. So fearsome. I want to be just like him. I want to feel strong and fearless and fearsome. Not weak and angry and sad all the time. Not useless.
I snatch the sword from him, ready for him to take me seriously, ready to prove I’m a worthy adversary. But the sword is heavier than I anticipated and though I grasp the hilt with both hands, the blade dives forward, pulling me with its weight. I nearly lose my balance, but I manage to right myself.
I beam at Aneirin with pride, and he laughs. Laughs! His head thrown back, the free, taunting sound fills the training room. The sound infiltrates my mind. Heat prickles my skin.
My brother, who I adore and admire more than anyone else, doesn’t take me seriously.
I’m sick of it!
“Enough!” I scream. With all the pent-up emotions of the entire day, I throw my arms out, pitching the sword.
Flames burst from my hands, a wide sweeping arc consuming everything and sending me flyingbackward.
The last thing I remember is Aneirin screaming in agony.
I find myself on the floor of my bedchamber, plopped back into my present reality. My body trembles with the effort to expel the memories along with the contents of my stomach, and I dig my nails into the floor as I dry heave uncontrollably.
The realization tears at my heart, guilt and revulsion clawing up my throat. I retch again and dissolve into sobs that I can’t stop.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t?—
A series of knocks from the door sound in my ear, and it’s so urgent, I’m certain it’s not the first time they’ve knocked. A voice calls to me, distant through the roar of my pulse in my ears. Then there’s an arm around me and Ellynne’s soothing voice. “Carys, what is it? Are you hurt?”
I lift my face to Ellynne’s, and my sight is so blurry that I can only make out her fiery hair.
Fiery …
I pull away from her and scurry back on my arse, my chest heaving. “No,” is all I can grind out.
She holds her hands up. She’s harmless, only wanting to help. “Talk to me.”
What can I possibly say to her? That I’m an abomination? A monster? That I killed my brother and that I’m a danger to everyone around me?
“Let me just… give you a hug or something. You look a fright.”
Unable to respond, I stare at her. But her arms wrap around me again, her hand gently rubbing my back. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. Did someone hurt you? Is it Callum? Eefa? I’ll gut the bastards.”
In another time, I would’ve laughed. But I just shake my head. “No,” I say, my voice sounding raw. “It’s me. It’s always been me.”
CHAPTER 43
Durvla
