Amara shifted slightly, adjusting her weight.
“When I first became a ward,” she said carefully, “one guard took an interest in me.”
Elora stiffened.
Amara didn’t elaborate right away. Her fingers picked at the hem of her sleeve, rubbing the fabric between her fingertips as though she were rolling the memory around before speaking it aloud.
“I was sixteen.” The words came slowly, measured, like she had to ease into them. “Not as small as some of the others, but... I think he liked I was new. That I still had fight in me.”
She choked back a sob, her throat bobbing. Her nails scraped against her sleeve now, pulling at the stitching.
“I had to stay behind in the kitchens to clean up. The guard, he… he pulled me into the pantry.”
Elora’s insides seemed to be vibrating; her shaking radiating from her organs to her limbs. She knew what Amara would say, but wasn’t ready to hear it.
Amara’s hands stilled, her fingers curling into fists on her lap. But she didn’t look at Elora. She stared at her fingernails, her eyes unfocused, as if she was somewhere else entirely.
“I couldn’t get away.”
Elora felt sick. The room suddenly was too hot, too stifling. She wanted to move, to shift, to dosomething, but she remainedfrozen.
Amara exhaled, but it was sharp. Not a sigh. A release. Like she had to push the next words out before she locked them inside forever.
“I reported what happened to Gerard.” The name left her lips like poison. “He’s the captain. I thought he would do something about his men. He just laughed.”
Gerard.His name rang in her head like a curse, rattling around in the spaces where she’d tried to lock him away.
Amara’s fingers dug into her knee, pressing so hard her knuckles turned white. “He said, ‘You’re a ward now, Amara. You have little purpose beyond satisfying my men. Get used to it.’”
The nausea that had been simmering beneath her ribs threatened to rise again, but she swallowed it back. She clenched her hands into fists, trying to focus on anything but the words still lingering in the air.
Amara shifted beside her. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if that helps. I only told you that because... I know that feeling.” Her voice softened. “The way the world suddenly stops making sense after. How everyone around you keeps moving like nothing happened, but you’re stuck.”
Elora barely heard her. The only thing she heard was that sentence playing over and over.You have little purpose beyond satisfying my men. Get used to it.He had laughed. Not because he didn’t believe her. Not because he hadn’t known. But because he didn’t care. He let it happen.
Her fingernails pressed against her palms, harder, leaving little crescents behind. A dull sting answered her, but it barely registered. Gerard didn’t just take from her. Others were also allowed to take. He made sure of it. He made it easy.
And no one wouldstop him.
Amara shifted beside her, and Elora realized she’d been silent for too long.Say something.
But what? I’m sorry? That’s awful? Empty words. Pointless words. Nothing she could say would erase what Amara had lived through. Just like nothing Amara said would change what had happened to her.
But she needed to do something. She reached out, gently squeezing Amara’s hand. She replied with a twitch of a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. After a moment, Amara moved, shifting onto her knees and standing. “Come on,” she said, offering Elora a hand. “You shouldn’t be on the floor.”
Elora hesitated, then let Amara pull her up. The moment she stood, she experienced it all again—the nausea, the exhaustion, the weight of everything pressing into her bones. She ran a hand down the front of her dress, smoothing the wrinkles, then dragged her fingers through her hair.
The strands snagged instantly. Of course. It was tangled, messy, undone. Just like her.
Her hands twitched, some part of her wanting to fix it, wanting to dosomethingto feel like herself again, but she was too tired. Too drained. It was just hair. It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
“Here,” Amara said, guiding her to their bunk and rummaging through a small chest next to their bed. She pulled out a little brush, the bristles gagged and frayed. “Sit. Let me.”
A knot formed in Elora’s stomach. That was what Tehvan would do.
He always had a brush in his study, tucked away in the top drawer like it belonged there. She would sit on the carpet while he read or worked, his hands gently untangling her hair. The slow, rhythmicstrokes had been a comfort, a ritual—one of the many ways he provided her with a sense of security.
