The dining hall of Everthorn was cavernous, its vaulted ceiling rising high above stone walls draped in banners of green and silver. Morning light streamed in through the tall windows, painting long streaks across the table that stretched nearly the length of the chamber. The scents of roasted pheasant, honeyed bread, and spiced tea mingled in the air, but none of it stirred my appetite.
I had been summoned here—not invited. My father’s summons was not a thing to ignore.
The servants ushered me to the far end of the long table, a place too grand for a girl who had been raised in shadows. My slippers whispered against the polished floor, every step echoing until I slid into the chair waiting for me. The wood felt cold beneath my palms, the seat carved stiff and unwelcoming, as though it too had been warned not to grow fond of me.
At the table’s head sat Duke Corwin, my father, his figure cast in sharp relief against the morning light. His hair, once deep brown, was threaded with gray, combed neatly back from a face carved with lines of severity. His dark green eyes flicked up as I entered. For a fleeting instant, something like pride flickered there—followed swiftly by grief, then sharper still, by a fear so practiced it had hardened into hostility.
It was the first time he had truly looked at me in months. And though I had longed for his gaze, it burned like a blade.
“You are late,” he said, though the words came clipped, as though he had wanted to say something else entirely.
“I came as soon as I was summoned,” I murmured, folding my hands tightly in my lap.
He did not answer at once. His eyes lingered on me, narrowed, as though he were measuring me against someone who no longer stood in this hall. His jaw clenched. Then he turned his attention to his plate, slicing into his food with swift, precise motions that carried more edge than the blade itself.
My mother, seated quietly at his right, lifted her cup without meeting my eyes. Duchess Elira’s once-warm features seemed carved thinner these days, her gray-green eyes dulled by a tired sorrow that she rarely spoke of. Her gown was the color of pearl, her hair pinned neatly, but her expression held little life. She sipped her tea as though it might shield her from the silence.
I stared at the empty chair near mine. Emerson’s chair.
“Your brother has already eaten,” Corwin said abruptly, as if sensing the direction of my gaze. “He was prompt, as he always is. Diligent, respectful. A son I can be proud of.”
The words landed like stones in my chest. My fingers curled against the fabric of my gown, but I forced myself to keep still. It was not the first time I had heard him praise Emerson in such blunt contrast to me, but hearing it aloud here, with no pretense of softness, struck harder than usual.
“I’m glad he pleases you,” I said quietly, though the words trembled more than I wanted.
“He does more than please,” my father replied, his tone flat, unyielding. “He excels. He will carry the name of Everthorn with strength and honor. He will not falter.” His eyes flicked toward me, hard and unreadable. “Unlike others.”
My mother lowered her cup, her lips parting as if to speak—but no words came. She only set it down again, the porcelain clinking faintly against the saucer, and turned her gaze back to her plate.
The silence that followed was suffocating. I forced myself to reach for my bread, breaking it into small pieces though I could not swallow a bite. My father watched me, his stare so heavy it felt like a weight pressing down on my shoulders.
Then he set his knife aside. “It is time you began to understand your duty.”
The words hung in the air, sharp, final. I raised my eyes slowly.
“A suitor will be calling within the fortnight,” he continued. “You will present yourself as an Everthorn should. Polite. Reserved. Silent, if you cannot manage more.”
My heart lurched. The bread slipped from my fingers. “A suitor?”
His lips thinned. “You are of age. Already seventeen. Long past the time for arrangements. Your mother has been making inquiries, and it is settled. You will wed where it is most advantageous.”
I searched my mother’s face, desperate for her to intervene, to soften the decree. But her eyes only flicked to mine briefly, sorrow gleaming there before she looked away.
It was decided. My future sealed with words spoken over honeyed bread and cooling pheasant.
I pressed my hands together until the knuckles whitened, forcing my face to stillness. I had learned long ago that tears gave my father nothing but contempt. Inside, though, my thoughts roared louder than the storm had on the night of my birth.
The weight of my father’s words sank like a stone in the pit of my stomach. I forced myself to straighten in my chair, though every muscle in me wanted to fold in on itself, to vanish into the long shadows of the hall where he could not see me at all.
“You’ve already chosen, then?” My voice came out steadier than I expected, but thin, almost fragile.
Corwin’s eyes lifted to mine, and the full force of his gaze locked me in place. They were green like mine, though dulled with age and sorrow, and in that moment I wished they were not. “I do not make suggestions, Alora. I make decisions. You will obey.”
I swallowed against the sharpness in my throat. “And if I cannot?”
The knife in his hand stilled mid-cut. His stare turned colder, as though the man who had once pressed his hand to my mother’s stomach in wonder had never existed at all. “Then you will shame us further. Do not test me.”
The hall’s silence deepened until even the servants seemed to stop breathing. My mother’s fingers curled around her teacup, but she still said nothing. She had learned long ago that her voice only fueled his fire.
I lowered my gaze, not out of obedience, but to shield the hot sting that threatened behind my eyes. Bread crumbled in my fist, falling to the plate in a scatter of pale crumbs. I wanted to tell him that I was not a pawn to be bartered, that I was more than the shadow he thought he saw when he looked at me—but the words jammed like stones in my throat.
Instead, I forced air into my lungs and murmured, “Yes, Father.”
Corwin nodded once, sharply, as if to seal the matter. He returned to his food, the conversation dismissed in his eyes, his knife carving into meat with precise, unyielding strokes.
But I could not eat. The taste of ash filled my mouth, though nothing had passed my lips.
When at last the duke set down his utensils and pushed his plate away, he did not look at me again. He rose, his cloak sweeping the floor in a long arc as he strode from the hall. His footsteps echoed until they vanished into silence, leaving me beneath the weight of emptiness he always left in his wake.
My mother finally looked at me. Her expression was not stern, nor cold, but weary—aching in ways she could not name aloud. I thought for a moment she might reach across the table, might tell me that it would be all right, that I was still hers. But she only pressed her lips together, set down her cup, and followed him from the room.
I sat alone at the long table, a single candle guttering low beside my untouched plate, the great hall yawning empty around me.
When I finally rose, my stomach hollow and my chest tight, the silence of the corridors felt louder than the storm. I returned toward my wing with quiet steps, the hem of my gown whispering across the stone.
It was only when I turned the corner that I saw him waiting in the shadows—Emerson, leaning carelessly against the wall as though the house did not forbid him from crossing into my wing. His grin was small, tight, but it was still a grin, and for the first time all morning, I felt my chest loosen.
And just like that, the storm of my father’s decree gave way to the fragile, stubborn warmth that only my brother could kindle.
Emerson’s grin widened when he saw me. He pushed off the wall, a small bundle tucked under his arm wrapped in linen. “I saved you something.”
Inside the bundle were two rolls, still warm, and a small jar of berry jam he must have stolen from the kitchens. My chest ached at the sight of it. I hadn’t realized how hollow I felt until the smell of bread reached me.
“You’ll get caught,” I whispered, though my voice was softer than the words deserved.
“Then I’ll tell them it was mine all along.” He shrugged, casual in a way only a fourteen-year-old could be. His eyes gleamed, bright and daring. “Come on.”
Before I could protest, he tugged me by the wrist down the corridor. My slippers slid against the stone as I hurried after him, our laughter stifled in our throats. We darted past servants carrying trays, ducked behind a tapestry when a guard’s shadow passed, and slipped through a narrow servant’s door Emerson had pried open with a stolen key.
Cold air rushed in the moment the door gave way. I sucked in a breath, sharp and sweet, tinged with the damp green scent of the gardens.
It had been weeks since I’d felt the open sky. Months, perhaps. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it until that moment, the weight of the manor’s stone lifting from my chest all at once.
The gardens spread wide under a pale morning sun. Dew clung to the grass, sparkling like tiny stars. The air hummed with birdsong, a melody so alive it almost hurt my ears after the muffled silence of my wing.
I stepped forward, slowly at first, my slippers sinking into the damp earth. The sunlight touched my skin, and for the briefest moment I swore the mark between my shoulders warmed, pulsing faintly as though it, too, hungered for the sky.
Emerson dropped onto the grass with a careless plop, pulling the rolls from the linen bundle. “See? Better than Father’s table.” He bit into one with exaggerated delight, jam smearing his fingers.
I sank down beside him, the grass wetting the hem of my gown. I tore off a piece of bread, the taste warm and rich, far sweeter than anything that had ever been set before me in the great hall. Perhaps it was the air, perhaps it was Emerson’s grin, but it felt like freedom itself.
For a little while, we ate in peace. The sun climbed higher, gilding the tops of the hedges. Emerson lay back, hands folded behind his head, his chestnut hair catching the light. “One day,” he said, squinting at the sky, “we’re going to leave this place. Go wherever we want. You’ll see.”
I laughed softly, though the sound cracked at the edges. “Father would sooner lock me in the cellars.”
“Then I’ll break the locks.” His voice was fierce for one so young. “I don’t care what he says—you’re my sister. He can’t keep us apart forever.”
Before I could answer, a voice barked from the distance.
“Who’s there?”
A guard’s shadow stretched across the hedge. Emerson sat up fast, his eyes darting. He grabbed the linen bundle, now empty, and stuffed it under his tunic. Then he yanked me to my feet, tugging me toward the servant’s door.
We ran, breathless, skirt and boots tearing through the grass. The guard’s armor clinked somewhere behind us, but we were faster—Emerson always knew the shortcuts, the hidden corners. We ducked through the door just as the guard rounded the hedge, hearts pounding as it clicked shut behind us.
Inside the corridor, we pressed against the wall, chests heaving, trying not to laugh or cry.
“That,” Emerson whispered between gasps, “was worth it.”
I leaned back against the stone, the phantom warmth of the sun still clinging to my skin. My shoulder tingled faintly where the mark lay hidden, a reminder that something inside me had stirred with the open air.
“Yes,” I breathed, my lips curving despite everything. “It was.”
The corridors swallowed us again, shadows stretching long in the pale light. Emerson peeled away before we reached my wing—he always did, quick as a shadow vanishing where Father’s rules could not reach him. He offered one last grin before slipping down a stairwell, and then I was alone.
Alone, as always.
The door to my chamber closed behind me with a soft click. I leaned against it, eyes shut, trying to hold the memory of sunlight in my chest. It was already fading, replaced by the stale air of stone and lavender, the suffocating smallness of the room.
I crossed to the bed and sat on its edge, letting my fingers press into the thin mattress. My shoulder ached faintly. When I reached back, I felt warmth pulsing beneath the fabric—subtle, steady, as though my mark were answering something I had only just begun to hear.
The candle on my desk guttered, though no draft touched it. Shadows swayed across the walls, stretching into shapes that looked almost alive.
I closed my eyes, and the memory of the garden flooded me—the taste of bread and jam, the damp kiss of grass on my gown, the sunlight burning against my skin. For a heartbeat, it wasn’t memory at all. I felt the warmth again, sharp and real, and beneath it came a murmur like a voice breaking across water.
You are not forgotten.
My eyes flew open. The room was silent, still, nothing out of place. But the words clung to me, curling in my chest like smoke.
I pressed my palm harder against my shoulder. The crescent beneath my skin pulsed once, as though in reply, then dimmed again.
The silence settled heavy after that, but not empty. Never empty.