The Missing Princess of Vanyalí

eight.

8.

"Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even it's end."
- Joanne Harris

***

I stare into the large mirror, taking in my appearance. I am currently wearing a very regal blood red dress that comes off my shoulders. I worry I won't be able to walk in it, for it is full of thick layers. My dark hair has been curled by the kind women that assisted me the night before.

I watched skeptically as one heated a metal iron with their fire powers before using to to curl my hair. What a waste of power.

I asked some of the women their names, hoping to get to know them slightly better.

I scowl at the image of myself in the mirror. I look like royalty. There is golden jewelry adorning my neck and ears, causing me to recoil at my reflection. I've always found myself too pale to wear golden accessories.

I have yet to see anyone in the palace look as fancy as I do at the moment, it makes me feel slightly insecure. I'm not sure how I could attend a party in this type of attire. If Cyrus' party is anything like Tyler's, I won't be able to move at all.

I take one last glance before stepping out of my room to find a large guard waiting for me. "I am to escort you Milady," he informs me. I give him a kind smile and a subtle nod before following his lead. I follow him throughout the large palace to a beautiful staircase.

I take a deep breath before descending down the elegant flight of stairs. The stairwell is decorated on both sides with a mural depicting a large battle. I slow down, taking in the scene before me: men fighting to their deaths in a battle. Some of the men are shooting fire from their palms, others shooting water or just simply running away. Something about it makes my stomach churn, but I can't deny the beauty of the painting before me.

Death and destruction. Something I'm worried I, soon, will become accustom to. There is snow underneath the men in the painting, making the red blood that spills stand out even more amongst the scene.

I make an abrupt stop when I notice a familiar face in the painting, Cyrus. He's standing among fallen men, his eyes ablaze. Both of his hands are out to his sides, fire raising from both palms. He looks powerful, dangerous, and angry. The three most terrifying things a person can be, all in one. It's far different from the version of himself that I've seen.

"Please ignore that," I hear a voice from in front of me. I snap my head to the the direction of that voice. Cyrus stands just four steps below me. His hands are behind his back and he's looking at the mural with a deep sadness.

"When was this?" I ask, sounding just as royal as I feel. Maybe the costume I am wearing has thrown me into a role for the night. If only I had a script.

"Many centuries ago, long before I knew the difference between good and evil, my father started a long war. He was trying to assert his power between the kingdoms. It's over now, and I will never be that man again," he finishes solemnly, as if he's over the situation he speaks of. Maybe he's forgiven himself. I nod, slightly understanding.

I feel a wave of sympathy wash through me, though it is gone quickly. I shake my emotions off, reminding myself that I am angry with him.

"Milady," he says holding his hand out for me. I can tell he's ready to move on from the subject so I chose not to pry. Instead I stare at his hand, contemplating my options.