The Prophecy - ACOTAR

Chapter 31

Astrid let the tears roll down her cheek, allowing herself to mourn the emotional loss of Brannagh. She felt the emptiness in her mind from the severance of their mental bond, something she had heard whispered in her mind as she sang. She hadn't taken even a second to consider whether she should or shouldn't listen to it, she simply let the words work their magic in her mind.

Astrid looked from her place on the floor back to the armoire, her face twisting in disgust as she gazed at the gossamer and chiffon fabrics. She'd been wearing a dress when she had been taken, the louder voice in her mind telling her it was the dress that had made her vulnerable. The dress was the reason she had the new scars and the stumps on her back.

The pants were slightly better, but the style looked like they would fit loose, something that wouldn't fare well in a fight. The fabric was far to thin, it offered no protection. It would be no better than fighting naked.

She rose on shaky legs, making her way to the floor length mirror that stood in the corner. She took a deep breath and slowly brought her shoulders back. Astrid looked over her body, grimacing at the jagged pale marks that marred her skin. She turned slowly, her hands shaking as she took in the sight of her back. Her lower lip quivered as she looked at the stumps, so many dreams crushed with one swing of her sword.

But Astrid refused to let any of this pull her down, she was strong, stronger than anyone gave her credit for. She was born Princess Astrid, she became General Astrid of Hybern, and she was forced to become Astrid Archeron. Now, she didn't know who she was. She could be Astrid, the mate to Azriel, but she didn't know who he was. She could become Princess Astrid again, but that title didn't feel like it fit her anymore. She was a warrior, she had proved that to herself in Hybern's dungeon, and she would continue to prove that to herself.

That would be the title she would wear for now, Astrid the Warrior. And she needed clothes fit for a warrior. She wanted fighting leathers.

As much as she hated the idea of the males seeing her naked again, she refused to wear the clothes in the armoire. They weren't her and she refused to be anything other than who she was, even if she wasn't quite sure who that was yet. So, she wiped the tears from her face, lifted her chin, and made her way to the main room.

All 7 pairs of eyes fell on her as she entered the room, one pair dropping quickly to the ground, something that created another stitch on her shattered heart. One more sliver fitting itself back into place at the movement. The movement showing her that maybe, just maybe, the impression she had originally made about Rhysand had been true. That the louder voice in her head was wrong, and not all males were perverted psychopaths. The other two males in the room kept their eyes on her, but they weren't looking at her like she was something they could stick their cocks in. Their eyes were locked on the scars scattered over her body, before it had just been her upper body and back, but Hybern's lackeys had decided her lower half needed markings.

Cassian's face contorted in disgust, the louder voice in her head yelling at her that it was because her body was undesirable now. That no male would want a female that was as scarred as she was. But the whisper from before weaved its way to the front of her mind. Its words felt like a caress on her mind, the feeling reminding her of the nights her Aunt Camryn would sing to her and hold her when she was younger and had nightmares. The caress of a mother. The whisper argued that he was disgusted by the actions of the male that claimed to be her father for so many years, disgusted that he had let so many hurt her.

It felt like a battle in her mind, she wanted to trust the whisper more than anything, but the other voice was louder.

Azriel looked angry, the calm sort of angry, the kind that would make a grown male soil himself. The louder voice was silent about him, the whisper silent with it. His hazel eyes moved from her scars to meet hers, a promise shining, no sign of pity. Something Astrid was more than grateful for; she'd stab the first fae or human that offered her pity. She didn't need or want it, it did nothing for her.