The Royalty [h.s]

Chapter IX | Silent Dagger

The sensation took over her being until the arrival of dawn the next day.

Little remained in her memory, perhaps just what was necessary, or maybe nothing at all.

She remembered the suffocating knot in her throat and the fading vivid vision. She recalled hearing her name and, suddenly, hearing her title. She remembered the harsh tug on her arm, trying to force her back while she was trying to advance. She recalled the lion-headed hilt of the dagger in her hands and how the blood had spilled onto her dress. And she remembered the glance that had met hers upon finding Lord Styles at the entrance of the stable.

Then, her own imagination had dissipated, and everything had turned into mist. Yet, an instant before Lord Styles' presence was proclaimed in the council hall, she had recalled that he had fallen to her hand.

The hall was enveloped in a cold that seemed to emanate from the very stones of the castle, despite the presence of her parents and Lord Styles in the room. It was a scene meant to be preserved in intimacy, a vain attempt given that she had traversed the castle corridors with her dress stained with blood and a lost look, a wandering specter of desperation.

The word resonating in the air was undoubtedly lost.

There was no refuge to flee to.

And, even more desolate, was the weight of guilt that gripped her, a nauseating discomfort that tormented her. Someone she blamed without daring to look at, and who now shared the table with her parents, seeking a solution that seemed as elusive as the shadows in the twilight.

She listened, her mind overwhelmed by the density of the conversation, to her father's grave voice and that of the lord in front, whispering echoes. The recent strategies to position the guards around the castle were intertwined with the repetition of the word "promise" all in a whirlwind of words that excluded her from the discussion, leaving her desolate and voiceless.

Impulsiveness roared within her, but awareness maintained a firm grip. Every time her lips sought to part to express her opinion, she felt the coldness of the dagger she had hidden in her thigh, pressing against her skin with an almost painful force.

She imagined the blade of the dagger sinking into Storm, tearing his skin and leaving him at the mercy of fate, helpless and uncomprehending. In her mind, the echo of how much time had been lost in her arrival resonated, and how, if she had arrived earlier, she might have had the chance to save him.

The hours, minutes, and seconds had faded in the room until a deathly silence took over. This was a signal enough for her to decide to end the meeting, rising from her seat. She walked towards the oak doors, leaving behind her father's vain effort to offer comfort that was beyond reach, and, in turn, the steely gaze of the lord, with eyes green like a stormy sea, following her exit in silence.

Lady Amy had prepared a warm bath for her upon her return to her quarters, a gesture she accepted almost immediately, ordering everyone to leave. She noticed the doubt in Lady Amy's eyes, a doubt she chose to ignore as her body, wrapped in a robe, crossed the threshold of the tub. Stripped of her garments, she allowed the steam to envelop her until the heat caressed her thighs, slowly immersing herself in the water. When she finally emerged, she found no presence in the room but her own.

Thus, she remained until she sought refuge in a book on the balcony. There, the guards announced a royal title, similar to hers but with a masculine denomination that seemed familiar.

A head of chocolate curls appeared before her, causing a sigh to escape her lips. As she weighed the idea of returning her gaze to the book, pretending to continue reading, it was too late: she felt the other side of the chair sink under the weight of a presence and heard a male voice fill the void.