Barracks (War of Hearts)

22- Rhythm

The flickering candlelight casts elongated shadows across the stone walls of my chamber. The air hangs heavy with secrets, and the ancient tapestries sway in silent lament. I stir from my restless slumber, roused by a sound—a muffled sob, veiled in darkness.

As I blink away the remnants of dreams, the sob persists, insistent as a ghostly echo. My senses sharpen, and I sit up, my linen sheets rustling like the wings of a startled raven. The room is dim, yet the sob cuts through the night, piercing my consciousness. I am no stranger to the eerie whispers that haunt our castle, but this is different—a cry of anguish, raw and unyielding.

The castle lies hushed, its ancient stones absorbing the weight of centuries. Yet, the sob persists, weaving its mournful echoes. I rise, my bare feet meeting the cool floor. My sixth sense urges me forward, a compass pointing toward the heart of the mystery.

I scan the chamber, my gaze darting from the heavy oak door to the cold hearth. The guards stationed outside stand like statues, their eyes fixed on the threshold. Their rigid forms betray unease, and I wonder if they, too, hear the spectral lament. Perhaps they sense what I do—the veil between realms thinning, allowing the sorrow of ages to seep through.

Down winding corridors, past suits of armor and faded tapestries depicting long-forgotten battles, I follow the spectral cry. It leads me to a chamber veiled in moonlight—a place I have never ventured before. I hesitate, my hand resting on the iron latch.

"Lady Anastasia requires rest," the guard intones, his voice a mere whisper.

"I know," I reply, my breath catching. "She asked me to come later tonight, but sleep claimed me."

The guard yields, and the door swings open. Anastasia's room unfolds before me—a sanctuary of white, as if untouched by the ravages of the world beyond. Candles dance upon the windowsill, their flames flickering like lost souls seeking solace. The hearth crackles, casting warmth upon the chamber, and the lamp beside her bed glows with an otherworldly luminescence.

Anastasia lies there, her gaze fixed on her trembling feet. Her gown, once pristine, bears the stain of blood—a cruel reminder of life's fragility. I cross the room, my heart heavy with unspoken questions. "What's wrong?" I whisper.

She meets my eyes, and the sorrow within them threatens to engulf us both. "I am losing the child," she confesses, her voice barely audible.

I hold her, my arms a bastion against the storm. The pain etched on her face mirrors my own. Where is Lavyrle, her absent husband? Does he know of this loss? How have I missed the signs—the subtle shifts in her demeanor, the way she clutches her belly when she thinks no one is watching?

"Don't cry," I murmur, wiping away her tears.

She pulls away, her gaze unyielding. "This is my third time," she confesses, her vulnerability laid bare.

In that quiet moment, our shared agony binds us. Anastasia's eyes hold not only the pain of loss but also the weight of a lineage threatened—a legacy slipping through her fingers like sand. As the castle walls absorb our grief, I vow to uncover the truth— that cling to our bloodline like a curse.

The air is thick with anticipation, and the flickering flames seem to mirror the turmoil within my heart.

"Why do you keep doing it to yourself?" I ask. Anastasia gazes at me with eyes as deep as the forest. Her voice trembles, echoing the ancient oaks that guard our ancestral home.

"This has been the longest," she confesses, her fingers tracing the delicate embroidery on her gown. "I thought this time it might work. Perhaps I needed more rest, or perhaps the gods themselves conspired against me."