Mergo Hensya

Good morning, princess...

The Heiress

In the gloom of an unknown room, a foul odor lingers, triggering memories of past dread. My heart races, echoing the alarm of my quickened breaths. The scent is familiar, yet elusive—perhaps a liquid?

The stone walls blur in the dim light, their cold, impersonal touch mirrored by the floor beneath my bare feet. I inhale, ready to scream, to discover if I'm alone, but the darkness answers unbidden.

A ghastly visage emerges, gray eyes glinting with malice. A smirk, revealing a row of predatory teeth, anticipates the taste of my despair. His fingers, entwined in pale hair, pull it back, clearing his view of my terror.

He approaches, tracing a jagged 'C' on my forearm with a tenderness that belies his intent. I yearn to scream, to summon aid, but my voice is stolen by a vile warmth filling my mouth. I'm choking, alone, the sound of my struggle punctuated by the drip of liquid on stone.

I awaken in my bed, the nightmare's chill lingering. Beside me, Steven stirred amidst the pillows. The night breeze offers little comfort. I reassured myself, touching my throat, dispelling the remnants of the dream.

Steven's sleepy murmur broke the silence. "I thought the dreams weren't so bad with me here." Guilt twinges as I disturbed his rest, he always insisted on watching over me until sleep claimed me again.

"The dreams are just the same," I whispered back, caressing his face. "Go back to sleep." I rose, the wooden floor's warmth a pleasant contrast to the dream's chill. It's a comfort unique to the South, a balm against the night's terror.

I shed my sweat-soaked clothes, seeking solace in the shower's heat. The day ahead would be haunted by that relentless face, but I had to believe it would get better.

Steven should sleep; he usually does, effortlessly. I left the bedroom, dressed, and wandered to the living room. The letters on the table might offer a distraction.

A carafe and a glass awaited, alongside the blue pills. I down the spiced alcohol, its burn chasing away the pill's bitterness. I settle on the sofa, the first letter in hand, the clock reading four in the morning. Perfect solitude.

Steven's voice carried a hint of reproach. "I thought you'd return to bed."

"I'm not tired," I lied, avoiding the pull of sleep and its nightmares -I don't feel like being captive.

"You are," he insisted, lying down beside me, his gaze curious. "You're just too stubborn to admit it."

"Stubborn? Hardly," I retorted, discarding the open letter. It fluttered to the floor, a silent surrender to gravity. Its contents, a baron's plea for conversion approval, held no interest for me. Such matters were beyond my concern.

Steven's voice, tinged with humor, broke the silence. "I know no one more steadfast than you—perhaps only father rivals your resolve, yet even he yields at times." I shook my head; Edgar's obstinacy far surpassed mine, his manner often abrasive. The comparison seemed unjust.

I turned my attention to another letter, this one from Lord Haiden Beau Galleren. His words bristled with disdain for the Council's newest member—a mage from Athran. His ignorance was glaring; the mages' ascendancy in the Council was by design, not accident.

Steven's suggestion pierced my thoughts. "We should take more time off. Yesterday was enjoyable." I nodded, though Galleren's scrawl on the page before me sparked irritation. He and his little friend Bearon seemed to believe they commanded the Council, but their delusions were crumbling.

"You seem less than thrilled," Steven observed, his posture shifting to one of mock offense. I glanced up, meeting his expectant gaze. "Forgive me, I was distracted," I admitted, setting aside the letter. "Yesterday was perfect. In every single way. And while I'd prefer not to be part of the celebrations at Athran, I can't wait to spend the whole week with you."