damsel in distress

Chapter 19

By a particularly secluded and comfortable window, there lies a bookshelf which is filled with titles I shall gobble up in hours. A Brief Commentary on Naval History in the Verha Sea. Stoicism and God. Developments in Architecture and Engineering. God and His Faults. An entire shelf full of hardbound commentaries and memoirs. I see a few romances scantily placed between these mind taxing, interesting books. Woman's place in Theology. Animists Guide to Natural History.

I sit by the window and contemplate death. If I fling myself down, I would put an end to this suffering and the Writer shall write me a blameless girl torn apart by the game of politics men played. My body would lie down in the holdfast, broken and innocent, shaming everyone who brought this ruin on me. I look down below and all courage leaves me and I settle down, sobbing.

The window settee is cushioned and the sill has a stand for a lamp. A small table beside that has a vase of forget me nots. A heavy realisation forms in the pit of my stomach and I feel ill, when I begin to think that Sorin did this for me. How must he have looked, picking out all these books and arranging it someplace else. Did his brothers laugh at him, did he do this when I was asleep, if he… why did he do this?

Sorin doesn't hold me in his heart. If he did, he could have been gentler. Perhaps I am really a damsel in distress, sad and pathetic, sitting in a lonely tower, waiting for a prince to profess his love to me and save me.

I miss Stein. I miss myself. And, despite everything, I want Adam back. I must be an utter fool if I find myself desiring his frigid eyes and lack of interest. Sorin's affections feel foreign to me, for I am not accustomed to being the object of a man’s admire.

I turn myself to the books. And my hand stops at a particular one. Heart of Frost. If this wasn't an unexplainable world, I would have had no way to explain myself but I feel a cosmic pull to this book. As if it forces me to lift my hand and open it, settle down on the settee and drown myself in its words.

Chapter 1: Heart of Frost

The horizon is smoked with the pyres of the men he has killed.

The evening is in its late hours of survival when the winds carrying the stench of burning flesh settles on his eyelids. Heavy, exhausting. He exhales calmly, wincing a little when the flames dance on his shoes. These lands burn their dead, and honouring the last rites of the fallen is the least an army can do.

But not him. He looks up at the orange horizon, muddled gaze trying to distinguish the smoke of the pyres from the dark hues of the setting sun. Yeshey calls from afar and he turns, stepping over a stowaway hand that escaped from the caged wooden pyres. It cracks, half charred and half decomposed, and the maroon flesh sticks to his shoes. He sighs. It would take a little more than just rubbing it in the stray gravels to get rid of that.

From the distant blur, he sees his friend wave to him. Slowly, that figure grows closer. “Sorin,” calls his friend. “The commander is calling for you!”

I hear a dog yip. The book falls from my hands and I feel something wet and hairy nuzzle my ankle.

“Kalsang!”

I startle and pull my legs up when I realise that one of those wretched wolves is licking my ankle.

“Kalsang! Apologise to the Princess!” And there is another middle aged noble tending to this beast.

“No need, kind Sir,” I mewl while inching back and making myself one with the corner. The wolf, large and black, continues to try and sniff my skirts. “Just…”
“He shan't harm you.” The nobleman says and I register his pepper grey hair, tall built and broad shoulders that bear a striking resemblance to Adam. Sorin. “Asfandyar Sangyal, my Lady. Sorin’s elder cousin and the Master of Arms.” He tips his head and I recognize him from the bath. “You may call me Asfand. Kalsang, come back now.”