Chapter Three: Lessons in Shadows (Part 2)
842 Words
Amara sat on the floor of her chamber, the flickering candle casting shadows over the parchment in her hands. The symbols on the page were inked in a fine, neat hand—her mother’s, she recognized—but the shapes meant nothing to her.
Circles, lines, slashes. Almost like music. Almost like madness.
Kael stood silently behind her, arms folded, watching.
“She used this before,” he said finally. “A cipher. A layered code based on the languages of old Athmara.”
“You can’t read it?”
“I was trained in swordsmanship, not riddles.”
She gave a tight smile. “Then maybe you’re not as useful as you thought.”
He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Give me a sword, I’ll protect your life. Give me a puzzle, and I’ll protect your pride by letting you solve it first.”
She glanced at him. “Is that supposed to be charming?”
He shrugged. “You tell me.”
She looked away quickly, cheeks burning, and turned her focus back to the parchment.
If her mother had left this behind, it had to mean something important. A final warning. A final plan.
Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door—sharp, urgent.
Amara’s breath caught.
She stuffed the parchment into the inner fold of her robe and nodded at Kael. In an instant, he vanished behind her dressing screen.
The door creaked open.
Lady Vyra stepped in, elegant and tall in her dark plum gown.
“Your Highness,” she said, her voice all velvet. “Your presence is requested in the solar. Your father wishes to speak with you.”
Amara stood, masking her thoughts with a smile. “Of course. I’ll come at once.”
Lady Vyra tilted her head, eyes lingering a moment too long on the shadows in the room. “And your guest?”
Amara froze.
“My guest?” she repeated calmly.
Vyra’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You were speaking just now.”
“I was reading aloud.”
“Strange, then, that your candle trembled just as I knocked.”
“Perhaps it’s haunted,” Amara said, stepping forward. “Shall we go?”
---
The solar was warm, the scent of citrus and ink in the air. King Marron stood at the window, hands behind his back, staring into the night.
When he turned to face her, his expression was unreadable.
“You look tired,” he said.
“You summoned me late,” she replied, standing tall.
He studied her.
“There’s unrest brewing,” he said after a pause. “In the east. Whispers of disloyalty. I may need to send an envoy—perhaps even you.”
Amara’s heart raced.
He was testing her. Watching her.
“I’ll go,” she said smoothly. “Whatever is required of me.”
He nodded. “You sound like your mother.”
She tilted her head. “Was that a compliment?”
His gaze darkened. “She had fire. But fire... burns.”
Before Amara could respond, a steward entered with wine. The goblet offered to her was ornate—carved silver with emeralds at the base.
She hesitated.
The steward stood patiently.
Her father raised his own cup and drank deeply. She took hers, turned slightly, and brought it to her lips—but didn’t drink. She lowered it a second later, pretending to set it down in thought.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Vyra watching her.
---
That night, back in her chamber, Kael was waiting.
“You didn’t drink it,” he said.
“You saw?”
“I always watch.”
She set the goblet down. “Poison?”
“Not this time. But they’re testing you.”
Amara pulled the parchment from her robe and handed it back to him. “We need to find someone who can read this.”
Kael nodded. “There’s an old keeper in the southern quarter. Used to serve in the royal court. He knew your mother. Disappeared after her death.”
“Alive?”
“If he is, he’s in hiding. Like the rest of us.”
Amara’s eyes burned. “I don’t want to hide. I want to fight.”
Kael stepped closer. “Then fight smart. Live long enough to strike when it matters.”
Their eyes locked.
A silence stretched between them—electric, unspoken.
For a heartbeat, Amara thought he might reach for her.
But he stepped back instead.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Wear something plain. We’ll leave before dawn.”
---
That night, Amara dreamed of her mother.
She was in the garden again—the one with the black lilies and the singing fountain. Her mother stood among the flowers, wind in her hair, eyes bright with fire.
“They want to break you,” she whispered. “But remember, Amara—queens are not made in sunlight. They are forged in shadow.”
Then the garden turned to smoke. And Amara awoke, breathless.
- Writer
