Bound to the flame

Before the storm breaks

11/70

Arianna’s POV

I sat by the window, the weight of silence pressing harder than the guards outside my door. I watched as a few servants moved quietly around the room, finishing their work.

The couch beneath me—soft, curved, placed too perfectly against the tall glass—felt unfamiliar, like it no longer belonged to me. Everything in this room still looked the same. The pale drapes. The carved walls. The quiet elegance meant for a princess. But it didn’t feel like mine anymore. It felt like a cage. My gaze drifted to the window, but even that freedom was an illusion. The view stretched far beyond the palace grounds, open and endless yet completely out of reach. I tilted my head back, letting it rest against the wall, like I needed something to hold me up for a moment. A tear slipped free before I could stop it, sliding along the side of my face, warm and quiet, disappearing into my hair.

"Your Highness,” Sara, one of my servants, said softly.

I stayed like that for a second, eyes closed, holding the rest back, refusing to let them fall. Then I lowered my head again, forcing my breath to steady as I let out a slow, controlled sigh. Not breaking. I wouldn’t let myself.

“Your Highness, is there anything else you would have me do before I take my leave?” Sara asked.

“No, you may leave,” I said quietly.

The door creaked open, and I watched them file out quietly like disciplined soldiers in sync.

So this was what it had come to, confined and blamed.

My fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of my dress as the memory forced its way back—the shattered Royal Blood Vessel, Ava’s voice, Adele’s cold certainty, and my father. The way he looked at me. Or rather, the way he didn’t. Something in my chest shifted uncomfortably. I had always known where I stood in this family. Just never this clearly. I swallowed, my throat tightening as another memory surfaced—one I didn’t want, but couldn’t push away.

Fire! The night my mother died. I was sixteen. Old enough to understand loss, but not enough to understand how it happened. No one ever explained it. No one ever spoke about it. And after she was gone, everything changed. Adele became colder, Ava became crueler. I became the easiest to blame.

A quiet breath escaped me as I leaned back slightly, my gaze unfocused. Adele and Ava were never truly mine to begin with. Different mothers. Different loyalties. They had each other. I had—

The door creaked open.

Soft footsteps followed, careful, familiar.

“Arianna…”

Her voice. The only voice in this palace that never felt sharp.

I turned slightly.

She stood near the door, her expression carrying the same quiet warmth it always had—but today, there was something else beneath it. Worry!

And suddenly, the room didn’t feel as suffocating. Cecilia was already there before I realized I needed her. She didn’t speak at first. She crossed the room and opened her arms. And that was enough. I broke, not loudly. Not dramatically, just quietly.

I stepped into her embrace, and the weight I had been holding since the throne room finally gave way. Her arms closed around me like I was something she had always known how to hold. For a moment, I didn’t feel like a princess: I didn’t feel like a prisoner. I just felt like Arianna.

When she sat down, I followed without thinking, sinking beside her as she guided me gently until my head rested in her lap. Her hand moved slowly into my hair, steadily. And for the first time since the Blood Vessel shattered, I let myself breathe.

“Cecilia…” I whispered.

“Yes, child,” she answered softly.

My fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of her dress.

“When is this going to end?” I asked. My voice cracked despite my trying to stop it.

“When will they stop looking at me like I’m something to be punished for breathing?”

Her hand paused for just a second in my hair. Then it gently resumed, slow and calm. Like she was refusing to let the world rush me even here.

“My dear Arianna,” she said gently, “storms always believe they will last forever.”

A faint, tired laugh escaped me.

“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”

“It is,” she replied.

I frowned slightly, turning my face just enough to glance up at her.

“How?”

Her lips curved softly.

“Because even storms… grow tired.”

Silence fell once more. Then, quieter—almost like a secret she always gave me.

“Still waters, Arianna.”

My breath eased without me meaning to. A gentle smile unconsciously formed on my lips before I could stop it. She always said that, every time I felt like I was drowning, still waters. After a moment, she shifted slightly.

“It is time for your bath,” she said gently.

I sighed softly but didn’t resist. Cecilia helped me sit up. For the first time in hours, I let my shoulders drop. She began loosening my hair carefully, and I felt it fall freely down my shoulders and back—long, thick, dark brown strands catching the light from the window. It always looked too controlled when pinned.

“Just like your mother's,” Cecilia said with a soft smile as she walked towards the bathhouse.

My brows knit slightly as her words didn’t fully register, like I missed something important. I stared at her, trying to make sense of it, tilting my head slightly without thinking. My lips parted, then paused.

“What?”

“Your hair, it's just like your mother's,” she said.

I exhaled slowly.

“I look like a mess,” I muttered.

“You look like someone who survived today,” Cecilia corrected.

That made me quiet. The oak door swung open smoothly once more as a group of servants cautiously entered, their movements silent and efficient, each carrying trays of polished silverware and fresh linens. Servants prepared the water and brought in herbs. Steam began to rise slowly from the bath pool like soft mist curling into the air.

One of the younger servants bowed quickly.

“Your Highness,” she said softly, “the bath is ready.”

Cecilia nodded once.

“Thank you. You may wait outside,” I said.

The servants bowed quickly and slipped out, the door closing softly behind them. I took a slow, steady exhale as the last layer of fabric slipped from my shoulders, and I stepped carefully toward the bath, the heat of the water rising to meet me like a quiet escape. And that was when the air changed: The door slammed open. A sharp sound cut through the calm like a crack in glass.

“Arianna.”

My eyes squeezed shut for a moment, my jaw tightening as frustration rose in my chest.

Ava.

I didn’t move at first. Neither did Cecilia. But I felt it instantly—the shift in my chest, the tightening, the familiar fire I hated recognizing. Ava stepped inside like she owned even this space. Her eyes immediately scanned the room. Then landed on me, her lips curled.

“Oh,” she said lightly. “So this is how confinement looks for the guilty.”

My fingers curled slightly at my sides, gripping the edge of the bath.

“Leave,” I said flatly.

Ava laughed once.

“Or what? You’ll accuse me again?”

Cecilia stood slowly beside me.

“Ava,” Cecilia said quietly, warning in her tone without raising her voice.

Ava finally looked at her. A flicker of unreadable emotion crossed her face, sparking intrigue. Then she scoffed.

“You always defend her,” she said. “It’s almost pathetic.”

“She doesn’t need your judgment,” I said.

Ava tilted her head slightly.

“Oh? But the king seems to think otherwise.”

That hit differently. My chest tightened. Ava stepped closer, her gaze fixed on me as I sat in the bath, the water rising just below my shoulders. She leaned slightly forward.

“It’s almost tempting to break something again—just to see who ends up taking the fall this time.”

The room went still. Even the steam seemed to pause. My voice dropped.

“Try it,” I said quietly.

Ava’s smile faded slightly. Cecilia moved slightly closer to me, not protective in a loud way, but enough that the space between us became a boundary. Ava noticed, of course, she did. For a moment, none of us spoke. Then she stepped back, but her eyes stayed on me.

“You think this is the worst of it? It's not,” she said firmly.

Then she turned and left. The door closed behind her. And only then did I realize my hands were still trembling in my lap—small, uneven movements I couldn’t fully control. Cecilia didn’t speak. She covered my hand with hers, steady and warm, holding on like she was anchoring me to something I was beginning to lose.

"Still waters,” she whispered again—softer now, as if the words carried a sadness that neither of us could quite touch anymore.

My breath hitched slightly. I didn’t respond; I just let her hold me there. It was easier than falling apart again. Then a sound broke through the silence outside my door—the faint shift of armor. A guard moved quietly outside my door, footsteps echoing behind him—slower, more intentional. They stopped just outside. Voices dropped low, too low to be meant for me. But the door wasn’t thick enough to keep it out.

“Orders came from the king,” one of them murmured.

“She’s to be moved tomorrow.”

My breath stilled.

Moved…?