Castle of Ashes

Chapter 4

The room is cast in ethereal moonlight, lending an otherworldly glow to the space. The intricate window, a portal to the night's mysteries, allows the moon's gentle rays to pierce through, painting patterns of light across the floor. I blink, my gaze drawn to the door frame where his form stood, stark and naked against the luminescent backdrop. My mind battles with disbelief, questioning the reality of his presence.

But then, as if in a dance with the heavens, the moon's radiance is obscured by the passage of thick clouds. His shadow dissipates into the darkness, leaving me to wonder if he was ever truly there or merely a creation of my own fervent imagination.

To steady myself, I submerge my face into the foamy embrace of bubbles, letting the comforting scent wash over me. Each rise and fall of my chest is a testament to the turmoil that churns within me. As the storm within begins to quiet, I emerge from the bath, though I remain in the bathing chamber. Leaning against the bricked wall, I peer out at the night sky, a veil of clouds shrouding the moon's gaze.

With my hands pressed against the so-called marble floor, I find myself grappling with the illusion that has woven its threads around my thoughts. What has he done to me? This inexplicable pull towards him, an invisible thread that tugs at my very soul—could it be a spell, unbreakable and enchanting?

Drawing my knees close to my chest, I murmur softly to myself, "Illusion. It's all an illusion," a mantra to challenge the enchantment that seems to bind me.

Rising from my contemplative stance, I choose to cleanse my body of more than just the bath's residue. The water cascades over me, a cascade that washes away the images and figments my mind has conjured. As the warmth of the water envelops me, I sigh, my fingers rubbing away the remnants of bubbles and soap that cling to my skin like lingering phantoms.

With the cleansing complete, I step out of the shower, reaching for the waiting towel. Pressing it against my face, I relish the sensation, the softness against my skin a gentle balm for my soul.

A sense of ease washes over me, a feeling not experienced since childhood—a childhood tainted by hardship and the harsh hand of my father. In the midst of that bleakness, my solace was found in the companionship of my black cat, Shantal.

"No, Tali," I murmur, speaking to the reflection in the mirror. "Don't be seduced by this fleeting comfort. It's akin to the calm before the storm, a calm that terrifies the impending tempest. Just like this kingdom did to my mother."

I peer at my reflection, my almond-shaped face framed by a curtain of brunette hair that brushes my shoulder blades. My gaze meets my own, a mixture of determination and vulnerability etched into my features.

Before I succumb to the chill of the room, I reach for the nearby cotton robe, wrapping it around my form. My attention then shifts to the wool-gray hooded cloak, a protective garment hanging next to the old dresser. Each step toward the bed feels heavier than the last, the cold wind brushing against my skin as I slip between the warm sheets.

The temperature is chillier than expected, and my thoughts inevitably drift to Parington, Shantal, and my father. I wonder how they're faring now that news of my arrest has likely reached the village. My father, with his proclivity for wine, would likely find solace in its embrace, purchased with the alms he received for betraying me.

As sleep beckons, my vision grows hazy once more, the veil of dreams descending once more.

Gentle knocks on the door rouse me from the cusp of slumber. Startled, I sit up, clutching my arm against my chest. The door creaks open, revealing a young girl, a servant bearing a tray laden with food. Bagel, steaming soup, and salad rest upon the silver platter.

Beside her stands Ferran, his hazel eyes dilated like earthy pools, a testament to the intensity within. His presence, like an unspoken command, directs the young servant's movements. As she moves, her hair turns to glistening tendrils, as if touched by the wind's whispered secrets.

The tray finds its place upon the bedside table, a barren space now filled with sustenance. The servant bows, head lowered, and departs, her footsteps fading away.

"I appreciate it," I murmur, my gratitude an offering to the silent figure who orchestrated this small act of comfort. The young servant hesitates, perhaps catching my words, but she continues her retreat without a glance back.

A chair scrapes against the floor, breaking the stillness of the room. I turn, finding Ferran seated on the edge of the bed, his hands resting lightly on the rail of the wooden frame. His presence fills the air, the energy of his being tangible.

"Sit," he invites, the lamplight flickering to life as he gestures to the chair.

With a quiet exhalation, I acquiesce, settling into the chair opposite him. The room, now dimmed, feels intimate and private, a haven where our words can weave threads of understanding.

"Thank you for this beautiful room and meal," I utter, a genuine gratitude that warrants acknowledgment. His actions, whether by duty or choice, provide solace in a realm that thrives on uncertainty.

"You're an assortment contender, and you deserve it," he replies, his words a validation of my worth within this complex tapestry.

Perching on the edge of the bed, he motions for me to eat, a gesture of camaraderie that soothes the edges of formality. I offer a sheepish smile, my cheeks warm beneath his unwavering gaze. Taking the spoon in hand, I dip it into the aromatic mushroom soup, blowing on its surface before indulging in the rich flavors.

Throughout the meal, his presence lingers, a silent companion. I eat mindfully, his proximity imbuing even this simple act with a gravity I can't ignore. He too consumes his own fare, swallowing the piece of bagel with a practiced ease.

Curiosity blooms within me, compelling me to question his choice to observe me in this seemingly ordinary moment. A tension flickers beneath the surface, a dance of unspoken words and shared glances.

"Are you compelled to watch me eat?" I inquire, seeking understanding in the depths of his gaze.

His silence stretches, a canvas upon which my words are painted. His response comes at last, steady and measured, "The barracks are often noisy. It's quieter here."

I nod, understanding the desire for tranquility in a life often defined by chaos. "And so, you've made this your retreat," I muse, a hint of a smile gracing my lips.

"This is my room," he asserts, a declaration that carves a sliver of vulnerability into the space between us. "It was my room before I offered it to you as we await the assortment."

My thoughts take me to the realities of his life, a soldier who embraces change as effortlessly as breathing. "So, you'll endure the barracks for a time?"

"I'm a chameleon; I adapt to change," he remarks, his voice threaded with a sense of quiet pride.

"Like most soldiers do," I respond, my words trailing off as he leans in, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. My breath catches, and time seems to suspend as his hand cups my jaw, his touch igniting an electric charge that courses through me. The proximity of his form, the warmth of his breath, creates an intimacy that defies convention.

"A smudge on your lip," he murmurs, his voice a caress against my senses. His gaze, a piercing study, holds mine captive. My heart races, a fluttering of wings within my chest.

Nestled within the embrace of his gaze, I'm ensnared by the moment, suspended in a web of unspoken desire. The world narrows to the space between us, where time seems to dilate, stretching and contorting as if dancing to the rhythm of our breaths.

He leans closer, his nose nearly grazing my skin. Fingers trail a delicate path along the nape of my neck, stirring sensations that awaken every nerve. The scent of mint and earth envelops me, and in that suspended moment, the universe contracts to encompass only us, the tension between us palpable, a force that defies the realms of reason.

The moment stretches, a fragile bridge connecting two souls on the precipice of something unknown.