Castle of Ashes

Chapter 8

The following days have grown slightly warmer, and the room where I've been residing for over a week now feels stuffy, despite the faint breeze coming through the open windows. I can detect the intoxicating scent of wood hyacinth and crested irises blending with the waft of air. Spring is nearly here. I'm wearing the heavy gray hooded robe, and it clings to my nervous shoulders as I steal a quick, anxious glance in the mirror. As the mage champion, I'm clad in the militia's colors.

Today marks the beginning of the assortment, the day when I'll meet the fifteen other contenders vying for the favor of the royal council and the royals themselves.

I've heard grim tales of what happens to those who fail in the assortment. They either end up discarded in the kingdom's slums or are sold into servitude to wealthy houses, destined for whatever use their masters see fit. Some simply vanish, their fates unknown lost to history.

A gentle knock on the wooden door interrupts my contemplation, bringing me back to the harsh reality beyond that door.

"Lady Lemour, the royal wagon is here. Please be ready," Ferran's voice cuts through my thoughts. My cheeks flush immediately at the sound of his warm, inviting voice, reminding me of the heat of our first kiss and the lingering taste of his breath and wine on my lips.

I quickly survey myself in the mirror, then swallow the lump that has formed in my throat. I steady my resolve; I must be composed when I open the wooden door and face him. My heels carry me to the door frame, which I swing open to the cold morning breeze, redolent with fresh dew and the scent of pine needles, cones, and bark that hangs around the circular opening in the curtain walls.

Ferran emerges from the right side of the door frame, adjusting his tunic, which bears a silver and dark hue. He lets out a low, appreciative growl upon seeing me in the militia's cloak.

My mouth dries up as I lift my gaze to his scarred face, eventually focusing on his strong, clever fingers extended toward me—a gentlemanly gesture.

But I am no damsel to be protected. Trapped within these castle walls, I must fend for myself, just as I always have, in a world that constantly threatens to tear me apart.

It's also a way to guard against getting too attached to this remarkably attractive man before me. Yes, it's the harsh reality. People come and go, and I refuse to fall victim to unrealistic expectations.

I need to quash my emotions, and sever this budding affection now.

"Is something amiss?" the soldier asks, his hand hovering in the air for a moment, his expression a mixture of confusion and a slowly falling jaw. I've never seen him this brooding since the day we met. He looks away, withdrawing his outstretched hand.

I step out of the room, my eyes narrowing at the wagon waiting patiently in the black-washed brick bailey. Two horses, as dark as a moonless night, neigh as I approach.

Ferran walks beside me, his words muted and stifled.

"Thank you, Lieutenant, for your kindness," I murmur, finally breaking the awkward silence between us.

His eyes shift to a calm, earthy hue. "The militia will be rooting for you during the assortment. The next few days will be challenging. I know you're a strong lady, but Charming Castle can push even the most steadfast to their limits. Always remember you're not alone in this battle, Tali."

I offer a sheepish smile as I cross the bailey. The carriage comes into clearer view as the morning mist begins to disperse. Silhouettes of hooded soldiers wait around it, eager to catch a glimpse of their champion before she departs for the ceremony.

Murmurs reach my ears from various directions. Faces of different shapes, colors, and structures stand tall, many bowing respectfully.

"They're here to pay their respects to their contender," Ferran whispers, guiding me toward the militia wagon.

"Will it matter to them if I win the assortment?"

"It's the military's way of gaining favor with the royalty. The militia will earn the trust of the royal family if their contender emerges victorious."

I climb into the carriage before attempting to speak. As I settle under the canopy, I inquire, "Has the militia ever won in past assortments?"

Without a word, Ferran shakes his head vigorously. "Most of our representatives were eliminated in the first round of the assortment. None have made it to the final selection."

I fall silent, thoughts swirling as I approach the wagon. The previous assortments must have been incredibly challenging, especially for the militia's contenders, since none have ever reached the final stages. It means that the other contenders are formidable and powerful, given what I've heard from him.

I wonder if I possess the strength to overcome the tests of the assortment.

As we reach the wagon's tent, Ferran grabs the edge of the canopy and rolls it back, revealing the silent wagon bed. He pins his gaze on me, his hazel eyes lacking their usual radiance, almost reflecting a hint of sadness, longing, or perhaps both. I wonder what those emotions mean.

"Wishing you the best of luck," he mumbles under his breath.

"I appreciate your support. Thank you," I reply, bowing before him and then climbing into the wagon.

An overwhelming swirl of emotions churns in my stomach as I move deeper into the tent. My instincts tell me I'll miss his presence. I'll long for the mystery in his eyes and the enigmatic gaze he bestows upon me. But I can't voice these feelings; it's either too soon, or perhaps it's not even love, just an infatuation born out of my need for attention—attention that he alone has provided.

As the realization dawns that our goodbyes may not have been sufficient, I glance over my shoulder to catch a final glimpse of the kind lieutenant. However, his steps are already leading him toward the massive entry door. Gradually, other soldiers return to their posts, obscuring the view of his powerful shoulders.

"Until we meet again, Lieutenant Ferran," I whisper as the wagon starts to move, and the horses neigh against the morning sun. I sigh, surrendering to what lies ahead.