Chapter 9
986 Words
I fell to my knees, gasping, but the air refused to fill my lungs.
A crushing weight pressed down on me—unseen, suffocating, inescapable.
My fingers trembled as I raised them to my cheek, to the crimson mark burned into my skin.
It hurts.
A searing pain, as if fresh embers had been pressed against my flesh.
Why now?
Why was it burning?
The room was empty, yet it felt as though something heavy lingered in the air.
Her words still echoed in my mind, sharp as a blade:
"She was weak."
"Do you think she would have died if she had been a little selfish?"
"Being too kind will kill you… slowly but steadily."
I clutched my face, nails digging into my skin as I fought for control.
I refused to scream.
I refused to break.
But the burn only deepened.
It wasn’t just the mark.
Something inside me—something I had buried long ago—was clawing to the surface.
Rage.
Grief.
A storm I had silenced for far too long.
I forced myself to take slow, steady breaths, but they came out uneven. Shaky.
No matter how much I denied it, one undeniable truth clawed at my chest:
Isebella was right.
Zareth could have run. She could have lived.
But she stayed.
For me.
For a kingdom that never deserved her.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my forehead to the cold floor.
I could still see her smile. Could still hear her voice.
"I expect you to bloom, like a crimson flower in the heart of autumn—when the world begins to wither, yet you remain, standing tall against the dying light."
But I wasn’t blooming.
I was wilting.
Drowning.
Weak.
I bit my lip until I tasted blood.
Was this all I would ever be?
A caged bird, waiting for someone else to decide my fate?
No.
No.
I dug my nails into my palms, forcing the pain to ground me.
I wasn’t a child anymore.
And I wouldn’t break just because someone decided to remind me of the truth.
Slowly, I forced myself to my feet, my limbs shaking but my mind sharpening.
The mark still burned, but I ignored it.
I would not fall.
Not yet.
________________________________
Morning arrived too soon.
I woke to the sound of quiet footsteps and the soft rustling of fabric. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, its warmth unfamiliar against my skin—so different from the cold, damp darkness I had spent years in.
For a moment, I lay still, staring at the ceiling. The sheets were soft. The air smelled faintly of lavender and clean linen. It was the kind of comfort I had never known.
But it wasn’t mine.
The quiet murmuring of the maids pulled me back to reality. They moved efficiently, setting out breakfast and laying fresh clothes across a nearby chair. Not one of them looked at me directly.
Not out of respect.
Out of fear.
I wasn’t sure if it was fear of me or of the woman who had placed me here.
The food was rich—better than anything I had ever eaten—but it sat heavy in my stomach. Even after they dressed me in fitted training clothes and led me through the vast corridors of the palace, the weight of last night’s conversation clung to me.
Then we reached the training grounds.
A vast open space lined with racks of weapons and worn-down dummies. The usual bustle of knights training was absent. Instead, only one person stood waiting.
Isabella.
She stood in the center, dressed in a tailored combat uniform, golden hair neatly braided, a sword in her hand as if it belonged there.
A queen on the battlefield.
I stopped a few feet away, arms crossing over my chest.
"You have too much free time for a ruler," I muttered, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
Isabella turned to me, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips.
"I make time for things that matter," she said smoothly. "And right now, that is you."
Something about the way she said it sent a chill through me.
Not from the words—
From the certainty behind them.
She bent down, picking up another sword from the ground. Without hesitation, she tossed it toward me.
The steel clattered at my feet.
"Pick it up," she ordered.
I didn’t move.
Isabella tilted her head, her golden eyes gleaming. "Afraid?"
I glared at her.
"I'm not a soldier," I snapped.
"You think soldiers are born!?" she countered, her voice slightly annoyed as she shoved me back. "No. They are made."
I then noticed a guy standing next to him, I barely noticed him earlier...
Was it because I was too fixed on Isebella?
No
It's as if he had completely concealed his presence earlier
Now that I saw him, he was impossible to ignore.
Tall and lean, with an air of effortless control. His dark, shoulder-length hair was neatly tied back, his clothing simple yet well-fitted. He had the sharp, alert eyes of a predator—watching, analyzing, waiting.
"Vaelith," Isabella gestured toward him without looking. "Meet your new instructor."
The man inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
"My name is Rowan," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I will be teaching you how to wield a blade."
I frowned. "I never agreed to this."
Isabella chuckled, stepping aside.
"Then don’t," she said smoothly. "But if you refuse, you will leave this palace with nothing—back to your old dungeon, rotting away."
Her smile sharpened.
"Tell me, Vaelith—do you think that will be enough to survive?"
I grit my teeth.
She was backing me into a corner. Again.
And the worst part?
I was falling for it.
"Understood." I said firmly as I picked up the sword.
"I'm looking forward to learning from you, Sir Rowan."
- Writer
