Departure day-1
1163 Words
CELIA
Turns out shifting is normal over here just as how it's absolutely normal to walk around with a cup of coffee on a Monday morning.
Damn. I missed coffees.
Well, the major problem I have now is that…
I can't shift. Not willingly.
I can only shift when I'm angry or when I try to imitate the anger I felt that day, the day which was actually exactly three weeks ago by the way, and I can very much assure you that—
My life didn't get any better.
In fact, it actually got even worse.
Okay, let’s also overlook the fact that I’m currently standing in broad daylight, drawing a bow, sweating like my life depends on it, in preparation for the so-called Royal Academy bull crap.
Because apparently, since I can’t shift on command—which they are actually not aware of—the solution is to turn myself into some medieval version of an action movie extra and choosing the bow is the only solution for me.
“Again,” the instructor barks.
I pull the bowstring back, my arms already burning. But my shot misses the target by a very disrespectful distance.
He sighs like I personally ruined his day.
Honestly? Fair.
He shouldn't blame me though. I'd thought archery was the easiest. Turns out I was bluffing.
But that’s not even the worst part.
The worst part is… I feel like I’m losing myself.
Every day when I wake up, it’s like I’m leaning inch by inch into Celia Valmorra and drifting further away from Celia Sterling.
The way people talk to me.
The clothes.
The rules.
The expectations.
Even my thoughts are starting to sound… different.
I'm not supposed to start to lose my thirty-three year old self in just three weeks of reaching this… world where everything I've done just keeps proving that this world is in fact very real. E.g. my aching bones.
So I started journaling.
Hiding little notebooks under my pillow. Writing dumb things. Random things. Things that only make sense to me. I even drew the eiffel tower just so I don’t forget that I used to be someone else before I became her.
Before my life turned into destiny yaps and bloodlines and goddess nonsense.
That aside…
this place is so f*****g unbearable.
It’s summer. I mean SUMMER.
And there is:
No AC.
No fan.
No cold drinks.
No fridge.
Ice here is basically black-diamond rare.
And don’t even get me started on their toilets.
Their toilet system is an actual crime.
What do you mean Annabel brings a f*****g pail to my chambers when I want to s**t?
A PAIL.
As if I'm camping or in a survival reality show.
And the worst part?
She brings it with a straight face like this is actual luxury and i should be grateful.
“My lady, your chamber pot.”
Eiii?
Chamber. Pot.
Do you know how humbling it is to be a stinkingly rich woman in your past life and now your bathroom upgrade is what… a bucket with ambition?
Holy hell. I miss flushing. I miss running water. I miss not having to emotionally prepare myself before using the toilet. I miss going out too. My father acts exactly how my papa acted when I was 17 especially with the no going out rule.
It's f*****g insane. I mean, I'm 33. Will be 34 in a few months. And I'm not allowed to go out??
I huff in a breath.
This world is magical, yes.
But at what cost?? At what f*****g—
“Focus, Lady Celia!” the instructor snaps again.
I grit my teeth and raise the bow, huffing in another breath. Then, I release both.
The arrow flies and hits the outer ring again. Still not impressive, but at least I did not completely disgrace myself this time.
I can feel the instructor, Sir Gilead, staring daggers at the side of my face ans i just stand there, rooted in the same pose, hand suspended in the air.
He sighs. “Take a break,” He says. “We resume in a quarter bell.”
Thank the Moon Goddess.
I drop the bow and walk toward the shaded benches near the training field, then drop down heavily, my fingers fiddling with my corset.
My fingers feel numb, my arms are shaking, my back hurts, my entire body aches. Hell, I'm dyingggg. I really wish Annabel was here.
I wipe sweat from my forehead and look around the training grounds, mostly because I do not want to think about how this has somehow become my everyday routine.
And that is when I see them.
On the other side of the field, Keiran is standing behind Laureline, correcting her stance and adjusting her grip on the sword in her hands. He says something to her and she laughs, tilting her head slightly while trying again.
They look… comfortable. Just like they looked at that parking lot. It felt just like yesterday but seems so far away.
My chest tightens in a way I do not appreciate and I force my gaze away, staring at the blue sky instead.
Since that night at the hallway, Keiran had avoided me like the plague. Laureline no longer bothers me but her mother does, especially by throwing snide remarks at dinner.
I don't care about that b***h though.
So, the thing is, they are both going to the Royal Academy too.
Apparently, Keiran is already a student there, in his second and final year— male nobles are to use two years and female nobles are to use one year and a few months—which explains why he moves like he knows exactly what he is doing and why Sir Gilead treats him with that annoying level of respect.
Laureline and I, on the other hand, are preparing as juniors, which means we still have to pass the academy entry trials before we can even call ourselves students.
Fresh meat, basically.
I look away before my anger decides to act on its own again, because the last thing I need is another accidental shift in front of the entire training ground.
And, training continues like that.
Day after day.
Archery, combat drills, stamina exercises, and strategy lessons that make my head hurt. And still, no controlled shifting. Just emotional, inconvenient transformations that only happen when I am angry or pushed too far.
So we focus even more on weapons.
Because apparently, if I cannot rely on instincts, then I better rely on this.
At night, I journal and pretend that writing things down will stop me from disappearing into this version of ‘myself but not really myself.
During the day, I train and read and sometimes cry and hope for that mechanical voice which seems to never come and try not to think too hard about how permanent everything is starting to feel.
And then, somehow, it is departure day.
- Writer
