Page 59 of Shadows of the Crown

It’s been twenty-years since I’ve entered my parents’ home. Two decades since my father died—even longer for my mother—and yet the house sits here with barely a change to its appearance. As if it’s been preserving itself.

The dusty brown exterior touches a familiar place in my mind, but it feels like a stranger to me. Vines and unpicked weedsoverrun my mother’s garden. I breathe deeply, closing my eyes—I can almost make out the rows of lavender she loved to grow. Her favorite day of the month was exchanging the wilted plants around our home for fresh ones, sitting on the floor at the center of the house while the windows allowed breeze after breeze to grace us with the light scent.

My chest squeezes. She was happy…

Before she killed herself.

I shake my head and walk over the stone path that leads to the portico, which looks less aged than I’ve become. Interesting considering no one lived here after my familyleft.

People claim its walls are haunted—one parent shoved a blade through her heart, and the other was whipped to death in front of the castle.

They were right about one thing…something haunteddidlive here. But she’s been out of these walls for many years.

My fingers wrap around the cool handle and twist.

Musty, stagnant air rushes against me as the door creaks open. I listen for the closing click before tugging on my luminal strand, shaping enough light in my hand to illuminate long-forgotten memories.

Dust motes drift lazily around the familiar space, though my eyes quickly focus on what lies beyond them. The hall in front of me is lined with faded tapestries and yellowed paintings. The wooden floors lead to the large staircase at the back wall, someof the boards slightly upturned. Surprisingly, the chandelier still hangs from the coffered ceiling, though its once bright jewels are covered in layers of dust—as are the high-backed chairs and previously tan curtains.

The colors that seemed so vivid in my memories are now dulled and desolate. I take hesitant steps forward, the house almost seeming to breathe with my movements as the groaning of settled wood and stone fills me with chills. I push open a door to my left, pausing when the faint echoes of laughter are nearly audible—a distant memory of what once was.

This room was where we spent most of our time; the cushioned chairs and couch ideally placed for conversation and activity. What used to be the vibrant red of all the fabric is now a deep, foreboding scarlet. The shapes of my parents laying together near the blackened fireplace flickers in and out of my vision, and I suck in a breath as my feet lead me through the open space into the kitchen.

The back of my throat burns when I survey the area, my heavy eyes pausing at the crusted vase on the windowsill.

This is…more difficult than I’d anticipated.

I clear my throat and spin on my heel, speeding back through the doorway and up the staircase. I do not realize my body’s intentions until I’m standing in my bedroom. The white bedding is yellow and threadbare, curtained by the transparent fabric thatI was always convinced hid me away completely. It felt like my own private world, where I could just let my thoughts run free.

Pathetic, really.

I circle the room, fascinated with how the last time I was here, the furniture seemed so big compared to my six-year-old body. Now? I tower over the decaying pieces.

My back straightens, heart fluttering as I walk to the closet. My hand lifts to illuminate the carvings in the doorway, where my parents used to mark our growth. Something tugs at my lips at the two highest lines withAriellawritten on top.

They are a couple inches apart, yet were carved the same day.

On my sixth birthday, my parents brought a blade to my room the moment I woke—it was my favorite time of each year. I was obsessed with growing. In height, mind, strength…I was constantly pushing myself to be better at everything.

Including my parents.

Each year, I insisted I was so close to reaching their carved lines at the top of the doorway. But on this particular day, I was frustrated with how far I had left to grow. My father carved a line at the top of my head and attempted to hold in laughter when I became angry because my hair was tied up, making me taller than he’d carved. After very little convincing from my mother, and a dramatic eye-roll, he carved a second line.

He chuckled as his body straightened and told me how crazy it was that I grew two inches in the matter of minutes.

“That’s why you should always be scared of me…I’ll be taller than you before my next birthday!”

Dramatic, but true.

Not one year passed before I stood higher than his crumpled, bloodless body.

I sigh, rising to my full height. Something deep tugs at me when my mother’s line rests just above my vision.

Valyria.

How similar would we look now?

My shoulder bumps the corner of the doorway as I pivot to stalk from the room. I halt just outside, gulping several measured breaths before turning right to stare at the uncanny hallway that leads to my parents’ room. My hand trails the walls while I trudge forward, upturned pieces of wallpaper catching my fingers every few steps.

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