Page 3 of Tethered In Blood

“Going somewhere, Darling?”

The memory snapped, leaving me cold and unsteady. The bridge lay behind me, the crows still watched from their perch, and the river whispered without care.

I wasn’t there.

I wasn’t running.

Willing my breath to steady, I unclenched my fingers from the hem of my cloak. My pulse hammered at my temples, but I continued forward, one step at a time.

The past held no sway over me here. Yet, as I walked into the mist, I could still feel Marcus’s fingers ghosting over my wrist and hear his voice curling in the depths of my mind. The farther I walked, the thinner the trees grew, their skeletal branches bending under the weight of the morning frost. Soon, the road widened, bordered by brittle fields and the first hints of distant hills. By midday, the silence pressed in, leaving too much space for thoughts to creep in, unwelcome and sharp-edged.

What if they don’t accept me?

Doubt constricted in my chest, colder than the wind that bit at my face. I knew the experience. My journal hadn’t been filled with observations and theories; I had earned every remedy, every antidote, and every detailed note of pain.

Burning fevers. Stomach cramps. Weakness in the limbs. Blurred vision. Hallucinations.

I learned the signs of poison not from books, but from my body. I learned the cures because I needed them to live.But would that be enough?

The capital was filled with people who had studied in halls of marble and gold. These men and women learned from scholars, not through suffering. Their hands had never trembled from fever as they scrawled notes by candlelight, desperate to comprehend what threatened their lives before time ran out. I didn’t look the same as them, or like I belonged in a palace. That thought sent a familiar ache crawling through me, sinking deep into my ribs. My steps faltered, and the world grew hazy.

The fire was dying in the hearth, casting shadows that crawled across the wooden walls of our home. The scent of dried herbs and candle wax hung in the air, yet it did nothing to soften the sharp bite of my mother’s voice.

“You have charcoal on your hands again.”

I rubbed my fingers against my skirts, but the smudges wouldn’t come off. “I was writing.”

Her gaze flicked to my open journal, to the pages spread wide with careful notes, pressed flowers, and sketched diagrams. Her expression twisted in neither anger nor approval.

My father set down his pipe, watching me from across the room. “You’ve been spending too much time with that book.”

“It’s important,” I said. “I’m learning.”

My mother’s sigh was sharp and final. “You can’t change what you are with books and pressed flowers, Eden.”

She didn’t have to say it outright. I didn’t learn from books or study in a grand hall beneath candlelit chandeliers. My knowledge came from bitter-tasting drafts given to me with lies and calculated intent.

“Drink this. It will help with the fever.”

“This will warm you.”

My mother’s hand smoothed my hair as the poison took hold, my vision blurred, and my heartbeat stuttered. My father watched as I writhed on the floor, fighting to purge whatever mixture they had given me this time. They never explained why or provided a reason.

But I learned. I wrote everything down and tracked the symptoms, their duration, and the lingering effects. When I had recovered enough to move, I searched the area for herbs that might counteract the effects of what had been done to me. I tested doses on myself and observed whether or not the antidotes worked. I discovered what kept my pulse steady, what cleared my mind, and what stitched me back together after they tried to break me.

Marcus’s poisons were more cruel. His touch was excruciating. His voice coiled deep within me.

“You always had such a talent for healing, Darling. I wonder how much you’ll have to break before accepting that you belong to me.”

The icy air stung my lungs. The empty road stretched endlessly ahead, and the sky was a pale shade of blue above it. I set my jaw and compelled my feet to move.

“This isn’t real.” Another breath. “I’m on the road to the capital.” Another. “The sky is clear. The wind is cold. The air smells of frost and dirt.”

My voice was a faint murmur, but it was enough. Enough to ground me, to break the memory’s grip, and to remind myself that I wasn’t there. I wasn’t a child waiting for an answer that would never come. I wasn’t his.

The charcoal on my hands was nothing to be ashamed of. It proved my hard work. I had my journal, knowledge, and skills. That had to be enough.

If it weren’t, I would make it.

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