Page 1 of Glass and Bone
Chapter One
Dark clouds loom overhead, threatening the prospect of rain and thunder. Fear courses through my veins like electricity as I stare up at the sky. My breathing erratic as terror sets in. The once deep blue and gray gradient that used to fill the open air above is replaced with dark purple and black. Electricity vibrates throughout the air, causing my skin to pimple and the hairs along my arms to stand up.
A storm is near, I can feel it. I can feel the lightning gearing up in the clouds, ready to wreak havoc.
I need to find shelter, find cover, before the rain and lightning start. The last time a storm broke out this severely, it knocked part of the wall down and almost damaged the palace. It left us open and unguarded, with anyone being able to enter the confines of the capital.
I will myself to move, but my body refuses. My muscles lock in place as I wait for it to start. I just stand and stare out at the hills and trees, watching the sky darken further as the seconds pass. The greens of the trees and bushes glow against the blackening sky. Shining as if they were bioluminescent, as if they were their own light source.
The feeling of something sharp pressing into my naked feet distracts me. I try to ignore it, but the pain is too maddening, too constant. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, softly shifting my feet, hoping to dislodge some of the pieces. My hands clench into fists and I dig my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from screaming. The jagged edges slice through my flesh, causing my blood to join theirs, creating a vibrant pool of crimson where there used to be grass. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for it to pass. Waiting for this to end. I can’t move. I can’t look. Terror prevents me from glancing down because I know.
I know the sharp edges cutting through my skin are that of glass and bone. And worse, that the bones in which I now stand on, belong to the ones I used to know.
My eyes flash open and I can feel my heart racing in my chest, my pulse echoing through my ears. My mouth tastes metallic, tangy, and a quick flick of my tongue against my lips lets me know that I drew blood. I take a slow, deep breath as I stare at the ornamental wall above, begging for the panic to subside. Begging for the pounding in my head to dissipate.
Gold and bronze filigree litter the ceiling in patterns of flowers and swirls, only meeting where multiple chandeliers of different sizes hang. The clear, quartz crystals dangling from the burnt-out candles reflect the small amount of light funneling in from outside into cascading rainbows across the rest of the walls, illuminating an otherwise dark and dreary room. A sight I used to disregard, purely out of contempt.
A sight I took for granted thinking this time would never come.
I have woken up to this ceiling every day for nearly 18 years, but now, as I know my impending travel is only one week away, I find myself wondering if I will miss it. If I will miss the dark palace nestled in the mountains.
I brush a loose tendril that escaped my braid from my forehead and notice the sheen of sweat that has accumulated there.My ragged breathing is lessening, calming, and I can finally take a slow, deep breath.
It was just a dream.I’ve been having nightmares every night for the last ten years, always the same exact thing.
Storms, blood, glass, rubble.
It’s always exactly the same and never changes. Whether it is fear conjuring up the story that plays in my head every night, or a premonition I have so carelessly ignored, I am not sure.
I never believed in the power to see beyond what's there, but the palace prophet, Kassius, predicted my mother’s death years before its arrival. I believed in him only for a moment, until that same prophet was beheaded for supposedly murdering her. Whether he truly committed the act, or my father was just afraid of the unknown, I’m not sure. The rumors that my father is the one who actually ended her life still haunt my brain.
I’ll never know what truly happened to my mother that day, but part of me is convinced my father would do something so reckless if it benefitted him. He’d do anything if it somehow strengthened his own rule. The only thing my father loves more than himself is his country. I don’t even think I make it into the top ten of things my father loves.
I inhale a slow and steady breath, grateful that my pulse has returned to normal, and allow myself to sit up fully, taking in the sight. My room usually remains tidy and clean due to the help of my ladies, but the luggage and clothing that will soon be confined to a single carriage litter every surface.
My sitting area with a plush, gray couch I have spent many nights falling asleep on, is covered in various gowns and tunics. The writing desk has been emptied, with only a single, small trunk sitting on top holding the art supplies I have never gotten around to using. I was convinced that I would use painting as an outlet for my emotions, but I could never bring myself to even try. Every time I picked up a brush or piece of charcoal, I got reminded of the life I would never have. The life others have and take for granted. An outlet one should use for the emotions that need to escape, just made mine worse.
I force my eyes to break away from the small chest of pain and glance towards the far wall. My dressing room door remains open, with most of the clothing and shoes on the floor in a large pile. An irritated groan escapes my lips as I realize I needed to actually sort through all of this and get it packed.
Heaviness settles deep in my belly, sparking the nausea that seems to be always present. Dread. That is the only word I can conjure to explain what I am feeling. It presses on my chest as if it’s an unending presence sucking any bit of happiness out of me before it has a chance to manifest.
I denied the help of my three ladies in packing, knowing that this is something I needed to do alone. I am not sure if I will once again have ladies to attend to me in my new home, or if I will even have a say in anything regarding my clothing, or personal belongings. I don’t know much about my destination, what protocol is like, what my life will be like when I get there.
But I do know one thing: I cannot allow myself to trust the people I will soon be surrounded by.
Royals are known for their games.
The knowledge of my supposed duty has been ingrained into me since the day I could speak: a princess must marry a prince. While my father’s kingdom is one of the smallest, it still holds power and influence in the world of royalty and court. Everyone fears my father, as they should. He’s an ambivalent, yet dangerous man who only cares for himself and the power he has.
However, he has always been an opportunist. Knowing that he will have gained additional lands and prestige when his daughter is wed to the Prince of Noterra, one of the largest kingdoms, he was quick to accept the proposal when I was nothing more than a babe. Quick to sign away any chance of freedom I may have had, and instead, handed my title of ownership to another country.
I was only 7 when we traveled to Noterra, and I met Tobias for the first and only time. He was tall then, as I’m sure he has remained so. He had thick, wavy hair in various shades of gold and copper, reminding me of the warm sun. He kept it pulled back with a leather strap as if it was unruly enough to warrant constraint. His skin was deep and golden, courtesy of the cloudless skies and summer sun that was visible all year round.
In contrast, his bright blue eyes looked like they held secrets and a history of pain and anger, as if he had never known a day of happiness and joy in his life. His hands were permanently clenched in fists, his jaw hardened as if he was biting back the urge to say something. I remember wondering how a boy that young could look so hurt, how the crown prince of the largest kingdom on the continent had anything to even be worried about.
That was before I felt pain and fear of my own.
His father looked similar to the one I was cursed with: towering height, muscular frame, and frightening. He had the same golden skin his son had, another perk of spending your entire life in a place where storms were rare. Frown lines and furrowed brows permanently etched into his perfectly shaven face, with only a small, pink scar above his right eye to remind you that he was once a warrior.
