Page 68 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
My hair was braided in the back, and my tunic went to my neckline, so even if my wounds were not healed, no one would be able to see my back.
“How— How are you feeling?” he practically choked on his words.
“I’m doing as well as I can.” I sighed.
“Does this change things with us?”
I stayed quiet for a moment, contemplating my words.
“It changes everything.”
Did I still love the prince? I wasn’t so sure. How could I be in love with someone who shared the same eyes as a monster? How could I live here, in the palace?
“I understand. But Elara,” I turned to look at him. He reached for my hand, and I let him take it. “I love you so much. I want you to be my Queen. I want you to marry me. Together, we will kick my father out of this castle.” His eyes darkened.
“Fintan, you don’t understand,” I placed my hand on his chest now and cupped his jaw with my other. “I don’t want to kick your father out.”
Fury took over my senses.
Something dark.
His eyes, though his father’s, held innocence. I rubbed his chin, then stood up on my tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss—possibly our last—barely giving him time to kiss me back, and then turned his jaw with my hand.
I placed my lips against his ear and whispered, “I want to fucking kill him.”
Fintan’s expression changed. One a stranger might give. Like he didn’t know who I was anymore.
I don’t even think I knew who I was anymore.
The castle gates creaked behind me as I stepped out into the fading light. The air beyond the walls was different—dirtier, realer.
I needed to breathe. I needed Mother.
My chest ached.
I pulled the hood of my cloak up over my head and tucked my face low. I walked out the castle doors and past the gates, to what once was my home. The outer ring of the kingdom.
The smells of smoke, sweat, and baked bread blended together, clinging to the breeze like ghosts of my past life. The stones on the buildings and cottages were cracked, and the roofs patched with tar. Children ran barefoot and merchants shouted over one another to sell withering produce or hand-stitched goods.
Now, I was a stranger here.
I passed a stall with sun-bruised apples and another with old pots stacked like relics. I passed Pollie, who sold the hand-pies. A faint memory I shared with the prince.
I felt like I had died.
I felt changed.
The air was dry and dusty. Someone played a fiddle two alleys down—off-key, but strangely comforting.
Then I saw the bakery.
Landen stood behind the counter, hands dusted in flour, laughing at something the butcher’s daughter had said. He hadn’t changed. Sandy-blonde hair tousled like always,sleeves rolled past his elbows, and that easy grin that once made the weight of the world a little lighter. Brown eyes, warm and familiar. Safe.
I slowed. My mind betrayed me, aching toward him. A pull to go to him. To let him hold me. To forget. For a moment, I almost turned his way.
But I didn’t.
I clenched my fists, reminded myself who I was now—what I’d done—and kept walking. Past the alley, down the familiar dirt road, until the world narrowed and the crowd thinned and the smell of ash thickened.
