Then, I will bring Annora home.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Annora
As I slideoff my horse later that day, a sharp ache radiates through my legs, and a dull throb pulses in my back.
I sink onto a log at the edge of the makeshift camp, where soldiers bustle about, raising canvas tents against the fading light.
A purple wildflower catches my eye, and I pluck it, twirling the stem between my fingers. One by one, I tear off the petals. The repetitive motion helps quiet my racing thoughts but can’t fully drown out the sounds of the warriors busy making camp around me.
Each petal drifts to the ground, joining a growing pile at my feet. When the flower is bare, I reach for another, and another, leaving a carpet of torn petals beneath the log.
The pattern continues until a shadow falls across my hands, and a warrior bows in front of me. “My Lady, your tent is prepared.”
I brush the petals from my surcoat and follow him through the sprawling camp. Rows of identical canvas tents stretch into the distance, and smoke from cooking fires curls into the darkening sky.
We pass a cluster of men gathered around a tall warrior.
Brathen.
His commanding presence draws attention, but there’s something else about him, something that tells me he’s a man of many secrets. Maybe it’s the shadows in his eyes. I saw them when I first met him in the throne room, and they haven’t faded.
I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away.
The warrior leads me to a tent in the middle of the camp, and as I step inside, I look around, taking in the bed piled high with blankets and pillows, and the small writing desk sitting in the corner with parchment and charcoal laid out.
It’s lovely—far lovelier than anything I would have expected on a war campaign. But even the promise of a soft bed and the chance to lose myself in sketching can’t ease the heaviness in my heart.
How could it?
Asha is going to attack Jasce.
I sink onto the small stool by the writing desk, staring at the blank parchment. Charcoal stains my fingertips as I pick up the stick and sketch. Lines flow across the page, forming the curves of Asha’s face, the determined set of her jaw, the hard gleam in her eyes. I draw myself beside her, our fingers almost touching but not quite.
“What happened to us?” I whisper.
A tear blurs the charcoal, smudging our faces together. I wipe it away, leaving a dark streak on my hand. There’s so much distance between us now, and no matter how I reach out, she pushes me away.
Maybe if I can find the right words, I can get through to Asha, remind her of who she used to be.
I pull out another sheet of parchment and write.
My heart bleeds onto the page, each word carrying fragments of memories—of Asha braiding my hair when I was small, of herfierce protection when our grandfather’s anger turned toward me, of her gentle touch when nightmares plagued my sleep.
My eyes sting as I write about the day she held me after our father left, how she promised we’d always have each other.
Knots tighten inside me as I pour out my grief over what she’s become. I tell her how I see glimpses of her true self sometimes, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, only to be swallowed again by darkness.
The charcoal scratches across the page as I write about the sister I know still exists beneath all that pain. The one who used to laugh until her sides hurt, who’d sneak extra sweets to the kitchen maids’ children, who’d spend hours teaching me to skip stones across the lake.
I write until my hand cramps, my eyes burn, and the words blur together. When I finish, I stare at the letter, at all the love, hurt, and hope spilled across its surface.
Maybe these words will reach her and they’ll find that spark of light I know still burns within her. Maybe they’ll even remind her that she doesn’t have to let grief and hatred define her story.
Or maybe they’ll fail just like all my other attempts to reach her.
Still, I fold the parchment carefully, pressing each crease with trembling fingers. Because I have to try. Because she’s my sister. Because I refuse to give up on her.
