Leather digs into my palms as I tighten my fingers around the reins of my horse, refusing to speak to her, refusing to cave to her ever again.
“Do you remember when we used to go to the sea with Father?” she asks, her voice gentle as she mentions the man neither of us has been able to forget.
Yes, I remember.
I remember everything, but she doesn’t deserve to know that.
“You can’t ignore me forever,” she says.
Watch me.
The next three days blur together as Asha brings meals I barely touch, books I won’t read, news I don’t want to hear.
She tries to engage me in strategy meetings, asks my opinion on battle formations. I give her nothing but silence.
On the seventh day after we left Bakva, she joins me in my tent and tries again.
“I’m still your sister, Rora. Nothing will change that,” she says, her eyes sad, her face pale. Always so pale.
Instead of speaking to her, I reach for the wine on the table next to me and pour myself a generous goblet full.
“Annora,” she begins, her voice more desperate than I have ever heard. “I wish you would speak to me.Please, speak to me.”
My fingers ache as I tighten them around the goblet—anything to distract from the ache in my chest.
She reaches across the space between us, her fingers stopping just short of touching my arm. “I know you’re angry with me—”
Wine sloshes over the rim of the goblet as I slam it down.
“Please,” she whispers, and for a moment, I see my sister again. Then, I remember the way she spoke to me when I brought her that letter.
So, I allow the silence to stretch between us, heavy with all the words I won’t say. Can’t say. Because speaking would mean acknowledging her, and I’m not ready to do that.
Asha’s shoulders slump as she stands and leaves the tent, closing the flap behind her.
My hand shakes as I lift my goblet and down all the wine. It’s not like me to hold a grudge, but I cannot give in to her this time.
As I pour another goblet of wine, memories flood in uninvited. The sound of my mother’s laughter echoing through our home. Asha chasing me through the garden. Our father teaching us to swim in the sea.
Back then, our mother’s eyes sparkled like stars. She’d sing and dance when she thought no one was watching.
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against my knees. Those memories feel like they belong to someone else now. A different family. A different life.
After my father left, my mother’s songs stopped. Her eyes dulled.
And Asha...
My throat tightens as I remember how she’d hold me at night when I cried for our father. How she’d whisper that we still had each other and that nothing could break our bond.
But something did break it. Slowly, steadily, like water wearing away stone. With every cruel word from our grandfather, every bitter lesson about power and control, every hateful speech about House of Crimson, I watched my sister disappear.
And now she’s a stranger.
After two goblets of wine,I step out of my tent and tilt my head back, staring up at the night sky, where a tapestry of stars surround the moon.
How beautiful they are. How tranquil.
Do they know what is about to happen? Do they care?
