The Forgotten Crown

Chapter Thirteen

Alastair arrived at Morana's room later the next day, when the morning light had brightened the space. He'd wished to give her a few extra hours of sleep to make up for the past few weeks of travel.

She hadn't slept, though.

She'd tossed and turned throughout the evening, surveying the inky black of night as it consumed the city. A few lanterns and street posts speckled the night like fireflies, but there wasn't a star in the sky. It was so unlike their journey to Eifari. Across the plains and mountains of Ellesmere, the stars filled the sky like an artist had splattered the heavens in paints.

She'd tried to count her breaths as Lydia showed her how to do when she was a child to go back to sleep after a bad dream. Those night terrors would rip her awake screaming. Hell, she nearly woke all of the Sleeping Wyvern patrons. Morana tried to count every inhale and exhale and prayed for rest, just how she did as a girl. It was futile. Thoughts plagued her. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt that beast's jagged teeth puncture her arm and snap the bone. She watched Sien, Lucien and Lydia forget about her and live the rest of their lives content without knowing where she went. But it was Queen Isleen who occupied most of her mind.

Morana didn't understand why the queen's face was there every time she closed her eyes. Or why her voice whispered into her ears, faint and frail like a lost spirit begging for revenge. Morana had scented her power, locked deep within that stagnant sickness. Queen Isleen used to be vigorous and fearsome. Now, she was a ghost trapped in a husk.

After hours of staring up at the tester, Morana drug herself to the sitting room, exhausting her efforts to find rest. She stumbled upon a collection of books atop the mantle, their spines stiff, as if someone had stuck them there for no other purpose than decoration. They were children's stories, but the images of wise, speaking flowers and cuddly wyverns eased her mind. She hadn't heard Alastair come into the room, not until he'd commented on the way she sprawled over the back of the chair, her legs upright and the book hoisted up above her face.

Her stomach churned.

The captain waited in the hall while she dressed. Morana ran her fingers over the scars on her forearm, now so pale they were hardly visible. Griselda's salve worked wonders, aiding her weakened body to heal far quicker than any mortal medicine. Morana wouldn't let herself imagine a life with such luxuries, or how that kind of medicine could've saved thousands of human lives during the war. She pulled on a simple scarlet tunic and her cloak, shoving the thoughts away. She tucked her hair into a braid before pulling up her hood.

"Where's Jovah?" Morana asked, her words sore with mockery. She rubbed at her bleary eyes when she stepped into the hall. Alastair's guards, the same as the day before, stared blankly at her.

Alastair kept their pace slower than usual, which she was thankful for. They climbed the stairs to the third floor, his guards following. "He wasn't feeling well," he said, giving her a side-eye. "And it's 'His Highness.'"

Her eyes naturally rolled.

Alastair faced her, his brows knitting. "Did you sleep at all?"

She hadn't noticed that she was still rubbing her eyes.

"If you're having trouble," he brought his hand to his chin, scratching at little hairs, "adjusting, I'm sure the Healer on Call may have something that will help. If not, I know Griselda has tonics for everything. One for sleep should be easy to obtain."

"Thanks," she replied, uninterested. Knocking back foreign liquids to alter her consciousness wouldn't help her escape.

They glided down the hall toward the Queen's chambers without another word. Morana looked at Alastair to keep her head from spinning. "I don't want to go inside."