The Forgotten Crown

Chapter Twenty-Three

Morana dreaded the rising sun. She lingered on the edge of her bed, bouncing her legs in rhythm with the finches' songs as they darted by her window in search of breakfast. The shirt she'd tossed and turned in all night, still clung to her body, wrinkled and damp with sweat.

She had not slept. Despite the weakness in her limbs and her heavy eyes, she could not rest. Not after that nightmare—not after the warning which still rang through her skull like a war siren.

Do not trust them.

Her eyes burned. Her muscles were so tense they ached. Morana lifted her eyes to the window and the remnants of the storm that had shaken her rooms for most of the night. Puddles dotted the concrete path, mud caking onto guards' boots as they made their rounds, and servants gathering the broken tree limbs that scattered the grounds. The storm had stopped just before sunrise, at least that's what she had guessed.

She winced when the knock she'd been dreading finally came. She disregarded it at first, squeezing the sides of the mattress. Maybe if she ignored him, Alastair would leave. Maybe if she kept quiet and pretended to sleep, he wouldn't take her to the queen. Morana would rather cower beneath the sheets all day long than look into the face so similar to one in her dreams.

The connection came to her shortly after she'd panicked about the girl's identity. She was nearly identical to Queen Isleen—a younger version. They had the same eye shape, the same narrow jawline, and slight curl to their hair. Morana's head throbbed. She'd debated the meaning of the dream until the first light of day shined through her window. She didn't want to believe that it was Astraea. She didn't want to trust the warning.

The knocks came again.

Morana ground her teeth.

She was overthinking this. Again. Dreams were mysterious things, but they were not worlds where the dead could speak. Morana had no proof the girl was the princess. She didn't even know what Astraea looked like. Queen Isleen's face had just manifested in her mind. She had repeated that to herself over and over again, but still couldn't shake the chills that crawled over her every time she thought about it.

Morana flinched as the lock to the front door clicked, followed by another set of intentionally loud knocks. The door slid open just an inch.

"Morana?" Alastair called into the space. "Are you awake?"

She swallowed, keeping her eyes on the birds that flew by. The door pushed open further, and the captain stepped inside. He made it into the living room before he stopped dead in his tracks. She gave him a sidelong stare, taking in his uniform. He'd pulled the upper layers of his hair out of his face with golden pins, the rest falling just at his shoulders. She frowned at the reddening in his cheeks and suddenly remembered that she had yet to dress.

He threw his thumb over his shoulder. "I can wait outside if you're not... quite ready." His eyes dropped over her bare legs and hovered over them for a few moments before a lampshade suddenly became very interesting.

The length of her nightshirt barely covered her delicate parts. It should've mortified her, but she felt nothing as she looked away from him. "Do what you want."

After several moments, Alastair hadn't moved. She crossed her arms, trying to block out the weight of his stare. "Is everything okay?" he asked tentatively, making just one step forward.

"Yes."

Still, the captain remained. "Have I done something to upset you?"

Morana forced herself to meet his eyes. A thing snapped deep within her heart at the hurt she found there. She shook her head. "No, it's not—I'm fine." She couldn't hold his gaze for long and didn't care if he knew she lied. She couldn't tell him. She wouldn't tell him. He would think her mad. Hell, she wondered if she was.