The Archshade

Sixteen

I wake with my cheek pressed against the soft rug beside the bed. Sunlight pours in through the open window, pooling around me, as I rub my sleep-crusted eyes. The events of last night play over again in my mind, and I meditate on every detail, but nothing makes any more sense than it did when it happened.

I roll onto my back and feel the weight of a blanket laid over me. Did Prince Daynar...? I grasp the edge and look at the fabric as though I've never seen a blanket before in my life. My joints creak from a night spent on the floor, but at least I don't remember being cold.

Not wanting to wake Daynar, I silently sit up, peering over the edge of the bed to check on the prince, but it's empty—perfectly made with the sheets tucked in and the pillows fluffed. I look around, but everything in the room is in order. Nothing is amiss.

Rising to my feet, I fold up the blanket, set it on the foot of the bed, and head towards the bedchamber door. Passing in front of the dressing table mirror, I pause long enough to comb my hair with my fingers and secure my headwrap. Offhandedly, I trace the knitting gash along my forearm, disappointed by the unattractive bubbling crust of the healing flesh peeking out from my sleeve. I furrow my brow, looking harder at my reflection. Did I used to care about these things? Before yesterday, I never stopped to look at myself in a mirror.

When I leave the bedchamber, the lounging room is also perfectly in place just as it was the day before, leaving me wondering if I somehow dreamt everything about last night. The ambassador rushing in... Prince Daynar screaming in pain... the tool with a sharp point...

As I peer around the prince's chambers, a quiet sound catches my attention. Gentle and lilting, a faint humming floats from the kitchen alcove along with the scent of fresh za'atar bread. I follow the sound down the hall.

Looking through the doorway into the kitchen nook, I find Prince Daynar standing with his back turned to me, same as yesterday morning. The wrappings around his face are fresh—all traces of the bloodied cloth gone. Standing over his window boxes, he trims away dead bits of plant while humming a pleasant melody. I stare at his hands, watching them gently move in time with the sloping rise and fall of his song.

"You spend a lot of time standing in doorways."

There's a smile in his voice as he speaks, and his words are calm and strong once again—nothing like the whispery breaths of last night.

"I didn't want to interrupt," I reply. A partial truth but the truth, nonetheless.

"Nonsense." He waves away my words. "Come closer."

I join the prince beside his window boxes, and he turns to me and extends his hand, holding out a damask rose. The delicate petals are in full bloom, bursting with the blushing pinks of a desert sunrise.

"For you."

I blink at the offered flower, making no move to take it.

Sensing my hesitation, Daynar reaches out. His gloved hand lightly touches beside my ear. The gesture's tenderness sends a rippling shockwave over my skin. I flinch, turning my shoulder to him and curling my posture inward. It's involuntary. Pure instinct. I lower my gaze, not wanting to see the hurt in his eyes that I put there. I half expect him to turn away or snap at me, but he does neither.

Instead, the prince waits.

A sudden yearning surges in my chest, but I force it down, unable to understand it. As the uneasiness between us threatens to suffocate me, Daynar merely blinks, frozen with the rose in his hand. Guilt and curiosity force my eyes back to his, and even though he's hiding it well, I catch the defeated acceptance in his gaze. I'm struck by it. But even more so, I'm struck by how much I can't bear it.