The Silver Rose

08 | Whispers

A rough knock came from his door.

"Yes?" Jovan answered, his eyes on the new map of Dracia, having incorporated large parts of west, or Aaenna.

His door opened. "Sire, I have news of Madam Myracle."

"What is it?" He asked, eyes still on the map but his teeth gritted in anticipation. If anything were to happen to her, a lot would fall apart. Even if his king hadn't demanded this of him, if they were to lose her today, Jovan would be the one to blame.

And though he wasn't scared of taking the blame, he would hate himself for letting an innocent young girl killed. And her. Not her.

"She has awakened."

Jovan's frown visibly eased, relief flushing his nerves to relaxation. He nodded stiffly, releasing a silent breath.

When the door closed behind him, he let his eyes close for a heartbeat.

He breathed deeply, set his mind and began working again, grazing his fingers against the daggers strapped to his back.

Rosaline Myracle, the feisty seer who hadn't left his thoughts for three days now, had survived a horrifying assassination attempt. But, he knew, now, that she was no simple seer. What he'd seen that night, what her power had done, wouldn't ever leave his mind.

But he had more to do than just ponder what she truly was.

The hue of green glowed in his eyes. All he needed to do right now was to find that assassin's master, and pay back.

•••••

Rosaline's eyes fluttered, her dream leaving a painfully stark memory behind her eyes. Tears slid down her temples before a wave of pain hit her head and she hissed, raising a hand to massage her head.

She remembered.

She remembered everything.

More memories began falling into place. The attack, the dagger, the whispering. Her heart sped as she jolted upright, eyes wide open. Her chest felt tight.

Julek and his words. Her sudden imprisoning two days after she'd told him about the war. That was five months ago. She'd been in that prison cell for five months and he hadn't come to meet her once! Where was he? How was he? Was Jul alive?

Another string of pain shot through her head. She groaned, holding her temples with both of her trembling hands. Flashes of days and nights, of faces, of voices. She let out a groan again, blinking through agony.

The sight of her non-bloody clothes brought her back to present, far away from the painful memories that now graced her head.

She looked around, slipping a hand around her torso, and the movement sent jitters across her body. She decided to ignore it, knowing fully well that it was the result of the events of the night when she'd almost met death.

The tall ceiling was painted in a lovely shade of beige with cornices carved into a bouquet of roses, leaves swirling around it. The room she was in was awash in similar colours. Where am I? The city?

She was tucked into a linen-sheeted bed with a black velvet comforter hugging her legs and stomach. Her bed—queen-sized with four massive posts that had sheer curtains wrapped around them—had two nightstands beside it, made of the same dark wood. There were a few vials on one of them, bandages and what looked like a turmeric salve in a marble bowl.

The room was huge, had a fireplace just in front of the bed and a double-door—closed shut—was right in between the chamber. Two chairs and a low-lying table rested in front of the fire place. On the other side of the room were glass doors and big windows, covered by beige and ivory lace curtains. Sunlight peaked through them and pooled on the white marble floor.