Welcome back! The time has come to begin regular updates on book 2 of the To Be trilogy. I will confirm an upload schedule, but currently it is looking to be Mondays and Thursday, will chance mid week updates where possible.
Above you will see an attached picture - a digital drawing I did of my interpretation of Nira. I will hopefully have more character arts throughout this book when I have the opportunity to finish them.
Other than that, I can only hope you enjoy reading book 2, and prepare to be submerged beneath shadows and secrets.
———
♔ 𝔑𝔦𝔯𝔞 ♔
"Nira, I need you to calm down." Zaire tells me. His hands are held up, palms outwards. A sign of surrender, as though he should be offered such mercy. After what he did to me, what he forced me to endure, only to betray me in the end. I should be dead – he should fear for himself, since I am not.
"Do not tell me what you need, Zaire." His name is tainted, sour, and I spit it from my tongue as though I cannot part with it quick enough. He nods in arbitration, quick to abandon his didactic approach. Right now, I am indomitable, and have no desire to be amicable. "Tell me what you did to me."
He becomes compliant, likely to abate my fury, and nods again. "I will, my huntress, but breathe. If you take a moment to calm, I will tell you everything." I cannot be sure if it is the haunting sobriquet that he uses to refer to me, or the way he still insists on his twisted methods of blackmail, but he only further catalyses my rage.
When my wrath grows, as does the darkness, and I realise then, they are not a figment of my imagination. They are born from me. Tendons of shadow coiling and twisting around me with sinuous grace, whipping out with threat towards the High Lord. They thread through my fingers, wrap around my limbs, but they are not a danger to me. No, they are what burden his eyes with fright.
They should scare me, this new extension of me that I seem to have no control over. That move as though sentient beings themselves, that are something so far from human, I should never possess them. Yet, the way they hum against my body, the way they do not shy from the burning heat of resentment in my heart... they are the only thing that keep me from breaking entirely.
"Nira," a soft voice calls out to me.
I blink twice, taking a second to register who it is that stands beside Zaire. Sloan, who even in the face of this horror, manages to smile at me.
The deep breath I inhale at the comfort is almost intoxicating. As if her being here is the familiarity my body is desperately craving. The scent that hangs in the air coats the back of my nose, so strong I can almost taste the bitter almond and the jasmine of the oils she coats herself in. It does not only come from her; it clings to everything within this room. She has been here – the only one that has – by my side for so long, that the furniture, the walls, even I, smell just like her.
The next breath, it is a choked sob of relief. "Sloan."
Her bright, happy eyes, shimmer with tears. "I like your shadows." She takes a moment to inspect them, and I know she is questioning the reality of her words. They're not quite shadows. They're darkness. I watch them too, and I notice how they have begun to slow, and withdraw. "Do you think you can manage them, so that I can come take care of you?"
"No." I hurry back in a panic. She does not let the worry in my tone phase her. Instead, she takes a step forward, rising an arm before Zaire so he knows not to push this new boundary she has set.
"Well, they may calm once you are calm. Will you do that for me, because I am rather desperate to hug you."
I nod, small jittery movements, as I force myself to inhale slow and deep. I force out the tension in my hands, clenching and softening my fists. I close my eyes, focusing on slowing the racing of my heart. I will for the adrenaline to leave me, for the anger to disappear, if only for a moment, so I can find solace in the arms of my friend.
My eyes are not open before I feel her tender arms wrap around me, chin rested on my shoulder. I am quick to return the gesture, gripping my back of her dress, creasing the fabric in the harshness of my hold, and my face crumples. This is why I had not wanted to let the anger go. Anguish has taken its place, tangling with the confusion, and that is an emotion I have never known how to manage.
I sense more than see Zaire depart, and then Sloan speaks again. "I should have expected nothing less. I have done nothing but tend at your bedside this whole time, and you decide to wake when I have had to leave for mere moments to relieve myself." My laugh is troubled, ingenuine, and she knows. She pulls away, far enough only to strike away the tears gliding down my face. "I will draw you a bath. Let's get you clean and changed."
♔
Sloan remains at my side, hand folded into mine, right until I am submerged in the water. It is pungent with oils, ones she always allowed me to use, but today seems far too aromatic. I wonder if I smelled so terrible that she has had to use far more than a few drops. The vanilla is sickly sweet, and the cedarwood is so harsh it is though I'm trapped within a forest from which there is no chance of escape.
I know she could use magic to trickle the water over my exposed skin, but she opts to use her hand instead, dragging one gently across the water's surface and letting what she has cupped in her palm spill over my shoulders and chest. She doesn't touch me, not my skin or my face or my hair. I know she has noticed that I dare not even touch myself.
I remain still, letting my eyes drag across every inch of me, hoping that they will latch on to one single imperfection, and they only burn with that horrid emotion when I have no such luck. It is an entirely new body that sits beneath the water – not only have my wounds gone and my scars too, but everything. Stretch marks that once sat along my hips and thighs as I came into womanhood, growing into curves that my skin has no choice but to stretch around. A small birthmark that sat on my hip, a patch of darkened skin, vanished. I never really paid it much attention, and I hate myself for that, because now it is gone, I cannot remember exactly where it covered.
The only thing that remains, brandishing me like a mark of ownership, the flower in the middle of my chest.
"I used to want them gone." Is the first thing I croak out. It has been hours since I have properly spoken, and the sound of my voice startles Sloan. "I was conceited enough to think that I would not be pretty with them. Now I do not even recognise myself without them."
"Without what, Nira?" Sloan asks me, her voice gentle with caution.
"My scars." My voice wobbles, and I am betrayed again by tears. Never have I cried so much in my life. My fingers graze my forearm above the water so that she can see. "I hated when Abner gave me this, but every time I saw it, I just remembered that all of this was for my brother, my family." I grip my shoulder, tight enough that it hurts, over where the bite is no more.
My face scrunches, and I am not sure my words are even intelligible through my weeping. "This reminded me that I was strong, that I would survive." I sob, completely broken now. "I know my back is bare, where there should be a scar that reminded me of Darin. It was the only thing I had to remind me that he was real. The memories are worthless. They feel like dreams." I catch my face in my hands, hiccupping as my cries tear through me, wracking my body so I can do nothing but curl over. Sloan finally holds me, resting a hand on the back of my hair in condolence. She is crying with me, quietly and privately. The only tell, the stutter in her breathing.
"I am so sorry, Nira." She manages to whisper.
I turn to her, watery eyed and brows furrowed as I fight the fresh wave of tears. "Tell me what has happened to me, please."
It must be the desperation in my expression, or the new softness to Sloan's previously stone heart, because she makes no bargains. She doesn't promise to share the truth with me once I am washed or changed. She doesn't urge me to eat or drink before she begins the story. She instead continues lapping my skin with warm water and oils and takes a burdened breath before she speaks.
"I do not know everything Nira. I knew nothing, until after it happened. I cannot tell you the whys or whens, so please do not expect them of me." I splash my face with water, before she continues. "Many of the Fae had heard of a weapon forged many centuries ago, that could steal a Fae of their power. It was a myth of a story to many – no one had ever seen this weapon or witnessed the effects of it. Until Zaire.
"Until I gave him the dagger you tried to hide in your boot, and he heard the buzz of Fae power within it. Until Ezekiel told him that the Fae you had struck with it had become void. They couldn't call on their magic, they could not heal, even slowly, like they should from iron. Ayleth, she still sleeps, she is not strong enough to wake. So, he assumed this was the very weapon from fiction, and sent Ezekiel to hunt for information on it."
"The book I found – it had an illustration of it." I recall.
Sloan nods. "He had to pass into Xandara for that book. The story says that is where it was forged. He stole it, but it was not much use, apparently. It was written in an antediluvian language, one that hasn't been spoken for years. So, it wasn't much use at all, and there was little else they could stalk to find the origins of your dagger. Then, Ezekiel found you with Hella, and she mentioned its name.
"Zaire sent him away again, to search for every myth and legend around the Pario Telum. The dagger, that was born with a riddle on its purpose. I think you already know of which riddle I speak of." There is no accusation in her tone, only query.
"Hella told me." I admit.
"Old Kings made it as an act of alliance. Created a weapon that could turn Fae into nothing more than humans, and humans into the capacity of a Fae." She skirts around the reality, the one I had already begun to predict. The one I had ignored, even when I felt the skim of pointed flesh protruding from my hair, had watched darkness seep from my pores. The strength of each stench in the air, the sensitivity of each noise. I imagine Sloan watches that realisation settle on me, but still, I refuse to speak it. She doesn't make me. "Each Fae you killed with that dagger; their power was stored within it. Then, when that dagger was used upon you, all that power claimed you as its new host."
I cannot breathe.
"I'm one of you." I do not mean to sound so disgusted, but I cannot stop myself.
Sloan takes no insult. Instead, she clasps my face in her hands and forces me to look at her, at that determination in her expression. "No, Nira. You will always be you." She tells me sternly. "It does not matter what new power you have, or what new appearances have taken hold. You will always be Daenira, the girl willing to sacrifice everything for those she loves, even herself."
I hold her wrists, keeping them still as I speak. "This is not a sacrifice. This is an unbefitting punishment for crimes that I was forced to commit. This is the reason I will never trust or love or care for anyone. Ever again."
♔
The single reason I join dinner, is the promise from Sloan that she will be beside me the entire time. There is no denying that I am famished. She did not specify how long the transitional period was, from when I was killed, to the here and now. However, the nights are not quite as long as I remember, and the air not as cool as it should be in the face of spring. We are edging into summer, the earliest stages of it.
Therefore, I do not dress in the layers of wool and leather I am used to. Sloan lends me one of her many dresses. A fabric of emerald, light and airy, held to my frame by straps that wrap around my neck. It holds little shape, only flows in a straight gown to my feet, with slits running up either side to allow for the freedom of my legs. She offers me a gold-plated belt. Large enough that it spreads from beneath my breasts to my navel and secures me into the dress. It is far dressier than I had hoped – I would have preferred a smock, like the ones I used to wear, or even a tunic that would have been much easier to slip into, but Sloan owns nothing of the sort, and I am not even sure if I have any clothes of my own left.
She helps me brush through the tangles in my platinum hair, leaving it down in single sheet, to shield me away from invasive eyes, and hide the ears from the view of others, as well as the view of myself.
Sloan is nervous as the pair of us walk down the corridors of Abutilon. The fear transpires from her, thick enough that I can almost taste it. The way that her sweaty palm occasionally squeezes mine in reassurance is a tell-tale sign though. The both of us, we are not to dine downstairs because we wish to, it is because it has been demanded of us.
The sickening nostalgia when we enter blooms words of refusal on my tongue. The dining room has not changed, not even marginally, despite my whole world having been turned upside down. The table is still too large to have only six chairs surround it. The hanging candle frames are as ostentatious as they always were. The walls still plain and bare, aside from the single groove in one, where I recall a knife protruding, months ago, after I had thrown it.
Zaire sits where he always has. The head of the table. He only raises his eyes to watch us enter. I let myself meet his gaze for a fraction of a second. I cannot contend with the anger seeing him makes me feel, not now, when I am so exhausted. Instead, my sights swing to the other end of the table where Ezekiel has hurried to his feet, the chair legs scraping against the tiled floor.
"Nira," he greets me, his smile one of relief.
I don't return it. I cannot false a pleasant disposition, not when I can remember the feel of his arms restraining me, holding me still to take the thrust of a blade. Not when I can still hear the whispers of his pointless apologies, that only remind me that he knew exactly what Zaire planned to do. He betrayed me as much as his Lord did, and I am not sure which aches me more. The duplicity of a lover, or a friend.
The fleeting sting of hurt crosses his features when I scowl at him, then turn away without a response. He settles back in his chair, slow with reluctance, and Sloan guides me to ours. She lets me choose, and though I cannot stand to be even this close to him, I sit in the one nearest Ezekiel, if only to put as much distance between myself and Zaire. Sloan sits beside me and is quick to take my hand in hers.
"You," Ezekiel begins, tripping slightly on his words. "You look good."
I hum, staring at the China plate before me, fighting the deepest urge to throw it right at his head. "Surprising. I didn't sleep well." I hope he hears the sarcasm dragging my words.
"I tried to visit you." He claims.
"You didn't deserve to visit her." Sloan hisses, curling her lips in Ezekiel's direction. Sloan swore on her life, her power, and the goddesses that bestow it, that she had no idea what Zaire and Ezekiel planned to do that day. I believe her. She swore too that Cenred was kept in the dark. She found no hesitance in admitting he is hardly ever here at all, for he wishes to be as far away from Zaire as possible. I believe her on that, too. It feels good, to have an untainted perception on at least two of the people I considered friends here. Unlike The High Lord and his advisor.
Zaire has not spoken since I sat. I do, however, feel him watching me with an unshakable stare. Almost like he is waiting for a display of something of similar calibre to what I did upstairs. Or possibly something worse. I cannot draw on them though, not by choice, and even if I did, he should fear them. I'd let them torture him. I would not try to calm them.
The dinner is uncomfortable. The noise of everyone eating is irritating. What is most frustrating, is that everything tastes more phenomenal that I remember. I wanted it to be bland, tasteless. I didn't want to enjoy anything they gave me.
"I thought, perhaps, when you are feeling up to it," Ezekiel takes pause again, unsure of himself. "It would be nice if the two of us were to walk the grounds together again."
"No." It is the first thing that Zaire has said. One simple, final word, that has all attention stapled to him, for a variety of reasons. Ezekiel looks surprised, even a little bemused by the harsh rejection. Sloan is doing her very best to bury her annoyance, the one that glints with an undercurrent of rage, but failing miserably. Myself, I do not know whether to laugh or scream.
"Excuse me?" My words are taut.
Zaire looks at me, truly, for the first time since I woke. He looks at me like he sees me. The same way he did in the lake, and in his room, and together in the Royal Court. I question its authenticity.
"You have not even been back with us for a day. We should take time slowly, while you adjust to this change of yours." His smile, I expect, is supposed to be warm and comforting, but all it does is make me clench my fists to resist from swiping it from his face with my nails.
"So, I am to be punished for a change I never wanted, that was entirely by your doing? Locked away, again, like a prisoner." I do not mean for the question to be answered, but Zaire looks prepared to do so. That is, until he is interrupted by the swing of the heavy wooden doors, introducing a fifth party to this horrifying dinner. And what a welcome sight he is.
Cenred has let his hair grow. Not by much, but in the time that I have not seen him, it has lengthened so that it reaches below his jaw. Enough to be knotted into a bun, and braided too, if done by meticulous hands. He has let a shadowed stubble surround his mouth and stretch towards his ears. I am not sure why I had never considered before that the Fae must have to maintain their appearance, but this proves that Cenred has decided recently to do nothing of the sort.
His wings are folded tight behind him, blending well to the blacked-out leather than moulds to his frame. It is the most I have ever seen him dressed, I think, and he chooses to do it now, as summer looms. My smile, though trembling, is as genuine as can be.
I cannot be sure if the Kythiran breathes my name, or simply sighs, but whatever grievance marred his face with a frown as he entered is long forgotten, and I'm gifted a smile, one that pulls dimples to his cheeks. A smile reserved only for me.
His arms are spread wide, and I am barrelling into them before I have even found the time to find my footing. His hold on me is so tight, so secure, so protective as he curls his arms around my neck and shoulders, I cannot help but burst into tears. Sloan is a friend, a female figure in my life I have so desperately needed, but Cenred... our time together, and he transformed into a brother. Not one that I lost, or one that I had to leave, but one that chose to be just that. I never quite realised how much I needed it.
"Cenred, do sit." Zaire calls.
The shift of the body I hold to for my life is not so that he can acknowledge his Lord, but so he can bend his knees, to meet me face to face. His hands comb back my hair, and he freezes when he feels my ears. Ears that are no longer curved like his. His jaw clenches as he tries to flatten each strand to how it was. "Please don't cry." I sniffle until the tears cease. He dries my face with the rough pads of his fingers.
So gentle, compared to the male I first met.
"When did you wake?" He asks me.
"Today."
"And already they have dragged you to dinner?" His tone is harsh, but not with me. He stands again, an arm wrapped around my shoulder to hold me close to him. He says nothing else as he takes me from the room, and no one tries to stop us. Not even Zaire.
I do not even bother to look behind me as the doors close in our wake. Instead, I look up to Cenred. "Sloan told me everything she could."
"I had no idea –"
"I know." I interject. His hand runs down my back once in solidarity. "But that does not make this any easier."
I know his eyes fall to my hair as he searches for the ears I have hidden beneath my hair. "I know, but we can help you."
I shake my head vehemently. So quickly, now my tears have dried, does the anger resurface. "I don't want help. I want to be fixed." He soothes me, without the mutter of a single word, by drawing me in for a second embrace. My cheek is pressed to his chest, so that I can face the closed doors of the dining room. "I hate him. So much, for what he has made me."
As I declare such, I am surprised to feel it resonate. Such a powerful word, one that holds such meaning. One I had thought impossible to be the truth, after everything that I had felt for him. But when he killed me, he killed every softness I had for him. He left behind an ugly, jagged wound in my heart, a scar that will never vanish from my being. I loathe him, for the way he betrayed me. For the way he wronged me. I hope he remembers what happened to those that wrong me in the past. I hope he remembers just how monstrous I could be, even before I became one.