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Chapter Twenty-Five

Annora

The next two weeks blur together like paint on wet parchment. Each morning, I train with Rowena in the Argent Chamber until my muscles burn and sweat trickles down my spine. Summoning and dismissing the Phoenix is easier now, and it responds to my call with less resistance.

Afternoons find me at the granary, measuring portions for the endless line of hungry faces. Some days, Aleksander works beside me without a word. Other times, I labor alone, while Asha stays inside the fortress.

The people bring their children, their elderly, their sick, and I learn their names, their stories. Little Merri returns with her brothers, and I slip them extra portions.

“Our grandfather would hate this,” Emerin says one morning as she helps me distribute grain to our people.

I nod, imagining how he would rage at seeing his granddaughters consorting with commoners, but these are my people, and their struggles are mine to bear.

The rain comes and goes, but the line at the granary never shortens. Some days, when Aleksander helps, I catch glimpses of someone different beneath his carefully constructed walls. His hands are gentle as he assists an older man, and his smile is genuine when children thank him.

Then, he’ll catch me watching, and his walls snap back into place, reminding me that whatever softness I see is temporary.

Still, I can’t deny the small changes—the way he lingers longer at the granary, how he learns the names of the regular visitors, and the fact that he hasn’t tried to stop me from helping them.

On the fifteenth day, the morning air carries the scent of fresh-baked bread as Emerin, Tahira, and I navigate Bakva’s crowded streets.

As we walk, I brush my fingers against my veil, still not ready for people to see me.

“Did you see how many people are already waiting?” Tahira asks as she carries a basket laden with loaves of bread.

“More than yesterday,” Emerin says. “I think it’s because of the drought in the south driving more families to the city.”

I nod. “Then, we need to make what we have stretch further.”

We set up our makeshift distribution point near the old well, where the cobblestones are the smoothest.

“One loaf and two eggs per person,” I tell the first woman in line as her child peers around her, thumb firmly stuck in his mouth.

“Thank you, My Lady.” She curtsies after I give her the food, then she walks away.

The sun beats down as we hand out the last of our supplies. My arms ache from lifting baskets, but it’s a good kind of tired.

“That’s all for now,” I announce to the remaining crowd. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”

When I return to the fortress and step into my bedchamber, I sink onto the edge of my bed.

The physical exhaustion from training with Rowena and working at the granary should pull me into sleep each night, but I know better.

Night after night, I look at the ceiling, my mind replaying memories of Jasce, like scenes from a play I can’t stop watching.

Sometimes, I sketch until my fingers cramp, filling pages with his face, but nothing fills the hollow space in my heart where he should be.

I move to the window and stare at the sunset, watching the sky blaze with streaks of orange, pink, and gold, but the beauty is distant, unreachable.

Too many days have passed since I last saw Jasce’s face, since I felt the warmth of his arms around me.

I turn away from the window and close my eyes, allowing memories to flood in—the sound of his laughter, the way he looks at me.

A soft knock pulls me from my thoughts.

“Annora,” Tahira calls out, her voice muffled through the door.

“Yes?”

“Dinner’s ready. Are you coming?”

“Not tonight.”

She pauses for a moment before speaking again. “All right. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Her footsteps fade, and the silence settles in again. I know I should join my family, put on a brave face, but the thought of sitting across from Aleksander and Asha twists my stomach into knots.

So instead, I lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear Jasce’s voice, feel the brush of his lips against mine.

Almost.

But almost isn’t enough.