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Chapter Thirty-Six

Annora

As I slide off my horse later that day, a sharp ache radiates through my legs, and a dull throb pulses in my back.

I sink onto a log at the edge of the makeshift camp, where soldiers bustle about, raising canvas tents against the fading light.

A purple wildflower catches my eye, and I pluck it, twirling the stem between my fingers. One by one, I tear off the petals. The repetitive motion helps quiet my racing thoughts but can’t fully drown out the sounds of the warriors busy making camp around me.

Each petal drifts to the ground, joining a growing pile at my feet. When the flower is bare, I reach for another, and another, leaving a carpet of torn petals beneath the log.

The pattern continues until a shadow falls across my hands, and a warrior bows in front of me. “My Lady, your tent is prepared.”

I brush the petals from my surcoat and follow him through the sprawling camp. Rows of identical canvas tents stretch into the distance, and smoke from cooking fires curls into the darkening sky.

We pass a cluster of men gathered around a tall warrior.

Brathen.

His commanding presence draws attention, but there’s something else about him, something that tells me he’s a man of many secrets. Maybe it’s the shadows in his eyes. I saw them when I first met him in the throne room, and they haven’t faded.

I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away.

The warrior leads me to a tent in the middle of the camp, and as I step inside, I look around, taking in the bed piled high with blankets and pillows, and the small writing desk sitting in the corner with parchment and charcoal laid out.

It’s lovely—far lovelier than anything I would have expected on a war campaign. But even the promise of a soft bed and the chance to lose myself in sketching can’t ease the heaviness in my heart.

How could it?

Asha is going to attack Jasce.

I sink onto the small stool by the writing desk, staring at the blank parchment.

Charcoal stains my fingertips as I pick up the stick and sketch.

Lines flow across the page, forming the curves of Asha’s face, the determined set of her jaw, the hard gleam in her eyes.

I draw myself beside her, our fingers almost touching but not quite.

“What happened to us?” I whisper.

A tear blurs the charcoal, smudging our faces together. I wipe it away, leaving a dark streak on my hand. There’s so much distance between us now, and no matter how I reach out, she pushes me away.

Maybe if I can find the right words, I can get through to Asha, remind her of who she used to be.

I pull out another sheet of parchment and write.

My heart bleeds onto the page, each word carrying fragments of memories—of Asha braiding my hair when I was small, of her fierce protection when our grandfather’s anger turned toward me, of her gentle touch when nightmares plagued my sleep.

My eyes sting as I write about the day she held me after our father left, how she promised we’d always have each other.

Knots tighten inside me as I pour out my grief over what she’s become. I tell her how I see glimpses of her true self sometimes, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, only to be swallowed again by darkness.

The charcoal scratches across the page as I write about the sister I know still exists beneath all that pain. The one who used to laugh until her sides hurt, who’d sneak extra sweets to the kitchen maids’ children, who’d spend hours teaching me to skip stones across the lake.

I write until my hand cramps, my eyes burn, and the words blur together. When I finish, I stare at the letter, at all the love, hurt, and hope spilled across its surface.

Maybe these words will reach her and they’ll find that spark of light I know still burns within her. Maybe they’ll even remind her that she doesn’t have to let grief and hatred define her story.

Or maybe they’ll fail just like all my other attempts to reach her.

Still, I fold the parchment carefully, pressing each crease with trembling fingers. Because I have to try. Because she’s my sister. Because I refuse to give up on her.

I clutch the folded letter against my chest as I make my way through the maze of tents. Warriors cast curious glances my way, but I keep my gaze fixed ahead.

Asha’s tent stands at the center, larger and more imposing than the rest. Two guards flank the entrance.

I stop in front of them and speak in a steady voice. “I need to see my sister.”

They exchange a brief look before one nods and pulls back the flap. “You may enter.”

Torchlight greets me as I step inside, where Asha sits behind a desk.

My hem trails the ground as I take a step forward and hold out the letter. “I wanted to give you this.”

Her eyes drop to the folded paper, and for a moment, she doesn’t move. Then, she sets down her quill and accepts the letter. “What’s this?”

“Please read it.”

Hope blooms inside me as she opens the parchment and scans the lines—lines where I bared my soul and begged for us to find another way. Yet, her expression remains unchanged, and my hope wilts like a flower buried beneath snow.

She folds the letter and sets it on the desk. “Do you think I’m so weak, so biddable?”

Stunned by the sharpness of her tone, I blink and stammer. “I-I didn’t mean—”

“—didn’t mean what?” Her stare pierces me as she continues. “To question my decisions? To undermine my authority?”

“I only wanted to—”

“—to what, Annora?” She rises from her seat, the maps rustling as she pushes away from the desk. “To plead with me like I’m some child who doesn’t understand the consequences of war?”

My fingers tremble as I lace them together. “I care about you. About our people. There’s still time to find peace.”

“Peace?” A bitter laugh escapes her. “You speak of peace while our enemies plot our downfall. You’re naive.”

“I’m not naive. I just believe in a different path.”

“Your beliefs won’t protect us. They won’t avenge the lives we’ve lost.”

“This isn’t about vengeance,” I say. “It’s about breaking the cycle.”

“The cycle?” She scoffs as she crosses her arms. “Spare me your idealistic notions. The world doesn’t bend to wishful thinking.”

“Asha, please. Listen to me.”

“Enough!” Her voice cuts through the air like a spear. “You’ve always been this way—living in your sketches and fantasies and ignoring the harsh realities of the world we live in.”

Each one of her words stings, but I refuse to back down, to cower.

“You used to value my perspective.”

“That was before I realized how detached you are from the truth.”

I swallow hard. “I thought we were in this together.”

“Together?” Long hair brushes against her shoulders as she shakes her head. “You’re a liability, Annora. Your hesitation, your softness—they make you weak.”

“Because I refuse to let hatred consume me?”

“Because you refuse to grow up.” Anger flashes in her eyes and etches into her every words. “The world isn’t a fairy tale. It’s ruthless, and if we don’t act, we’ll be crushed.”

I take a step back, the distance between us widening in more ways than one. “I won’t apologize for wanting to save lives.”

“And I won’t apologize for doing what’s necessary.”

Necessary for who? Her? Her in her vengeance? Her and her hate that echoes our grandfather’s? He wrote those words on the wall of her heart, and now there is no room for mine.

My sister isn’t lost. She’s chosen this path, embraced this darkness, wrapped herself in anger and vengeance like a cloak.

Where I once saw bridges to build, I now see only chasms too deep to cross. My sister stands on the other side, her back turned to everything we once shared.

Something inside me breaks—not with a crash or a bang, but with the quiet finality of a candle being snuffed out.

My grandfather’s poison runs too deep in her veins. His legacy of hate has taken root in her heart, sprouting thorns that have choked out the garden of her compassion.

I’ve been trying to tend to flowers in salted earth.

Sadly, I cannot save someone who doesn’t want to be saved or sees their wounds as armor. Nor can I reach someone who’s built walls around their heart and called them a fortress.

“I miss the sister who believed in kindness,” I say, even though I know she’s beyond my reach now.

“Kindness won’t win wars. Strength will.” With a wave of her hand, she dismisses me, as if I mean nothing to her. “This discussion is over. Leave.”

“Is this what you really want?” I ask, my chest tightening.

She doesn’t answer.

I turn away and leave her tent, the flap closing with a soft whoosh behind me. I don’t look back, don’t beg for any kind of miracle.

It’s never going to happen.

Asha is lost to me.

My hand rises to my chest, pressing against the spot where my heart should ache. Where grief should tear through me. Where the pain of losing my sister should burn.

But there’s nothing.

Just a hollow space beneath my ribs.

I could have loved her better than anyone, cared for her more deeply, forgiven her endlessly, but she didn’t leave any room for me.