No escape

I looked at Bluebell, noticing the worry on her face, and a sudden thought struck me—one that filled me with both fear and resolve. We couldn't remain here. The castle, once a haven, now seemed like a snare, with sinister forces hiding in every corner. We had to leave, to flee before the entity that had seized this place could find us again. Her eyes widened at the mention of escape.

But instead of concurring, she shook her head, her face reflecting her inner turmoil. "I... I can't," she murmured, her voice quivering. "I don't think we should leave."

I furrowed my brow, surprised by her reluctance. "What do you mean? We can't stay here, not after all that has transpired. We're in the dark about what's happening, and if we remain, we may not have another opportunity to get away."

"My lady," she calls out, her voice barely above a whisper as she slowly brings her hands to my cheeks. It's hard for her to grasp that she might die or be sent to the dungeon, especially with the king being such a dangerous man. "I know everything seems strange and hard to understand right now, but we must trust the king this time," she tells me, her words fading into a whisper. Her condition is dire, and her eyes fight to stay open.

"Why?" I ask. I know he is the king, and a king's demeanor should be one of quiet strength, tempered with wisdom and empathy, but I can hardly find those qualities in him. "Look at what he did—no, what everyone here did. One is fighting for you to be held in a dungeon, another wants me to step down from the throne, which I agree to, and the other, he—"

"He supports your reign, my lady. Why would you decide to step down from the throne? We all agree that she was right in demanding a strong and trustworthy queen, but that doesn't mean you cannot become one. I thought we needed you to forge your own legacy. You cannot back down, and in fact, I will not allow it. As of now, I cannot say a word but let me tell you this: it pains me to admit that the king is the only one we can trust for now," she coughs, and I rush to bring her some water, which she gulps down as if it were life itself. "My lady, have I ever done something to make you doubt me?" she asks after a moment of silence, and I shake my head. She is the only one who has always fought for my happiness. "Then we should stay and—" she tries to sit upright. "I told you we would flee if anything made your life more difficult, and I don't think there is anything, is there?"

"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, my eyes darting around as if the answer might be hidden in the shadows. The words felt heavy on my tongue, as though asking the question would open a door, I wasn't ready to face. Bluebell's face tightened at the question, her features setting into a resolute expression as she prepared to speak. The anxiety that had twisted her expression moments before was replaced by a firm, determined look. She took a steadying breath and, with her eyes now focused and unwavering, gave me an answer.

"Vinsmug" — at the mention of the name, my eyes widened in shock, my breath hitched. The name echoed within me, and a sudden, involuntary jolt of recognition struck me like lightning. My gaze fixed on her, reflecting a mix of disbelief and urgency.

For a moment, time seemed to pause as I grappled with the magnitude of what she had disclosed. My mind whirred, attempting to connect the dots, while my heart thudded in my chest. The name, so unexpectedly spoken, held an importance I hadn't foreseen, leaving me on edge, craving less information, and unable to look away from the bearer of this astonishing news.

"Why?" After what seems like an eternity, I finally catch myself and ask. But she shakes her head, and I understand what she meant. Why would we go there? We have no reason to, and even if there is, can't we find another solution? "Isn't there another way not to go there?" I ask, hoping for good news, but deep down, I know there isn't. Why would she tell me that if there was a possible way of escaping this?

"No, my lady, there is, unfortunately, no such place. As much as it pains you, it is the only place where you will find all your answers," she says as she reaches for my hands and squeezes them with all the strength she has left. "Do not worry, because this time you will have the king by your side. We know there hasn't been much interaction between you, but I believe he is trying to make amends. You mustn't stress."

"But what if he knows the... thing does ugly things? He will cast me out like the outcast I am," I fear. It is true that the king and I haven't spent much time together, and this is the specific reason he will not waste his time on me. If he were ever to find out about me, the true me how will he react. how I wish I had decided to stay in my chamber; none of this would have happened.

"Saltanat, you need to stop. What happened is part of your past and it will never change, but what you can do is replace it with new memories. And if you think the king won't keep you with him, then it will be his loss, and we will leave after he helps us—it will be a win for us," she consoles me. But I am far too gone to not worry. We are speaking of Mother, not some random flower shop owner, but Mother. What will become of me when she sees me and acts as she always has all these years, and in front of the king, to hurt me more?

"Okay, we'll leave as soon as he's ready," I whisper, uncertain why I feel this way, though I know I have good reason. My life wasn't shades of pink and blue, but black—a life I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, if I had any. Yet, I can't let it go. It took me twelve years to stop the nightmares and two more for my scars to heal but forgetting is something I have yet to achieve.

"Saltanat?" she calls, snapping me out of my daydreams, and I raise my eyebrow, inviting her to continue. "I overheard the king; he was either telling you or perhaps asking you to address him by his first name," she teases, causing the blush on my face to spread down my neck. "Look how red you are; I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you," she remarks, and I look at her, puzzled, as she goes on. "Considering how striking the king is, with his sharp cheekbones and strong jawline, softened by his silver-brown eyes that seem to hold ancient secrets," she gushes with pride in her description. "His midnight-black hair, streaked with silver, frames his face, giving him a regal yet enigmatic presence. His skin glows golden whenever he lifts you, hinting at the magic in his lineage. Each of his movements exudes a quiet strength, particularly when you're in his grasp, making him a king both revered and feared. No wonder Lady Celia is so agitated," she muses, reclining on the bed as exhaustion pulls her towards her own dreamland.

"You need rest," I coax her, pulling the blanket up to her neck to ensure she is well covered. She nods, a teasing smile spreading across her face. "Why don't you close your eyes and sleep? Tomorrow is another day," I persuade her, and she closes her eyes, still smiling.

"I know, a new day to carry the lady in his arms and beg her to pronounce his name while her name rolls off his lips... Saltanat," she mimics, smiling at the sound of my name spoken by the king. "And you will tell him, 'Put... put me down, I can...'"

"Stop and sleep; why do you keep pushing?" I scold her and she ignores it raising her eyebrow three times with a smirk, my face flushing red as I recall the king's hands on my body and ankle, his deep voice yet so soft and reassuring and those eyes of his. A growl stirs in my stomach, remembering how his fingers traced circles on my skin. It was so relaxing that I can't understand why I long for it to happen again.

"Thinking about the king, huh?" she continues with her ministrations, closing her eyes and relaxing into the pillow. "I understand how you feel about the king, and you suspect he may be involved with other women. However, you should know that not everyone is the same. Remember, your father never took any concubines, and neither did your grandfather. I'm not sure about your brother or the king, and I don't want to lead you to believe something that might be untrue. Trusting someone is difficult, but give him a chance," she whispers, drifting off to sleep.

"It's not about me giving him a chance, but rather having that chance from him," I whisper, gazing at the sleeping bluebell. Her breathing is soft and steady, a gentle cadence that fills the quiet room. Each breath carries a sense of tranquility, her chest rising and falling in peaceful slumber. The faint sound of air passing through her lips is like a whisper, a tranquil lullaby that speaks of dreams untouched by the concerns of the waking world. "He behaves like this now, but what will happen when he starts avoiding me again? He doesn't seem to want children, acting as if I have some unknown illness," I muse, glancing one last time at the sleeping figure before closing the door behind me. when out of the Sudden,

"I thought you were going to sleep with her," a voice booms behind me, shattering the silence and sending a jolt of fear through my body. I whip around, heart pounding, my breath caught in my throat as the unexpected sound echoes through the corridor. The king stands tall, his presence commanding as if he has been waiting too long before speaking. His eyes, sharp and discerning, scan my face with quiet authority. Clad in rich, dark robes that seem to swallow the only light I would have use to find my way back, he exudes calmness, every movement deliberate and measured. "What were you doing in there that took you so long? Were you going to sleep with her?" his deep voice asks, and I raise my head to the source, unable to believe it belongs to the king. What was he doing here in the middle of the night?

"I was... was just ensuring she was al... alright," I say, my stuttering unnoticed as his twin brown eyes pierce through me, wiping my mind clear of any thoughts of my own. He inches closer, dragging his legs until we're barely apart, his breath chillingly cold on my face as I meet his intense stare, unable to look away. "My liege," I utter, unsure why, and he hums in response, expecting me to speak further, but words fail me, not even sure why I addressed him in the first place. It feels like an eternity passes before a voice thunder from the far end of the hall.

"Your Majesty's rooms are ready," a maid informs us. From the corner of my eye, I catch her wide-eyed gaze upon us, and I remember her; she was the girl I met upon my first arrival. Standing there, waiting for an answer, she appears visibly awkward and shy. I look up at the King, who returns my gaze, seemingly waiting for me to speak on his behalf. As I hesitate, he wraps his arms around me from behind, pulling me closer, eliciting a gasp from the woman across the hall. "You may leave; have a good rest," I say hastily, not wanting to become the talk of the palace for days to come. "What are you doing? your-" I begin, but he places his thumb on my lips.

"What did I say about calling me by my name, Saltanat?" he voiced out, whispering my name as I heard the distant footsteps of the maid leaving. I sensed something was amiss. He looked at me as if I were his next meal, and this late at night, his intentions unclear. He questioned why I refused to address him by his name. Mother had warned me against it; William loathed hearing his name from my lips, punishing me with a slap each time I dared utter it. Mother said it was a sign of submission he craved to obtain. But why would he want me to call him by his name, was it to strike me or worse, send me to a dungeon? there are several down there, it would be peculiar, yet there's a first time for everything.

"But... why?" I ask, dazed by his sudden request for me to utter his name. This wasn't the first time he demanded it; he lifted my chin with his index finger, sending a confused gaze down my spine. Is he angry? I know it was rude of me to question him, but I have the right to be scared, or at the very least, to know what I'm about to face if I ever pronounce it.

"Because I want you to" he whispers strengthening his thumb near my lips to brush over it "I call you by your name don't I? so why wouldn't you do the same? it's only fair from my part" he slowly releases his fingers on me but when I was breathing a sigh ready retract myself from him when he grabs my lips and pinches it and I know they would be a mark in it. his hold in it is so firm that I can feel the blood slowly oozing out he remove his hands from it and brings his face closer to mine and without a warning he leans more closely and licks my lips or the blood in it and moans as though it was the most delicious food ever known to mankind.

"your" I try to call him, but he bites on my lower lips dragging it toward him making me walk closer to him in pain and after some time he releases it. "ah" I cry out, unable to comprehend why he would do such a thing. "Why... would you... it hurts."

"I know, I never did that to make you laugh; it's a punishment," he says, gently brushing his fingers over my lips and wrapping one arm around the crook of my back, trying to pull us closer. "Why are you always so shy and scared of everything?" Why? Your demeanor is intimidating, with your perpetually calm face, and you... you embraced that exuberant woman when you're supposed to be my husband lying to me you had something important after just few hours of marriage. Lost in thought, I didn't notice my tears until he tenderly wiped them away. "Why are you crying, Saltanat? Did I hurt you?" His cold voice draws my face up to meet his, confusion etched across his brow.

"No... I," 'yes!' I try to say, but more tears fall, and I start sniffling loudly. He pulls me into his chest and rubs my back, whispering words of reassurance. Softly carrying me in that princess style he did after dinner, he walks with me while I'm still crying. He shushes me softly and continues walking for some time before opening a door to a room, kicking it closed with his leg. He walks with me as if I were the most delicate vase, a breakable glass, kicks something out of the way, and sits on the soft bed or cushion, continuing to rub my back gently, soothingly.

"Shush, don't cry. Why are you sad?" he asks, rubbing my back from top to bottom. "If you don't want to call me by my name, then you won't," I dip my head into the crook of his neck, shaking it to let him know that wasn't why I was crying. He pulls me closer, whispering soft words of comfort. After what feels like a day of agony, my crying subsides to sniffles. I open my eyes to peek at him but halt when I see the mess on his chest; his gown is wet with my tears. In haste, I try to wipe it off, but he holds my wrist to stop me, pulling me back into the crook of his neck. "We will be leaving tomorrow evening to arrive at dawn. I've informed some maids about it since Bluebell isn't doing well and will be traveling with us," he begins, but I cut him off.

"Why do we have to go there?" I ask, my voice muffled as my face is buried in his neck. I'm aware it might seem selfish, given my growing comfort in the palace, to refuse a visit to my brother, but why there? It takes a while for him to respond, and I know he heard me when he begins to soothe the line of my back. It's so relaxing that it eases the tension that had built up just moments before.

"Because we need to understand what's wrong with your Ignis and why you can't activate it," he says, and it scorches me to think that I will always be a burden to others. With the questions swirling in my mind, I doubt he will want to explain things to me indefinitely. He must desire something in return for his precise actions. Yet, Bluebell doesn't trust anyone easily, but she strangely did with him.

"Can't we find it elsewhere?" I ponder aloud, considering every possible solution. Why does it have to be there? He gently slides his hands down to my waist, holding me firmly, and lifts me up, causing my legs to straddle his. He raises his head to meet my gaze, and I shy away—not from the undignified position, but from the intensity of his brown eyes.

"Why don't you want to visit your mansion?" he inquired, his usually incisive gaze clouded by confusion. He appeared momentarily adrift, his eyes narrowing as though deciphering a puzzle visible only to him. His brow creased, and the acuity of his gaze softened into a mist of doubt. It seemed he was wrestling with an idea, his thoughts visibly entwined as he attempted to unravel what I might be concealing. His gaze returned to mine, seeking an unarticulated understanding, but it was clear he remained adrift in a sea of inquiries. His lips parted slightly, on the cusp of voicing a question, yet he paused, the words stumbling before forming. As I found myself unable to respond, the silence between us thickened. Before I could fabricate a falsehood, he spoke again, his tone low and hesitant, betraying his struggle to comprehend his own words. "Do you still miss your husband?" he asked abruptly. The directness of his question took me by surprise, my eyes widening, my pulse quickening as I searched for a reply. His direct approach was unexpected, and now, under his intense scrutiny, a wave of anxiety washed over me. The room felt constrictive, the gravity of his inquiry insistent. As I remained silent, his expression darkened, a veil of frustration and impatience crossing his face. The silence grew more oppressive, each moment intensifying the strain. His once gentle look turned steely, the prior warmth evaporating into a firm determination. "You still have feelings for him," he declared, his voice low and ominously compelling, drawing me nearer. In response to his unsettling demeanor, I uttered the sole truth I had ever shared with anyone.

"No," I reply, and he relaxes, though not entirely, as he inquires again.

"No what?"

"No, I do not harbor any feelings for my—" I attempt to respond, but he silences me by placing a finger on my lips.