Light pooled in from the crimson curtains, illuminating the room in a reddish hue as I sat down at my vanity, still half asleep and coming my hair. Zaima was supposed to be coming soon to fetch me my gown for the day and tell me a bath had been drawn. I was going to spend my days as I had grown accustomed the last several months: reading, learning Jagan from Bròn, and cross stitching. Just as I put my comb down, the smell of hazel filled my lungs so heavily I thought I’d choke. I saw nothing. My body felt nothing. But I heard everything.


    Five sets of footsteps approached my door before it opened. The creak of the hinges was unsettling as my room was raided. A sigh of relief could be heard, masked as a sigh of upset. The familiar smell of Agar wood. Abyad.


    “We don’t allow people in here. Her room is in the same state as it was on her wedding day.” Abyad said to the other people in the room.


    One of the sets of footsteps was lighter than the others, coming closer to the vanity. A familiar musk filled my senses, before a voice of honeyed venom replied to Abyad.


    “The room hasn’t been touched since that day?”


    If I had been capable of shaking, I would have been in such ferocious shudders that I’d have fallen over. I’d have been so mortified when I’d heard that voice that I would have started screaming at the top of my lungs. Maybe I actually would have fought back this time when faced with my abuser. But I was hidden. I was safe.


    “No, Duke Markovni.” Abyad replied. Disdain flooded the darkness.


    “Amazing.” Shahin murmured as his steps faded. My bed. He was in front of my bed.


    I could feel the anticipation oozing from the others in the room, as silence sat in the air. I felt everything that everyone felt—everyone but Shahin.


    “How I miss my Song Bird…” Shahin murmured.


    Liar.


    “What the Hell is he doing in here?” I asked Bròn, my voice quieter than I’d imagined.


    “The Duke forced him, Dear.” Bròn’s voices crooned and cried. The term of endearment threw me off—he wasn’t his usual jovial self in the shadows.


    “Why won’t he get—“


    “Quiet.” The voices demanded as footsteps approached the vanity again.


    Could he hear us?


    I heard something move from the vanity. Shahin’s footsteps shifted towards the door. Heavy footsteps scuffed against the marble in response—I assumed them to be Abyad’s.


    “Can I keep this?”


    Keep what?


    “She had a similar one back in Otlak…the maidens threw it away.”


    “I don’t know, Lord Shahin. If Al’Haya finds it gone…that comb was very important to Al’Hala…” Abyad stammered.


    “I’ll see to it that one of its likeness is delivered. I just…I want something to remind me of her so desperately…” Shahin said.


    “I’ll take your word.” His voice was so quiet and defeated, so sad. I hadn’t heard such a cadence from Abyad since his voice broke in the grotto. He didn’t want to give Shahin whatever it was he’d picked up.


    “That is as much as I’m willing to let you look in here. We’re leaving.” He stated firmly.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    “Thank you, Idris.” Shahin said.


    I could hear Shahin’s smile—that same smile that would appear as he looked me in the eyes after slicing into me. Pure amusement towards others’ suffering. I didnt need Bròn’s power to know what that man was feeling. He was just like a Cursed One—no, he was worse. Even Bròn wouldn’t do something like that and find enjoyment in it.


    Shahin’s footsteps walked towards the door, and the other four sets joined his as they dissipated into the hallway. The door closed with a softer click than usual—as if apologizing to me. Bròn fed me something else with that click, a deep sense of defeat and woe.


    Once Bròn materialized me back onto the stool, I scoured the vanity’s objects in search of whatever Shahin had taken. All of my perfumes were in place, bows neatly secured around their nozzles; hair ornaments were all stowed away in their proper boxes; brooches, still in their drawers. Everything was there except…a comb. The comb Abyad had given me back when he was still Idris. Gangly, small, Idris who could hardly hold himself up on his own two feet with grace. It had Mother’s favorite flower on it. The comb I had just been using to rake through my hair had vanished—and that sadist of a Duke had taken it.


    “He didn’t want to let ‘im in.” Bròn said, ripping me from my train of thought.


    “I know…” I murmured, staring at the spot where the comb once sat. “Thank you…for hiding me.”


    “Aye.” Bròn replied, his own voice tight with apprehension. He knew I was a whirlwind of emotions. Materializing had brought all of them washing over me.


    I felt so violated in that moment—even more than when Shahin had breached my body as I was restrained to that table. Even more than the first time he’d shredded my back to ribbons. I was enraged, mortified, scared…but I also felt something disturbing: saudade. A twisted part of me wished I had faced my husband. I wanted to see his eyes as they met mine; as a smile graced those beautiful, cupid-bowed lips, as he called me my pet name. The part of me that wanted that scared me, and Bròn saw it—felt it.


    “It’s Captive Syndrome.” He said to me, crossing his arms as a ghost of a grimace lined his face. Our eyes met in the reflection of my vanity. I watched as he took in the expression I wore.


    “It ain’t unusual for people ta still love the ones who hurt ‘em.” He added.


    I nodded, trying to understand the complexities of the emotions I struggled with. Bròn had a point. I’d spent three years in bliss with Shahin, but he’d stolen more than my favorite comb from me. He’d taken my trust; my hope in those around me; my desire to fight. No longer was I the girl who’d lay on the roof surrounded by lunar moths, admiring the moon with hope; I was now a woman who looked to the stars and begged them for a sign to continue living. I looked at myself in the mirror and let out a soft sigh, no longer seeing the girl I once was. I saw a cold, jaded woman looking back at me. At least I wasn’t so sickly-looking anymore.


    ————


    I was told Shahin left not too long after he’d raided my room. Relief washed over me when Zaima delivered the news, preparing me to go see Abyad, Mother, and Father for dinner in my parents’ quarters. A small celebration, between the four of us, to enjoy the splendor we’d swindled out of Otlak. I wasn’t feeling very festive, though, even as Zaima dressed me in a fanciful modest gown, and fashioned my waves into a braid to wear in front of my parents. My chest felt hollow, and the anxiety that riddled my stomach made me detest the idea of food. Zaima continued to prepare me, adding soft blusher to my cheeks and a light shadow to my eyelids. She was truly gifted with makeup, much more than I could dream to be. I had told her several times to go work for Madam Tayir in her free time, and she scoffed at the notion.


    “Madam Tayir’s is highly exclusive, you know.” She stated. “They wouldn’t allow me to do their ladies’ makeup. I’m much too homely.”


    She was modest, is what she was. Zaima was a beautiful girl, I’d almost pity the man she ended up marrying. He’d have to stave off countless others to get to her—eyes of mahogany, hair like tightly coiled ribbons, and skin of honey brown. She was every Mahsulian woman’s muse, right down to her petite, lithe figure that exuded modesty in how she carried herself.


    “Are you ready?” Zaima asked, smiling at me excitedly. I nodded half-heartedly, as she beckoned me to turn around.


    I looked nice. I wasn’t anything special, though, as I took in my features. The same woman I’d met the eyes of earlier that day stared back at me: empty and full-figured, even when drowning in the fabric of my robe. I sighed internally, looking up at Zaima in a way that must have been pitiful.


    “You don’t like it? I can—“


    “No, no.” I interjected. “I look lovely, Zaima, thank you.”


    Zaima pursed her lips and nodded, before a small smile graced her lips.


    “You’re truly the Gem of Mahsul, M’Lady. Just like your mother.” She complimented.


    I gave a soft thanks to her before she helped me stand. There were still times my muscles refused to fully beckon to my requests, and I hated that with every fiber in my being. Zaima helped me to the door before I insisted I could handle myself. She was such a good maiden to me, and at the time my closest friend. Age wasn’t a wedge between us, rather a means for our bond to grow stronger whenever she asked me for menial kernels of knowledge.