My parents’ chambers were oddly cold, that night. While Shahin had left, the chill he’d brought with him lingered. Late fall in Mahsul was never this cold. I looked around the chambers, taking in its familiar surroundings. My Father donned fanciful clothing as he stood from the head of the table; a white tunic with orange and gold accents must have been specifically made for him to wear—he usually wore less gaudy clothing that fit him loosely. The pants he wore: pure black. He approached me with a big hug, tight enough to make all of the air escape my lungs. I wondered if I could ever be as strong as him, physically or mentally. Over his shoulder, I saw Mother.


    My mother sat in their dining room in a champagne colored robe, similar in style to mine. How she loved muted colors, I thought. Her beauty always captivated me; with such features that mine paled in comparison to. Mother had been blessed with a less intense jawline than mine, though still prominent. Her cheekbones were always so chiseled, making her look serious at all times—which was probably part of what made her such a guiding light for our Kingdom. Our people needed someone as intense as Father to be their Queen: but more modest, in comparison to his hotheadedness. Her gleaming hair sat neatly on her head, twisted back and away from her face. I looked at her affectionately when our eyes met. She truly was my rock. Beside her, sat the only man capable of sending my heart beating out of my chest.


    Abyad wore a similar tunic as my Father, hand-tailored to fit him beautifully. The amber light from the fireplace danced off of his eyes, resembling our waters at sunset. I was awestruck as Father set me down, hardly able to keep myself upright on my own two feet. He was more strapping than usual in this light, with his curls reflecting each flicker of the flames. He smiled meekly at me, as if he hand’t just managed to dupe Otlak out of enough money to beget their entire Kingdom.


    “Sit down, Mitalah.” Father beckoned me over to the wide table, already laden with enough food to make me sick by the sight alone.


    I obliged his request, sitting across from Abyad and looking down at the empty plate before me. Mother began serving the food, each spoonful that hit the plates made my stomach churn. It wasn’t just the food making me so ill, I was disgusted that we’d managed to trick Shahin into thinking I was dead—utterly revolted by remembering how he’d taken the comb gifted to me as a child. The smell of the meat and vegetables in front of me wasn’t enticing, it was nauseating.


    Father poured each of us wine, and I took my cup graciously. Abyad eyed me with concern, and I wished we could speak telepathically. Once we broke eye contact, I noticed a fifth plate that had been prepared. It sat beside me, closest to Father. As if on cue, Bròn manifested from the shadows behind Mother.


    “Sorry I’m late.” He grinned. “Had a few things ta tend to.”


    My mother almost yelped out in shock, hearing his voice from behind her. Such a reaction elicited a chuckle from Bròn as he sauntered around to my side of the table and took his seat. Father offered a slightly miffed smile, as Abyad spoke up.


    “Another one?” Abyad asked. Bròn looked at him as he brought his chair closer to the table and nodded.


    “Aye.” He said before picking up the fork beside his plate and taking a bite of food. He ate it as if he were truly hungry. As if he were capable of mortal hunger.


    I looked from Abyad to Bròn, raising an eyebrow. “Another what?” I asked.


    “Nothin’ ta worry about.” Bròn said, shooting me a sidelong glance. Father cleared his throat and smiled.


    “I’m glad we could all finally sit and enjoy each others’ company.” Mother said, speaking on his behalf.


    “As am I.” Father said.


    We sat in an awkward silence for a while until Father began to go back and forth with Bròn. The two poked jest at each other over different opinions of Otlak, and whether they were truly worthy of keeping as an ally.


    “With what’s been happenin’ lately, I’d snub ‘em.” Bròn said.


    “I still think we could gain something from them.” Father replied. “Their libraries rival Zarvan’s.”


    Bròn smirked deviously.


    “Anythin’ their libraries got, I got in here.” He said, tapping his temple with his index finger.


    Father sighed, and Abyad finally interjected.


    “I think we should keep them as allies, for nothing else than to get good grace with the other kingdoms.”


    Father nodded, cutting a sidelong glance to Bròn.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    “He’s right. Otlak has good relations with Jagan. We could use that, considering Muhtal has soured our relations with their tradesmen.”


    The mention of Fatiha’s father made my ears perk up, I hadn’t seen her in almost ten years.


    “How is Fatiha doing?” I asked, cutting in.


    “She’s well, Mitalah” Father replied with a soft smile. “She married that fellow…Murabiy, was it?” He asked, looking to Mother.


    Mother nodded, her face as serious as always. “They have a son and a newborn daughter now.”


    My heart fluttered as I imagined Fatiha with children, envisioning her smiling at them as sweetly as she used to smile at me. I looked from Father to Mother, my eyes alight with curiosity.


    “Can they come visit?” I asked, my voice filled with anticipation.


    “We can certainly see about it.” Father said. “Perhaps I’ll invite them to a dinner one night.”


    I couldn’t stop the smile that his response brought to my face. My beloved Fatiha, standing before me again as a mother. The very idea made my head hum.


    “Eat some of your food.” Abyad chided, his eyes cutting into me. I rolled my eyes and took an overdramatic forkful of food, shoving it into my mouth with a scowl. His expression softened as he chuckled, and took a bite of his own food.


    We continued eating, and Father continued drinking. The crackling of the fireplace made me all the more reluctant to eat, each pop sending a small shudder down my spine. Each crack made me think of the loud smack that had resounded through the room back in Otlak. Abyad must have been able to sense the unease within me, because he gave my foot a small kick from under the table. With my train of thought broken, I looked to him. He offered me a concerned look, and I returned it with one that insisted I was alright.


    Father had gotten a rosy flush to his cheeks when he’d challenged Bròn to an arm wrestling contest. Abyad brought his hand to his temple, massaging it lightly as Bròn laughed.


    “I ain’t built for that kinda thing.” Bròn refused.


    “You’re no fun, Bròn.” Father pouted.


    “I ain’t meant to be fun.” He retorted.


    The small exchange made me smile faintly. After Abyad also refused to engage in an arm wresting contest, Father’s eyes darted around the room in search of something to do. Finally, his eyes fell unto his sword. A grin broke from his lips, as he returned his gaze to me.


    “Hala.” He said, smile in tact.


    “Yes, Father?” I asked.


    “If you’re going to lead this Kingdom someday, you’ll be expected to wield that sword over there. Show me. I’d like to see how you’ve progressed in healing—I’ve heard good things.”


    The very notion made my blood run cold. That sword was longer than my torso, and heavier than anything I’d lifted in the last nine months. I swallowed harshly, with all eyes in the room on me. Watching. Waiting. Expecting me to oblige my Father’s request.


    Rising shakily to my feet, Father watched me with a proud smile. He was far too drunk. Mother could tell as much. Her eyes went from me to Father.


    “Themaz, is this a good idea?” She asked.


    “I don’t see why not!” He chuffed with his arms crossed expectantly. Abyad’s eyes peeled from me and to Father. They lingered on him for a moment before he scratched his nose and spoke up as well.


    “Namir, maybe after a few more months…she’s just now able to feed herself with one hand…”


    “It’s fine, Abyad.” I interjected with an edge. I wasn’t going to let Father down. I wanted to appease him—to prove my worth. The fact that he still anticipated me taking to the throne, eventually, was almost astonishing.


    “Hala—” Abyad began.


    “I said it’s fine.” I insisted, smiling weakly at him.


    Each step from that table towards the sword that sat on its rack was mortifying. I would have prolonged if Father wasn’t an impatient enough man while sober. My back grew stiff as I inched towards it, the gold embellishments on the sheath reflecting the fire from the other end of the room.


    Pop.


    Slap.


    I willed myself closer and closer, my left hand finally meeting the grip as I put some strength into taking it down from its resting place. The four sets of eyes watching me with baited breath seared into my skull, making my hands grow clammy. My right hand clumsily met the other end of the sword, wrapping around the sheath and tightening its grasp. Each inch up, up, up, made my back stiffer and stiffer.


    Pop.


    Weak,


    Pathetic.


    Shaking my head to rid myself of that man’s voice, I’d managed to lift it from the rack. Just high enough to free it from the prongs that it sat upon. Just high enough for everyone to hold their breath and anticipate me actually doing it. Just high enough to possibly defy the odds—when a cramp shot up from the right side of my back from that damned scar, making the sword slip from between my hands. I sucked in a hiss of air as the sword clattered to the ground, hitting my foot. My body crumbled, cursing under my breath as I heard Mother gasp. I could imagine her look of disappointment, as well as how Father’s face probably fell as soon as his sword hit the ground. It took everything in me to keep from letting the tears welling in my eyes fall. To not ruin the makeup Zaima had so carefully applied to my face.I felt so ashamed, so weak and…


    Pop.


    Useless.


    Shahin’s voice rippled through my mind as I stared at the floor. I felt a warm hand at my back as I stood, Father looked down at me with a saddened expression, almost remorseful.


    “I’m sorry, Mitalah.” He whispered, reaching from behind me to pick his sword up in his left hand. He was able to lift it so easily, and with one hand. I was almost enraged.


    “It’s alright, Father.” I said, swallowing the anger welling within me.