I walk back to my room with slow, dragging steps, the pain in my side nothing compared to the tight ache in my chest. Lyara's harsh words replay in my head, over and over. Every single word.
"I hate liars. If you ever talk to me again, I'll really hurt you."
I sit on my bed and reach for my sketchbook, flipping through pages of trees, rooftops, and faces I've drawn in half-light…some complete, some unfinished. My hand lingers on a quick sketch of Alara. My fingers trace her cheekbones, her blonde hair decorated with flowers and golden hairpins. I slam the book shut and press my palm over it, taking in a deep breath. She's the reason things are going this way. Her admiration towards me becoming a source of anger and hatred for others.
A knock comes, and before I can speak, Matron Hilda enters. Her apron is streaked with flour, and she's wiping her hands on a towel as she steps inside. "Ashen," she says. "Some guards are here. They've come to take you to the castle. The princess probably needs your presence." She says and I see the small line on the corners of her mouth, almost a smile. Like she's happy passing the information.
I don't say a word. I just nod and she stays there for a longer time, looking at me. For a moment I think she'll say more but instead she turns and leaves.
I close my sketch book and leave the room. Outside, I meet the guards and follow them, offering only a nod of greeting. They don't say much as we walk through the winding roads of the kingdom, past market stalls, watchtowers, and narrow alleys that always smell of iron and bread. By now, people are used to seeing me with castle escorts. It's become… normal.
The physician sees me right away. He says the wound is healing faster than expected, but I'll still need it redressed every other day. He uses a cooling salve and wraps it gently. His hands are steady, practiced. "You must be eating well," he says with a grin. "Princess must be feeding you like a royal hawk."
I force a smile but don't say a single word. Once I'm done, I thank him and step out into the afternoon sun. The guards are waiting to escort me back to the palace, but I tell them I'll walk myself back, and after a brief pause, they let me. I walk, but not to the orphanage. I find myself walking the old, hidden path through the thickets and dry bushes, my path to Watcher's Rise. I climb the hill slowly, the wind tugging at my clothes. When I reach the top, I pause.
Lyara's seated on the low flat rock near the edge, her legs tucked to her chest, chin resting on her knees. Her braid falls over her shoulder, and the wind picks at the loose strands around her face. She turns when she hears me and our eyes meet. I open my mouth, then close it, shifting uncomfortably.
"I didn't know you were here," I finally say. "Sorry. I didn't mean to bother you."
I turn to leave when she calls me "Ashen."
I stop.
"Wait," she says, softer this time. "Come sit."
I hesitate. I shouldn't, it's like I don't recognize her anymore, definitely not after what happened.
Her voice comes again, more insistent. "Please."
I look back at her, at the open spot next to her on the rock. I frown. "You said you'd hurt me."
She blinks, looking down at her lap. "Yeah. I said a lot of stupid things."
I cross my arms, shifting from foot to foot. "You're stronger than me," I mumble. "I don't want another cracked rib."
She lets out a short breath, almost a laugh. "I won't hurt you. Not again. I swear."
When I don't move, she suddenly stands, walks toward me, and grabs my hand. I freeze. "I'm sorry, Ashen," she says. Her eyes are steady on mine now, filled with something softer than I've seen in days. "I shouldn't have pushed you. I was angry, but… not at you. At me."
"Lyara…"
"I'm stupid," she says before I can go on. "I don't want you to hate me. Or ignore me. You can be friends with whoever you want. You can… draw with her, laugh with her. Just…don't leave me out, okay?"
The way her voice wavers on the last sentence pulls something deep inside me and then, without warning, she pulls me into a hug. I stiffen, shocked. Lyara doesn't hug people. She punches them, trips them, yells at them but now her arms are around my shoulders, her cheek pressing gently against my collarbone, and her breath is warm against my neck.
"Just don't hate me," she whispers.
"I don't," I whisper back, my arms still stiff at my sides. "I never did."