(Amber Helstea POV)
Each memory was a searing brand, not on my skin, but on my soul. My body ached with a tension I couldn't name, a phantom weight crushing my chest. I gasped, the cold air stinging my lungs as I tried to drown the image of his joyous laughter, the warmth of his touch.
The earth beneath me was damp, the scent of moss and decaying leaves sharp in the misty air. My ragged breaths echoed in the clearing, each one a whispered plea – to Grey, to the silent trees, to some unseen force – to make it stop.
"Grey," I whimpered, clutching the locket at my throat. It wasn't a memento, but a living fragment of him, warm against my skin no matter the chill of the night. Yet, it provided no solace tonight.
Cherry blossoms swirled in my mind, a relentless memory of the time he'd carried me through the meadow, both of us breathless with laughter. He smelled of spring and warm earth, and I... I belonged.
"Grey," Each sob tore through me, sharp and ragged. My fists clenched, striking the yielding earth. Not in frustration, but in desperation to match the ache in my heart with a pain I could see, could feel.
A deluge of memories swept over me, a torrent of grief and longing. I recalled the lush meadows adorned with cherry blossoms, where we'd play hide and seek, lost in innocent mirth. Each time our eyes met, my heart fluttered with a mix of playful excitement and deep-seated love. I cherished those moments when he'd find me, enfold me in his strong yet tender embrace, and whisk me off the ground. The blossoms swirling around us were like witnesses to a love that was no mere fantasy, but a cherished reality from my past.
But those were just whispers of a life I lost. Later, the touch of his hand tracing the line of my jaw, a gesture only I was meant to witness... a shared secret in the candlelit quiet of my chambers... The sharp scent of the sparring yard the morning of a crucial battle, and my kiss upon his brow for luck, a silent pact of love and unwavering faith...
The weight of silken robes as we danced at a festival, his hand firm upon my waist, guiding me through the crowd, as if we were the only two people in the world... The hushed stillness of the library, a refuge from prying eyes, where we'd lose ourselves not in dusty scrolls, but in whispered words and laughter brighter than any torchlight... The taste of stolen honey cakes shared in the palace gardens, the sweetness melting on our tongues, mirroring the sweetness of those clandestine moments...
Each memory, a jewel glinting in the darkness, only served to make the shadows of the present that much deeper.
Thud! The soft earth cushioned the blow, but the image that seared me next was his calloused hand on my cheek, wiping away a happy tear.
Thud! I wanted to scream, to rage, to rip my flesh until it matched the emptiness inside.
Thud! The scent of sandalwood hung heavy, the smell of council chambers, his hand firm and reassuring when the weight of a nation threatened to crush me.
Thud! I wasn't queen. Just a girl pretending at magic, pretending I belonged in this world.
Thud! His warmth in the darkest hours, when the only sound was my stifled weeping, and all he'd do was hold me.
Thud! My blows weakened. The earth, cool and indifferent, wouldn't bleed as I did.
Silence descended, broken only by the rasp of my breath and the rustle of leaves far above. I craved the oblivion of exhaustion, but the memories, like relentless crows, refused to leave me to my grief.
It began with a disorienting, blinding flash. My first thought, the flicker of a bewildered second: this is how I die. And strangely, somewhere under the terror, lay relief. An end to this relentless ache. An end to watching helplessly as a woman I didn't know, with my eyes and a smile I hadn't earned, loved a husband I recognized only in the echoes of dreams.
But I didn't die. The white light faded, the roaring in my ears ceased and in its place, a terrifying silence. And then, the wail of a newborn. It was my voice, I realized with mounting horror, yet this tiny, flailing body wasn't mine.
At first, the world was a blur of soft colors and hushed voices. They called me Amber, and as the weeks passed, I watched my new parents with growing dread. Tabitha, sweet and nurturing, a mother's love written on her face. Vincent, gentle and kind, his smile quick and his eyes, I learned, a mirror of my own.
Their love was a warm blanket, but it didn't smother the chilling certainty: it wasn't meant for me.
Grief gnawed at me, a different beast from what I felt for Grey. This was guilt. Guilt for taking this baby's place. For the joy in Tabitha's eyes when I reached for her, the protective light in Vincent's gaze when he scooped me up... it should have belonged to another. A child who loved and was loved in a way that I, imposter that I was, could never fully reciprocate.
As an infant, I couldn't cry, couldn't protest. So, I retreated into myself, an old woman inhabiting a child's body. Tabitha, my new mother, observed my unresponsive state with concern. Believing that the trauma of losing my biological mother had deeply affected me, she embarked on a relentless mission to revive my spirits. She lavished me with maternal love, toys, and sought medical help, hoping to spark a flicker of joy in my eyes.
Their love wasn't what I yearned for, not the all-consuming passion of my life with Grey, but it was... good. Pure. And I was starving. My memories became a gilded cage – beautiful but suffocating. I needed something in this life, however small, to tether me to the present.
Tabitha wasn't my mother. But she woke each night to soothe me, her touch gentle, her voice a comforting murmur. That love, flawed and incomplete as it might be, was offered freely. It was mine to keep, or to reject.
I chose to keep it. Clumsily, cautiously, I began to respond. A clumsy grasp of Tabitha's finger, a babble directed at a toy held aloft. With each act, the guilt didn't vanish, but it receded enough that I could breathe a little easier in this new skin.
And as I grew, I did more than survive. I discovered small joys – the taste of Tabitha's baking, the silly songs Vincent would sing, the antics of their dog, Barley. Laughter came, tentatively at first, then bright and bubbling.
My love for them could never be equal to theirs for me, but it was my own. I couldn't be their lost daughter, but I could be Amber – a child deserving of the warmth this family was determined to give.
Then, there was Lilia. A whirlwind of energy and boundless affection, my sister just a few months older than me, stormed into my carefully constructed world and chipped away another piece of the wall I'd built. I was the reserved one, the quiet confidante she'd drag into adventures both real and imagined. We didn't always get along, but even our squabbles were tethered by an affection I refused to name, lest it reveal the fragility of it all.
Morning in our modest apartment was a symphony of controlled chaos. Lilia, a tornado of energy, would be demanding breakfast one moment and scrambling to find a lost doll the next. Tabitha, her movements infused with a mother's practiced efficiency, juggled toasted bread, scolding Lilia about misplaced shoes, and sending warm smiles my way. Vincent, his booming laugh echoing through the small space, offered playful threats of tickles as he corralled Lilia out the door.
I was the island of calm in the storm. Despite the warmth I'd come to find in them, a corner of my heart ached with a loneliness that no amount of laughter or stolen bites of toast could fully erase. The memories of Grey were more persistent than ghosts. They were woven into the fabric of my being – in the way I caught my breath when the morning light hit just right, the phantom scent of sandalwood on the crisp Xyrus air, in the quiet moments when laughter faded, and I was just... alone.
My role in the family was a nebulous one. Too old for Lilia's games, too young to truly help Tabitha. My mornings were spent in the city's ubiquitous classrooms, learning a history that lacked the weight of empires and a science that seemed more focused on engineering than the unraveling of arcane secrets. The stares followed me – curious at first, then filled with a simmering awe. I was different, with my too-calm demeanor, my strange reserve in a city that prided itself on bold innovation.
Afternoons were supervised. Tabitha would arrange outings, usually with other mothers and their children, where I'd try to participate in games that seemed pointless and dull. Other times, she might enlist a tutor specializing in young children, a well-meaning soul who would struggle to understand why I could recite the principles of energy transfer perfectly, yet balked at simple counting games.
The only place I could be truly alone was within our apartment. Afternoons, while Lilia napped and Tabitha caught up on chores, I'd find a quiet corner. There would be books, of course, age-appropriate ones with too-bright pictures and simple sentences. But as much as I tried, they never consumed me the way the weighty tomes of my old life did.
Instead, I'd watch the artificial sunlight shift across the room, measuring its angles. Or I'd listen to the hum of the ventilation, imagining the intricate machinery behind the walls. There was a kind of magic here, not in spells and incantations, but in the way Xyrus persisted, a testament to human ingenuity.
Sometimes, when the ache for Grey became a crushing weight, I'd retreat to my memories. I'd trace the lines of his face, the flicker of amusement in his eyes before a meeting, the way his shoulders slumped with exhaustion after a long day. It was a double-edged sword. The memories brought him close, but only served to highlight the unbridgeable chasm between us.
Yet, even in those dark moments, a stubborn flicker of hope would persist. I would find my way in this life. It wouldn't be on a throne or fueled by the kind of magic that bent nations to my will. But there was strength here, in the steady beat of Xyrus, in the resilience of the people who'd built a haven from nothing. I was no queen here, no savior.
For now, I was just Amber. A name given with love, holding the promise of a future that wouldn't be defined by its past. It was a slender, fragile thing, that promise, but heavier than my old name ever felt. Amber…a bright, sunny name, and I was anything but that. I felt more like a storm cloud, a shadow against the clear Xyrus sky.
But it was enough. Enough to pull me from my brooding, to greet Lilia's sleepy smile as she woke, and let Tabitha fuss about me not finishing my vegetables.
Because beneath the weight of grief, there was another truth. This life, simple and small and far from what I'd lost, held its own kind of quiet magic.
*****
(Arthur Leywin POV)
My body ached as I collapsed onto the bed, the weight of the day pressing down on me like a physical presence. Training with Virion had been brutal, but even worse was the relentless pull of memories I couldn't escape.
My mind drifted to my parents. Five months had passed, five agonizing months of pretending to be someone I wasn't. The ache in my chest wasn't just for my lost world, but for the two people who defined it: my father and mother.
I closed my eyes and saw them, not as they were now, but as I last remembered them. My father, his strong hands roughened from years of wielding a sword, his eyes the same startling blue as my own. My mother, her laughter like a warm summer breeze, her smile capable of banishing any shadow. They were etched into my soul, a constant reminder of the love I'd been torn from.
The guilt gnawed at me. Elder Rinia's message should have brought them some solace, but could a simple note undo the damage my disappearance had wrought? I couldn't shake the image I'd glimpsed through the water bowl – their empty eyes, the joy sucked out of their lives. Every time my mother looked at my father, she'd see a reflection of me in his gaze, and every trace of my hair in my father's would be a stark reminder of her loss.
They had always loved each other fiercely, but what good was love now, when it was tainted with constant reminders of their missing son? I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the thought of how utterly I had failed them.
The night offered no escape. In the darkness, the ache for my parents became intertwined with a different kind of longing—an ache for the warmth, the defiance, and the unwavering love of my queen, Julie.
Jewls.
The hushed quiet of the library, a sanctuary where courtly masks were shed. Her head, crowned with purple-touched hair, resting on my shoulder as we pored over ancient scrolls, her muttered curses at a particularly stubborn passage more precious than any polished speech... The scent of lilies – not the grand blooms of the palace gardens, but the wild ones we'd discover on stolen rides, tucked behind her ear as a testament to our secret adventures... The brush of her fingertips against my cheek in the darkened council chamber after a particularly brutal debate, a silent gesture carrying the weight of a thousand promises – of love, of support, of a bond no enemy could sever.
The lingering, mingled scents of old parchment and the subtle floral notes of her perfume as we huddled over maps in the dead of night. Not the grand strategy sessions, but the quiet moments of plotting rebellion, heads bent close, whispers echoing in the dimness... The stolen kiss in the abandoned stables, hasty and desperate, a breath of shared laughter against the backdrop of fear and adrenaline before a perilous mission... Her fingers entwined in mine under the vast, star-speckled sky during a night patrol, her normally regal posture relaxed against me, as we shared not the burdens of a kingdom, but quiet dreams of a life beyond war.
The almost breathless silence of the throne room after the court had dispersed, when all pretense was shed. Just a flicker of her eyes, catching mine across the polished marble, speaking a thousand words of unspoken understanding... The stolen hour in the palace gardens, the heavy crown abandoned amongst the roses, as I brushed a stray lock of hair from her brow. The feel of that cool, regal skin warm beneath my fingertips, a secret intimacy hidden in plain sight... The tremor of her hand in mine the night before the final battle, fear and determination warring in her eyes. My silent promise mirrored in the tightening of my grip, a single beat of two hearts facing the unknown, together.
The silken sheets cool against my skin, the moonlight painting her in twilight as she emerged from the bathing chamber. The flicker of candlelight mirrored the burning in her eyes, a silent question and a promise... The scent of lavender, usually associated with the formality of court, now an intimate whisper in the hushed stillness of my chambers... The surrender as her hand slid beneath my tunic– not a queen's touch, but a woman's, fueled by a need mirroring my own. The hushed gasps and whispered endearments were ours alone, a secret symphony played out in the flicker of firelight.
The memory of her smile – a flash of brilliance amidst the grayness of council meetings – sent a pang through my chest. I could almost feel her hand in mine, the way her skin, always slightly cool, would warm beneath my touch.
We were more than just rulers; we were partners, confidants, bound by a love as fierce as any battlefield I'd faced. I missed the way she could cut through the pretense of court with a single arch of her brow, or the quiet moments when we'd escape into the palace gardens, the weight of the world temporarily lifted.
"Do you think," she once asked in a teasing whisper as we strolled between the roses, "that the head gardener suspects we use his prized blooms for target practice?" My laughter had echoed through the garden that day.
A heavy sigh escaped my lips. Exhaustion was my only weapon against ceaseless guilt, but even in sleep, respite was hard to find. In my dreams, they appeared—my parents with their haunted eyes, and Jewls, her once vibrant spirit dimmed by the shadows of loss.
Morning came, unwelcome and harsh. As I pushed myself up, the ache in my body paled in comparison to the pain in my heart. Virion was waiting in the training grounds, his keen eyes immediately noticing my weariness.
"Arthur, you look like you've been wrestling with demons all night. Are you sure you're up for training today?" There was a gentle concern in his voice that made my guilt flare sharper.
I couldn't bear his pity. "I'm fine, Virion. Just didn't get much sleep last night. I'm ready to train."
He studied me for a moment, his elf senses perhaps picking up on the turmoil beneath my forced smile. "Very well. But remember, training is as much about mental strength as it is about physical prowess. If your mind is elsewhere, it's better to rest and regather your strength."
I nodded, unable to meet his gaze. We started the session, and the physical exertion did offer some respite. Each repetition of a spell, each focus on mastering Sylvia's Will, forced my mind away from spiraling thoughts. The exhaustion began to dull the sharp edges of guilt and the longing for Jewls.
"Remember, Arthur," Virion interjected during a brief rest, "strength isn't just about enduring pain or pushing through fatigue. It's also about knowing when to rest and heal, both in body and mind. Don't neglect the latter."
His words were a double-edged sword. I wanted to scream that I couldn't rest, couldn't heal, not until I found a way back to my parents, back to Jewls. But instead, I just nodded, feeling more alone than ever.
As the day ended, the weight of it all still clung to me, yet the training had given me a sliver of focus. I had to honor my parents and honor the memory of Jewls by making something of this life, by mastering the skills Virion taught. It was a small thing, a flimsy bridge across the chasm of my grief, but it was all I had.