Walking the castle grounds with Ciara felt surreal. My legs were still a little weak, but the stiffness was easing, the pain becoming more of a dull throb than a sharp ache.
The infirmary, with its sterile, suffocating air, had become a prison, and stepping out into the open was like breathing for the first time in weeks. Yet, there was a strange irony in the fact that Ciara my once-loathsome tormentor was the one supporting me as I tried to reclaim my strength.
Her arm was solid beneath my fingers, her grip steady, though I could sense the tension in her muscles, like she was always ready to spring into action. It was reassuring, in a way, knowing she was prepared for anything.
But at the same time, it irritated me. I didn't want to need her support, didn't want to rely on her for something as basic as walking. But here I was, clutching her arm like it was the only thing keeping me from collapsing.
