Chapter 2- Salia

Mountain winds needled my skin.

I stood before the fortress gates, banners snapping overhead.

The servants behind me shifted restlessly in a neat line—trays and bundles balanced in anxious hands, awaiting the carriage.

From down the road came the sound—faint at first, then swelling. I muttered low to myself, rehearsing my lines, fanning courage.

Memories of my grandmother surfaced—the sharp angles of her gaze, the way she looked through me rather than at me, as if the color of my eyes offended some unwritten rule. It was she who had come for my mother that final time. The same carriage I had once chased after with tear-soaked cheeks, now rattled to a halt before me, wheels kicking back gravel. 

The seconds stretched, slowing with every heartbeat. The servants moved, falling into their roles with polished precision. I glanced down, self-conscious in my gown. The silk felt heavier than armor.

Time lurched forward as the carriage door swung open.

A figure descended, tall and severe, robes rippling like poured velvet.

My grandmother. 

The Queen.

Age had only sharpened her—hair pinned in jeweled coils, eyes cool and calculating, each step measured with control.

My stomach dropped when another figure emerged.

At first, I couldn’t place her. The years had rewritten what memory had left behind. Her wild curls had softened to silvered waves, but her eyes—those eyes—still carried a warmth I could never forget.

Mother.

My chest lurched. 

I nearly forgot to breathe.

The Queen spoke first, her voice carrying across the courtyard. “Salia. It has been too long. I see you have not forgotten your manners.”

Her words were a careful blend of praise and command, as if I were a pet. 

I sank into a bow, repeating my lines with practiced care. My pulse pounded like a fist to a door.

“Welcome to the fortress, Your Majesty,” I managed, biting back the words aching for release.

With a flick of her wrist, the Queen turned toward the great doors, servants scattering to escort her inside. Her next words became a stream of orders and questions I let drown beneath my thoughts.

My mother lingered half a step behind, her smile still pinned in place. When her gaze swept me again, it softened—just barely.

Something unspoken passed between us.

A promise. A plea.

I couldn’t tell.

The great hall was draped in fine tapestries, their colors muted by candlelight. The servants had outdone themselves—hearth warm, table gleaming, aromas rising from platters—but my appetite was lost to dread.

I took my place at the long table. I tried to keep my gaze on the Queen, though the warmth of another presence at her side kept pulling me back. My mother’s silence crowded the room.

The Queen sat posture straight as a blade, her eyes cutting through every detail. After the first course was laid, she set down her cup with a small click.

“The fortress looks more polished than I remember. Your efforts show provincial care. You’ve been dutiful.”

The words stung.

I lifted my chin.

“Yes, thank you, Your Majesty. Even a forgotten jewel can be polished—if only to be put on display once in a rare moon.”

Forks halted mid-bite.

The Queen’s lips curved. She offered no reply, her expression ashen for a breath before the perfect mask reformed.

Mother glanced up at me. Each time our eyes met, she looked as though she might speak—but thought better of it.

Later, in the parlor, the air thickened with smoke from the hearth. Servants poured wine as the Queen’s courtiers chatted in low tones. She sat in her high-backed chair and requested I sing. 

My throat tightened. 

Once, I might have agreed—before my voice had become something private, something sacred. To sing before them felt like undressing my soul.

“With your gifted voice, surely you can manage a small song?” the Queen said with an edge.

I bowed my head slightly. “My voice isn’t what it once was, Your Majesty. Perhaps a piano tune would better serve the moment.”

The Queen lifted her chin.

“Very well. Play something sweet and civilized.”

I took my seat at the piano. The bench’s cushion sat dented from years of use. My hands steadied over the keys, smooth beneath my fingertips. I chose a symphonic piece—popular, but difficult.

The first note rang clear. 

Then another—a melody that had lived inside me for years. The song soothed my rushing thoughts, just for a fragile moment.

When the final note faded, silence hovered. The Queen’s expression softened, her smile tugging with a small hint of admiration.

“That talent will serve you well. The Duke Lorenzo prizes refinement. They say he adores musicians.”

I looked up, startled. My fingers still hovered over the keys.

“Who, Your Majesty?”

“You’ll be wed to the duke before the solstice. I expect you’ll find comfort in your art. He’ll hardly notice your—unusual eyes, if you keep them lowered over a piano.”

My blood froze.

My mother shifted in her chair. “Perhaps now isn’t the time—”

“She should know why she’s leaving,” the Queen replied. “She’s studied enough to understand she wouldn’t be summoned without purpose.”

Something in me gave way.

My fingers hung, suspended between obedience and the ache rising in my throat. 

The melody I had played—soft, sweet, measured—now soured.

I struck a new note.

Then another.

The sound turned heavy and raw, slipping into a mournful minor key that belonged to no lesson I’d ever learned.

My grandmother’s jeweled fingers stilled on the arm of her chair.

My mother stared at her lap.

I played on.

You’re taking me away.

You’ve already decided my life.

You’ve taken my choice. 

The song swelled, abrupt and defiant, until it trembled itself into silence. For a breath, I almost hoped they might understand—that sound might bridge what words could not. But when I lifted my head, their faces were marble once more.

Three generations, one room, and not a single note shared between us.

My mother rose and approached with a small smile. “May we have a word—just the two of us?”

We stepped aside, her expression tight with years she had never spoken aloud. Before she could start, the Queen’s voice cut through the room.

“It grows late. Tomorrow we will discuss what comes next. Come, Maris. Let us retire.”

My mother nodded slowly, swallowing her words. Obedience didn’t become her. 

I followed them up the staircase in silence. The Queen disappeared into her chambers, her farewell polite and commanding. Maris lingered at her door, hand resting on the knob.

“Do you still suffer nightmares, daughter?” she asked. “You woke with terrors as a child. I hope they have left you.”

I didn’t know how to answer.

“The lullabies helped,” I said. “I remember that.”

Her eyes softened.

“Perhaps a moonlit walk in the garden will calm us both.”

I nodded before she ducked inside.

Back in my chamber, the air was heavy with candle smoke and perfume. I lay on my bed, corset biting my ribs, the duke’s name turning over in my mind like a riddle. A duke was a man bound to titles and treaties. My mother had once lived that way, too—bound, not chosen.

A marriage meant to cage me, as it had caged her.

I had vowed to never live that life.

I read about love in old stories, tragic plays, and myths where souls defied kingdoms to find one another. I’d thought those tales belonged to people without obligations stitched into their names. Still, a part of me imagined it: someone who wouldn’t leave, who would stand beside me when the world demanded otherwise.

Foolish thoughts.

Long after midnight, I slipped from my bed, still trapped in my gown. Each step through the hushed halls felt loud enough to wake the dead.

The garden lay silvered in moonlight—air scented with blooms and damp earth. Mother waited near the fence line, pale in the glow. 

“My sweet daughter,” she said softly, as though I were still a young girl. 

Her hand brushed a curl from my face.

 “You look so much like I imagined—and nothing like I remember.”

“Why did you leave me?” The question came out too fast for me to stop it. 

Her face hardened, almost prepared for the words to pour out.

“I thought—if I accepted it, if I made peace with the marriage, I would see you again…” Her voice faltered. “Instead, they locked you away and …I let them.”

The truth stung more than I imagined.

“But you’re here now,” I said.

She pressed a small leather pouch into my palm, heavy with coins.

“Take this.” Her voice shook. “I can’t let them decide your life the way they decided mine.”

My fingers tightened around the leather. 

“What about you?” I asked.

Her smile was soft, but sad.

“I made my choice long ago.” 

She hesitated, then added—

“Your father…”

I froze. “You never told me.”

She looked toward the tree line, eyes distant.

“I was never sure how. There was something different about him.”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“I barely knew him,” she said, “But he was kind. Gentle. Mesmerizing. And he gave me you.”

She swallowed tight, before she continued, shifting her gaze far more serious than before. 

“He...” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “…He told me he came through an opening—a seam between worlds—just like in the old myths and stories.”

My heart thudded. Something inside me went cold. 

“He is not from this realm Salia, and neither, fully…are you.”

Her words rang too large to process. 

“Be careful, Salia,” she said, gripping my hand. “Your bloodline will make you precious and dangerous.” 

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Live.”

That word crashed into me harder than any other. 

Silence curled around us. Tears blurred my vision, as she pulled me into her arms. She smelled of lavender and candle smoke, the scent of my earliest memories.

“You are the love of my life,” she murmured. “Live for us both.”

“I love you too,” was all I replied, and perhaps that was all that mattered.

She disappeared back into the fortress, leaving me tearstained and clutching coins. 

The weight of her blessing—heavier than gold.

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