Chapter Seven ▏The Lie

I’m weightless, tied to nothing, being nothing. Only my essence remains, and it’s floating above everything. It’s bliss. It's completely dark. If this is death, then I would have no issue with it. 

But it's not death. The darkness soon gives in to light, which turns to different colors and shapes until I find myself looking at the image of the palace gardens, close to the thirty-foot tall walls. There's a woman in white robes standing next to a tree, pointing at the tall iron gates.

A dream. I'm dreaming, and this one is too familiar. I've had this dream so many times as a kid, enough for me to know immediately that that woman is my mother.

"Elora," she says, her voice echoing even though she's close to me. "Look."

Like she always does in these dreams, she points at the moon, which is high above in the night sky. Abnormally large as always in this dream. Dominating the sky, creating some kind of a pull that renders everything silent. But still, I don't look at it for long. My eyes are fixed on my mom.

My mom, who I only saw in the pictures that Father tried to burn.

"Mom," I try to say, but I have no voice. I never had, not in these dreams. "Mom, please."

I want to touch her. I want to hug her. I want to feel her, the love that I'm supposed to receive from her. I just want to know who she is, how it feels like to have a mother.

But of course, she disappears just after pointing at the moon.

I never knew what this meant, and I have tried to debunk it many times. Still, nothing compares to how much I want to figure it out right now. I want to stay in the dream until I arrive at a conclusion, but I get pulled out of it in one quick go. 

My eyelids snap open. I find myself in a small room with wooden walls and a wooden floor. The small window beside me is covered by a thin white curtain, and there’s only darkness beyond it. Only the orange light from a gas lamp sitting on a stool by the window illuminates the place, casting almost half the room in shadows. 

I try to stand, but ropes are holding me to the chair, wound tight around my chest and my lower belly. The same thick ropes are tied around my wrists and ankles. The wounds around my middle are dry now, the clotted blood visible under my tattered shirt. There’s a strip of cloth around my mouth, preventing me from screaming as I see the silhouette of a man sitting in front of me.

“You’re awake,” he says, emerging from the shadows. “Finally.” 

His form gets bathed in the orange light, and I have to stifle a gasp. It’s the man from the forest. The man who saved me. . . . 

Suddenly all the events come flooding into my head. The carriage, the rebels, the forest, the wolves, and the man. This man. The man who looks like an angel or a statue carved for the gods, all fine angles and smooth lines, sharp features and alluring mystique. He’s tall and lean, looking like the grim reaper himself in that black coat, coming to take me or watching me suffer. 

He brushes locks of his curly black hair from his forehead, allowing me to look at his eyes. Even in the orange light, his irises look cold. Gray and freezing, like the lake in the palace in the middle of a harsh snowstorm. His gaze locks with mine, and I immediately get flashes in my head, vague emotions that flick by like sceneries from a fast-moving carriage.

I see the stars, the moon, all the celestials. I see a sky brewing thunderclouds, a flash of lightning, the eye of the storm. I see snow, the first specks that fall from the sky in the beginning of winter. 

Good and bad. Beauty and danger. Life and death. 

It’s all in him.

The man reaches out and pulls my gag down. “You’re a reckless one, aren’t you? I would say you are gutsy, but guts without brains is just stupidity. Now tell me, who’s with you?”

The question reaches my head with extra slowness. “What?”

“I said, who’s with you?” he repeats, stepping back. “Who was with you when you barged into my forest and made a mess of things?”

“I. . . .” I can barely think. I can only look at him. “I don’t know. I just—"

“Answer me properly.” His tone becomes stern. When I don’t speak, he sighs and says loudly, “Answer me!” 

“No one!” I splutter. Tears flow down my cheeks. I don’t want to cry, but I’m so scared. He must be one of the rebels that Uncle Osman told me about. Not the same ones that hunted us, but definitely one of them. “I was alone. I’m alone.”

He crouches down and stares at me. Then he begins to pace. “How did you find my forest?”

My body begins to shake. “This is not your—"

"I only have one question for you," he interrupts, his pacing as slow and as controlled as his voice. "Why are you in my forest?"

I take a deep breath to steady myself. I can’t just sit here and look pathetic. "It's not your forest. It's not your land."

That makes him laugh, and his laugh is as cold as the room. "But it is. You just have no idea, princess."

Princess. This has to be a coincidence. He doesn't know who I am. If he did, he would have killed me already. 

"Let me go," I tell him. "I didn't do anything wrong!"

He narrows his eyes, a trace of his laughter lingering on his lips as a sly smile. "Oh, didn't you now.”

I can tell that he knows I’m afraid, and that he likes it. I can almost feel him thriving off my fear. His smile widens, baring his teeth, his noticeably pointy canines. This reminds me of the Shadow Wolves, and that makes my dread spike up. My fake bravado melts away in a single second.

“I was lost,” I say in a rush as he leans closer to me. "I swear, I did nothing wrong and I. . . ."

"Nothing wrong?" he echoes, amused. He puts his hand on the backrest of the chair. "Don't worry, I'll give you one chance to prove it to me."

"And how can I do that?" 

His hand trails down to my shirt. He hooks a finger on the neckline and looks me in the eye. "I think you know how."

I do. I’m completely aware of what he’s implying, and for some reason the idea of it fills my body with heat. Whether from shame or something else, I have no idea. All I know is that it’s enough to make my brain and my mouth to work. 

“Please, let me explain,” I say quickly as he opens his mouth to speak again. “I’m not a bad person. I really don’t know where I am. I didn’t know this was your land. I didn’t know it was owned by anybody! Please, sir, I’m from the Capital. I ran away from the Nobleman I was serving since I was a child. I just rode a random carriage out of the state and wound up here. I have been wandering for days and I have no idea. I’m just a servant, sir, please have mercy on me. . . .”

That story came from nowhere. It just slipped out of my lips, together with the tears that continue to flow down my cheeks. I know it sounds stupid and maybe even unbelievable, but it seems fitting. 

This man is a rebel, which is why he’s protective over this land. I have a strong feeling that he’s hiding something important here. Hell, maybe this is a rebel headquarters. And aren’t the rebels wanted by the authorities, by the palace?

Maybe this is how I can prove myself. Maybe this is how I can be the princess. 

I can surrender him and the other criminals to get the crown. 

The man narrows his eyes, but this time I’m not afraid. Or at least, not that much. I’m calm enough to say, “I’m sorry, sir. I’m really sorry.”

He straightens up and withdraws something from his pocket. Something small and sharp. He lifts it to my level of sight. “This yours?”

I take a close look at it. The dagger that Hendrik gave me. I didn’t even know I kept that with me until now. Still, the man must have noticed it for a reason. I don’t know what it is yet, but I will find out. No matter what.

“A friend gave it to me,” I tell him softly. “He said it would protect me.”

The man stares at it, twirling it in his fingers, then he turns his attention back to me. I summon all my willpower to keep my eye contact steady, hoping against hope he won’t notice how bad I’m shaking both from fear and eagerness. It’s taking too long, way too long, and I’m getting nervous by the second. . . . 

“Very well,” he says at last, leaning over to cut the ropes around my middle with the dagger. It’s sharp, severing the knots in a few effortless swipes until I can breathe freely again. “I believe you.”

“Thank you,” I sink into a bow even though I’m still sitting and he’s bent over, cutting the ropes on my wrists and ankles. “I am thankful, sir.”

“Me too.” There’s a sly hint in his voice. “So, I will give you shelter for now. But you must know it comes with a price.” 

“Anything,” I say instantly as I flex my joints. “I’ll do anything.” 

He smirks. “Take off your clothes.”