From Storms to Thrones (Part 1)

My heart was pounding so hard in my chest that I could barely hear anything over the rush of blood in my ears.

When I finally spoke, my voice came out more hesitant than I intended, a sharp edge of nerves that I couldn't quite hide. I hated that I sounded so fragile, so uncertain.

"You look—busy," I managed, my eyes flicking to Mysaria before snapping back to Rhaenyra. My jaw tightened as I fought to keep my emotions in check. "And it has been a long journey. With Your Grace's permission, I would like to excuse myself to my room to rest and recover."

Rhaenyra's gaze locked onto mine, and for a long moment, she didn't respond. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I could feel the weight of her eyes on me, scrutinizing every inch of my tired and weary form. But then, as quickly as the silence had fallen, Rhaenyra's expression shifted, the mask of the Queen sliding seamlessly into place.

"Yes—of course," she finally said, her voice composed, though I noticed the briefest flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the faintest downturn of her lips. "We will talk in the morning. Much has changed since you left."

Before I could stop myself, before the words could catch in my throat, I spoke, the bitterness slipping out like venom.

"I see that," I said, my voice tight, my jaw clenched.

The room plunged into a heavy silence, the tension between us thick and almost unbearable. Rhaenyra's eyes darkened, and for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker across her face—something that looked like hurt, or maybe anger—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the carefully controlled expression of a ruler.

Mysaria watched us with an unreadable expression, her gaze darting between Rhaenyra and me, clearly intrigued by the undercurrents she had just witnessed. 

Rhaenyra opened her mouth as if to say something more, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, she nodded curtly, her tone clipped.

"Rest well. We'll speak in the morning."

All I could do was nod, my throat too tight to form any words. I turned away, my footsteps heavy as I walked toward the door. The weight of their stares followed me, pressing down on me like a leaden cloak, suffocating and oppressive.

As I stepped out into the corridor, the cool air hit my face, a stark contrast to the heated emotions churning inside me. My heart was still pounding, the encounter playing over and over in my mind, each moment a fresh stab of disappointment, confusion, and anger.

The White Cloaks fell into step beside me, their presence little more than a blur as I moved through the castle's dimly lit corridors. The flickering torches cast long shadows against the walls, and the echo of our footsteps filled the silence.

I barely registered the path we took, my mind too caught up in the turmoil that had erupted in the library.  When we finally reached my room, it was as I had left it—untouched, waiting. I stepped inside and shut the door behind me with a soft click, leaning back against the cool wood as I closed my eyes, trying to steady the storm of emotions raging inside me.

But the quiet of the room only amplified the turmoil, the memories of the library still too raw, too fresh. I pushed off from the door and moved toward the window, but I didn't climb into bed. Instead, I stood there, staring out at the night, the distant lights of the castle flickering like tiny stars in the darkness.

A part of me wanted to scream, to let out all the frustration and hurt that had been building up since the moment I saw Mysaria standing so close to Rhaenyra. But I swallowed it down, pushing it deep where no one could see.