Chapter 13_Fractured Mirror

Tarni

​The heavy iron bolt slid into the brass strike plate with a definitive, echoing , I leaned my entire weight against the thick mahogany door, pressing my forehead against the cool, dark wood.

​My lungs dragged in the steam-heavy air of General Vance’s private washroom in jagged, trembling gasps.

​For the first time in four hours, I was entirely alone. There were no calculating eyes tracking my movements. There were no drunken lords spilling wine across my boots. There was only the low, steady crackle of the hearth fire in the adjacent bedchamber and the rhythmic drip of hot water from the copper pipes feeding the massive, claw-footed bathing tub.

​I pushed myself away from the door, my legs feeling like they were made of hollowed-out lead. The front of my leather doublet was still cold and heavy, clinging to my chest where Lord Gerald’s southern wine had soaked straight through to the linen underneath. The sweet, fermented smell of the dark grapes turned my stomach, mingling with the sharp, metallic terror that still coated the back of my throat.

​“Go to my private quarters, Kael. Strip off those wet clothes.”

​Vance’s command hammered against the inside of my skull. He was coming. I didn’t know how long it took to drag a broken lord out of the Great Hall and order the blood scrubbed from the flagstones, but men like Vance did not linger on their own violence. He would finish his wine, and then he would come here.

​I moved to the center of the washroom, stopping in front of the tall, silver-backed mirror mounted above the marble basin.

​The stranger staring back at me was a ghost draped in a dead boy's clothes.

​My fingers, stiff and shaking, reached for the brass buckles running down the front of the ruined leather doublet. I undid them one by one, the wet hide groaning in protest. I peeled the heavy garment off my shoulders and let it hit the tiled floor with a wet, heavy slap. Next came the sweat-soaked undershirt, clinging to my skin like a second layer of dread.

​I paused, gripping the edges of the marble basin, staring at the reflection of my chest.

​Thick, unbleached linen bandages wrapped tightly around my torso, binding me completely flat. The edges of the cloth were frayed, stained yellow from old sweat and dark purple where the wine had seeped through the layers.

​I found the tucked end of the wrap beneath my left armpit. I pulled.

​The linen unspooled slowly. With every revolution, the suffocating pressure around my ribs eased. When the final layer dropped away to the floor, my lungs expanded fully for the first time since dawn, pulling in a massive, shuddering breath that felt like breathing glass.

​I looked at my bare chest, tracing the deep, angry ring of black and yellow bruising that mottled my lower ribs, a parting gift from the ironwood target rim when I’d dodged too slowly in the Under-Vault three nights ago. The skin beneath the bindings was pale, raw, and crisscrossed with angry red indents where the tight cloth had dug into my flesh for sixteen hours a day.

​I raised my eyes to my face in the mirror.

​The sharp crop of my dark hair. The soot and ash rubbed carefully into the hollows of my cheeks to simulate a masculine, hollow jawline. The rigid, dead-eyed stare of a soldier trained to feel nothing.

​Who is that?

​A sudden, violent wave of dysphoria hit me so hard my knees buckled. I caught myself on the edge of the basin, my knuckles turning white against the cold stone. I closed my eyes, trying desperately to summon the memory of my own face. Tarni. The girl who used to wear rose silk and laugh at the rain. The girl who loved the smell of old books and the taste of honeyed almonds.

​I couldn't find her.

​When I reached into the dark corners of my mind for her, all I felt was Kael's cold armor. I felt the weight of the broadsword on my hip. I felt the violent recoil of a throwing knife and the terrifying thrill of surviving a pit fight. The lie had burrowed so deep into my marrow that it was slowly eating the truth alive. Tarni was disappearing, suffocated beneath the bandages and the blood.

​A single, hot tear broke loose, carving a clean line through the ash on my cheek.

​I wiped it away furiously. Kael didn't cry. Kael, the fierce young prince of our fallen house, the golden boy who was supposed to lead our banners into the new age, would never stand weeping in an enemy general's bathroom. But Kael was rotting in the frozen earth, and I was entirely out of my depth.

​The sheer, crushing loneliness of it all settled over my bare shoulders like a leaden cloak.

​I leaned over the marble basin, letting my heavy head hang between my arms. God, I just wanted someone to look at me. Not the uniform. Not the forged royal crest. Not the dangerous, silent soldier. I wanted someone to look at the bruised, exhausted girl underneath it all and pull her into a quiet, warm dark. I ached for a safe harbor,a pair of hands that wouldn't force a blade into my grip, or lock tightly around my throat, or push me into the path of an Inquisitor's gaze. Just a gentle touch. A voice whispering that the war was over, that I could finally unlace the armor and rest.

​The fantasy was a cruel, useless thing, but for three seconds in the damp, quiet steam, I let myself drown in it. I let myself pretend I was safe.

​Then, the floorboards in the adjacent bedchamber

​My eyes snapped open. The fantasy shattered instantly, replaced by a spike of pure, primal adrenaline.

​Heavy, deliberate footsteps crossed the thick woolen rugs of Vance’s bedroom. They didn't stop at the hearth. They didn't pause at the writing desk. They moved with terrifying purpose straight toward the washroom door.

​I scrambled backward, my bare foot slipping on the wet linen bandages pooled on the floor. I caught my balance against the cold rim of the copper bathtub, my heart hammering violently against my exposed ribs.

​My undershirt and doublet were on the floor. My chest was entirely bare, the soft, undeniable curves of my body completely exposed in the flickering lamplight. There was no time to re-wrap the linen. There was nowhere to hide.

​“Kael.”

​Vance’s voice drifted through the thick mahogany door. It was soft, intimate, and stripped of the cold, dead authority he wore in the Great Hall. It was the voice of a predator entering its own den.

​“I told you I wouldn't be long,” he murmured through the wood.

​I backed up until my bare spine hit the icy tiled wall, my hands flying up to cross over my chest, my breath freezing in my lungs.

​I stared at the heavy brass lock I had thrown into place just minutes before. It was solid. Unbreakable.

​Until I heard the distinct, metallic scrape of a key sliding smoothly into the keyhole from the other side.

​The brass cylinder turned. The heavy iron bolt slid back with a loud sound. he door handle began to slowly press downward