The Seventh Life Of The Soulbound Villainess
Running from the center of my sternum across the frozen air toward him, toward the Crown Prince on his black horse, and from him back to me, a connection so delicate it looked like breathing wrong would break it.
And through the threads — not words, not an image, not anything I had language for at seven years old:
Longing.
Someone's longing. I couldn't tell whose. Only that it existed, that it was enormous, and that it was the saddest thing I had ever felt.
Then it was gone.
The Crown Prince's gaze moved on. The procession continued. The village exhaled collectively. Somewhere behind me, a child started crying for unrelated reasons and was immediately shushed.