Page 26 of Powerful

I shove through the crowd, my mind on the coach that rumbles towards the castle I should be going to tonight. I’ll need to rework my already risky plan, seeing that I won’t have Adena’s power to aid me. Sneaking aroundunnoticed is no longer an option. Simply posing as an Imperial is the only plan I have left.

I guess I’ll find out just how convincing Adena’s uniform is.

I’m suddenly standing before the door of my shop, shouldering it open with the familiar sound of screeching hinges. The room looks dull, dreary without her light to fill it. Scraps of fabric are all that remain of her, needle and thread my last tether to our time spent together.

I stride slowly around the room, surveying every surface she’s left in shambles. A thin coating of honey sticks to the corner of my work table, marking her usual spot. The padded wall for her practice punches still wears the indents of her knuckles. My eyes snag on the crumbled sheets that once draped over her figure, still smelling of her skin.

I shake my head, astounded by my absurdity. This was never meant to get so out of hand. These feelings were equally unwanted and unpredictable. She was intended to be a means to an end, the first step towards a new life far away from Ilya and the threats lurking within it. I was content to use her if it meant I could smuggle Hera out of these Trials. It was the hope I held on to. Because that was all I had left.

“You had me!”

Her pained voice echoes in my skull, forcing me to relive the bitter words. But that doesn’t make it true. Because I’ll never be able to have her, never be able to bottle her brightness, stow away her smiles. I don’t deserve her – and I’ve known that since the day I saw her with that godawful blue shirt.

I slump onto the edge of my bed, eyes landing on a piece of fabric littering the floor. Bending to pick it up, my thumb brushes over the jumble of loose stitches.

It’s the scrap she forced me to practice on.

But it’s what she’s elegantly stitched up at the top that has a smile tugging at my scar.

Keep practicing!

I trace the letters over and over, reminding myself of the mission at hand. The one where I save Hera from these Trials, and myself from this kingdom.

I never imagined it would be this difficult to leave.

Because now there is her and every moment after.

I had never known happiness before her, and if there is to be an after in which she doesn’t exist, I know I never will again.

Dropping the fabric, I run cool fingers over my flushed face.

I should have listened to him. Should have turned myself in like Father so desperately wanted. Because I now hold Hera’s life in my hands after so many years of her doing the same for me.

I know what I have to do.

But nimble fingers and soft skin are suddenly tugging my heart in the opposite direction.

CHAPTER 11Adena

Blood meets my tongue, leaving a particularly unpleasant tang behind.

I suck on my finger, attempting to cease the steady stream of scarlet welling on my skin. Typically, my thumb takes the most abuse from the tip of my needle, but it seems my index finger is equally in danger this evening.

I examine the mutilated skin, cursing myself for my clumsiness. My mind is far from the fabric in front of me, just as it has been since this morning. Despite my best efforts, it keeps wandering back to Loot and the boy with soot-stained hands, scarred lips, and a sliver of silver hair.

I huff, filling the empty room with my aggravation after several hours of silence. Pale moonlight streams through the dusty windows that line the walls, casting a warm glow on the colorful fabric pouring from the shelves and draping over tables.

I’ve spent most of my days huddled up in the sewing room, along with most of my nights. Though, I’ve spent as much time with Pae as her busy schedule will allow. While she trains and rests, I try my best not to bleed on the dress I’m scrambling to finish in time.

Silver, silky fabric drapes over my leg, coating me in what looks to be melted coins. Once I’ve ensured that nothing is leaking from my several stab wounds, I run my fingers over the material for the dozenth time. I’ve never felt fabric like this, let alone afforded to use it. The entirety of this vast room is stocked full of whatever supplies I could possibly dream up. Rolls of fabric litter the shelved walls while dozens of tables sit atop soft carpet, all for the seamstresses’ convenience.

I think I may have died and awoken in my own, personalized heaven.

The light at my table hums with power – a fascination in itself. I’m not used to so much electricity, running water, soft mattresses. I could get accustomed to livingin a castle. I could get used to trulyliving.

Taking a deep breath, I force my focus back onto the thin, draped sleeve I’m currently stitching to the gown’s body. With the ball tomorrow evening, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’ll be spending much of my night alone in this sewing room.

Not that I’m complaining.

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