Page 14 of Emylia

Screw it.

Before reason could catch up, I stormed back to the wardrobe and yanked on my favorite pants and calf-high boots.

Straightening, I swept my thick brown hair over one shoulder, the strands tumbling in natural waves, a touch of gold catching fire in the filtered light.

I gave myself one last spin in the mirror, tugging the dress just enough to keep the pants hidden. Satisfied, I crossed the room and pulled the door shut behind me with a gratifying thud.

A sharp intake of breath greeted me as I stepped into the main house.

My mother beamed, her entire face softening as she took me in. "Emylia," she said, voice thick with awe, "you look stunning. As pretty as the lost princess."

Of course, no one actually knew what the lost princess looked like—she was lost, after all. She could’ve been as ugly as Nexus, the graveyard of lost souls, for all we knew. But people depicted her as beautiful. Because that was the way of the world—turning what was missing into something gilded and perfect.

Not even two decades had passed since Agertheria fell—first to a warlord who toppled the crown, then to a stranger who cared nothing for power, only revenge—yet already the tale of the long-lost princess had slipped from fact to fable, whispered into prophecy:

When fire reunites with shadow and blood touches stone,

The heir shall rise—blade in one hand, scepter in the other.

She will bind what is broken, claim what was lost,

And silence will fall upon the realm.

But beware the echo beneath the crown,

Wholeness forged from fracture does not hold—it shatters.

For the union of two becomes death.

I hoped she was everything I wasn’t—beautiful, radiant... enough. Because Gods knew I was far from it. Still, it meant something—something I didn’t dare name—that my mother saw me that way.

Compliments made me feel unbearably awkward. My mother accepted them with effortless grace, like thanking someone was a kindness, not arrogance—as natural as breathing. I was nothing like her. Where she was warmth, I was recklessness stitched into every line of my soul.

I’d tried charm once. The blacksmith’s son had complimented a new skirt my mother had made, and I, of course, made an absolute idiot of myself. Sebastian had been there, so of course, he witnessed everything.

I smiled and dropped into a curtsy–just as the smithy's son swung his hammer. I dove to avoid the collision, narrowly missing the impact–but somehow—because the Gods had a vicious sense of humor, I ended up sprawled in the mud. Skirt soaked. Dignity nowhere to be found.

Sebastian had nearly died laughing.

Safe to say, that was the last time I ever tried to be someone I wasn’t. After that, I embraced myself—flaws, sharp edges, and all. It was epic, sure. But as the years passed, believing anyone could see something good in me only grew harder. It felt like they were complimenting something that simply didn’t exist. I learned to brush aside compliments quickly, never really knowing how to accept them.

Heat flooded my cheeks as I awkwardly fumbling for a response. "Ah, thanks. You look stunning too."

Her fingers traced the curve of my cheek.

“Thank you, my precious gem.” Her eyes shimmered like cut stone–beautiful, unyielding–carrying the quiet grace of someone who knew I’d flinch if she offered more tenderness than I was ready to receive.

"Well, we better get moving," my mom said, casting a glance toward the window.

"By the time we make it into Ophelia, the contests will be half over." Her voice softened, threading into something fragile. "The Gods have blessed us with the sun after all," she whispered, voice trembling like she was trying to believe it was a good omen.

But it felt wrong—like the sun should’ve refused to rise.

Dimmed in mourning. Curled beneath the horizon and hidden itself from a world that no longer deserved its light. Because how could the sun still burn so brightly when he was no longer standing beneath it?

No warmth, no light, could ever fill the hollow echo of him left behind. And it wasn’t just the ache of his absence that broke me—it was the cruel, relentless rhythm of the world continuing without him.

Morning still dawned. Laughter still dared to triumph. The Earth had the audacity to spin.

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