Page 117 of Severed Heir

“Screw you.” I threw up my hands. “You’re completely delirious.”

I needed out of that stifling, shrunken-down castle.

I bolted for the front door, wrenching it open before Damien could stop me. Heat slammed into my face, the dry air burning in my throat as I stumbled outside. My skirt tangled around my legs while I tore through Grimswire’s winding streets, past vendors shouting over crates of sun-warmed fruit, down alleyways that narrowed like snares closing in.

I didn’t stop running until my knees hit sand. I crumpled onto the shore, breath heaving, the sea stretching wide and endless before me, all wind and crashing waves.

“How do I get out of this?” I whispered.

“Excuse me, dear… are you alright?”

I turned. A woman stood behind me, cloaked in a deep brown dress, her skin bronzed by sun and sea.

“Yes,” I said softly. “Thank you for asking.”

She dipped her head. “Gailyn Reinhart,” she said. “I made that skirt you’re wearing almost twenty years ago. Collected each pearl by hand.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said, glancing down. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“No,” she said with a soft chuckle. “Word is, the heir of Ravensla is getting married. Civilians say she has green eyes.”

I nodded. “Reinhart... Myla, is she your daughter?”

Her face lit up. “Myla. Yes, she is.” She cleared her throat. “Do you know her?”

“We trained together at the academy. Later... we were both in Malvoria.”

“I haven’t seen her in almost a year,” she murmured. “Not since she left for the academy.”

When her gaze dropped, I asked, “Did you make a red gown? Gems and lace?” I smiled faintly. “It’s at the Serpent Estate now.”

Her smile faltered. “I made every gown for Veravine Almera. After she died, I lost everything. Men’s fashion isn’t the same, but I’ve made do.”

I turned to the sea, dark and restless. “Would you ever go back? To designing for the elite?”

She laid a hand on my shoulder. “Come. Let’s get you some orange malt tea. You look like you’ve had enough sun.”

We followed a winding path to a weathered house, its windows warped by salt, its shutters faded and peeling. The door creaked softly as we stepped inside. There were no portraits of Myla on the walls, only dragon sketches and landscapes painted in muted silvers and blue.

“You have her eyes,” Gailyn said as she poured our drinks. “I never thought I’d see them again.”

I sipped the sweet drink. “Whatever you think of me... it’s not true.”

She offered a faint smile. “I used to dream of Myla living a life like yours. But now I see that gold and titles don’t mean happiness.” Her gaze met mine. “You look like you’re ready to break.”

“I’m lost,” I admitted quietly. “But my troubles don’t matter.”

“Who told you that?” she asked. “Your troubles matter. You matter.”

“Not really. I have a roof over my head. I have food. That’s more than most. My problems don’t count.”

“There are only so many times you can run before your legs forget how to carry you past the bend,” she said softly. “Mine did.”

I studied her. “Are you telling me to escape?”

“Never let anyone force you into something.” She tilted my chin with a gentle hand. “Keep your head high, dear. And if you stay… I might just have one last gown in me.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean for you to make me a gown. I’d never ask that of a stranger.”

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