Page 222 of The Call of Crimson
“Well, I’m still living, aren’t I?”
For the first time in weeks, I feel the acidic burn of anger rising in my throat. It’s painfully scorching in comparison to the emptiness that has consumed me until today.
“No, Breyla.” Darian shakes his head. “Until now, you were simply existing. It’s up to you to decide what you do from here.”
And with that, he leaves me standing in the courtyard, debating whether to return to my chambers or follow him just so I can punch him in the face.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
OPHELIA
Breyla’s pain-filled moans ring through the empty hallway, echoing off marble floors and walls. Her cries increase, and the emotion in them tastes just like my own. I push open the door to Ayden’s chambers, the lock shockingly not in place.
I’m surprised to find Breyla alone in bed, Ayden nowhere to be found. Her body thrashes, her mind caught in a nightmare. I see tears coating her cheeks as I approach the bed. I have no idea how to chase the demons from her sleep, but I can’t bear to leave her like this. So, I do the only thing I can think of. I slip into the bed beside her.
“Breyla,” I whisper, shaking her shoulder gently. “Wake up.”
Her eyes flare wide, surprise filling them at seeing me in bed next to her. “Ophelia,” she pants, her breathing still heavy. “What are you doing here?”
“You were screaming.” I run my hand over her damp cheek, stroking softly. “I’m not sure where Ayden went, but I needed to make sure you were alright.”
Her hand comes to rest on top of my own, squeezing gently. “Thank you, Ophelia. It was just a nightmare.”
“I get them, too.”
A beat of silence passes between us.
“Do you want to talk about them?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I almost tell her no. But these last six weeks without her have been harder than the months without her in Rimor. Maybe talking about it will help.
“Some are just memories. They make me sad, no matter what the memory is,” I whisper, and she nods. “Other times, I watch him die over and over anytime I close my eyes.”
“That happens to me, too.”
We lie there for a while, not saying a word, just enjoying each other’s presence.
“Tell me a story about him,” I request.
“Did you know I taught him how to swim?”
I shake my head.
“When we were seven, my father fashioned a rope swing over the river that runs behind the palace. Elijah adamantly refused to go anywhere near it, preferring to watch the other kids swim while he sat on the banks.” She readjusts in bed, flipping onto her back with her head still turned toward me. “For a while, I just believed he didn’t like the water, like he was a cat or something.”
I giggle at the image of Elijah with cat ears and a tail. “A cat?”
“I was seven. Give me a break.”
“Please, continue.”
“I realized eventually that he didn’t dislike the water because he loved storms. He would dance in them, saying it appeased the Goddess of Life and Death.”
“It most certainly does,” I agree, playing along.
Her lips tilt in a half smile. “When I finally put it together that he didn’t know how to swim, I made it my mission to change that.”
“How?”
