Page 58 of Crown of Storm and Silence
The baby stirs contentedly within me, and for the first time in weeks, I feel a sense of rightness settle over us both. Whatever happened in that throne room of dreams, whatever dark magic bound us together in sleep, has left us both peaceful in ways I can't explain.
I press my hand to my belly, feeling the gentle flutter of movement beneath my palm. "Good morning, little one," I whisper. "Did you feel that too? That sense of... belonging?"
A soft kick answers me, and I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. Whatever confusion clouds my waking hours, whatever questions torture my conscious mind, in dreams I know exactly who I am. Who we are.
The cottage is already bustling with activity when I emerge from my room. Today is the village's yearly harvest festival, and everyone has been preparing for weeks. Mira looks up from packing a basket of herbs and remedies—her contribution to the celebration.
"You're in a good mood," she observes, her weathered features creased with a knowing smile. "Better night's sleep?"
Heat floods my cheeks as memories of the dream surface unbidden. "Yes, much better," I manage, hoping she can't see the lingering effects of Kaan's dream-touch written across my face.
"Wonderful. Today will be busy—the whole village comes together for the festival." She hands me a shawl. "You'll want this. The morning air is crisp, but it'll warm up by evening when the dancing begins."
The main square is already alive with preparation when we arrive. Garlands of autumn leaves and late-blooming flowers stretch between buildings, while villagers set up long tables for the feast. The air smells of wood smoke and roasting meat, of apple cider and cinnamon.
I find myself helping wherever I can—arranging flowers, carrying baskets, setting up the musicians' area. But even as I work, my eyes keep scanning the crowd, searching for a familiar dark silhouette. The absence of Kaan's presence feels like a physical ache, and I realize with a start that I've grown accustomed to the sensation of his gaze on me, that constant awareness of being watched, desired, claimed.
Today, that feeling is gone, leaving me strangely hollow.
"The wreaths look beautiful," Sinan says, appearing at my elbow with his usual quiet smile. He's been helping all morning, lifting heavy things and reaching high places, his kind nature making him popular with the village women.
"Thank you," I reply, trying to match his warmth. "You've been such a help today."
Something in his expression shifts, becomes softer, more hopeful. "I'm glad I could assist. Perhaps... perhaps later, when the dancing begins, you might?—"
"Oh, Sinan," I interrupt gently, my heart clenching with guilt. "You're so sweet, but?—"
"But your heart belongs to someone else," he finishes, though his smile doesn't waver. "I understand. I hope... I hope whoever he is knows how lucky he is."
The kindness in his words makes my chest tight with emotion. If only things were different. If only I could feel for this gentle man what I feel for the shadow who haunts my dreams.
"Nesilhan!" Banu's voice cuts through my melancholy thoughts. She appears at my side like a burst of sunlight, her delicate features bright with mischief. "Stop looking so serious! It's a celebration, not a funeral."
Despite everything, I find myself smiling. "I'm not that serious."
"You are! You have that brooding look again—the one that makes you look like you're contemplating the mysteries of the universe." She grins, her eyes dancing with familiar humor. "Come on, help me with the flower arrangements. And try to look less like a tragic heroine from a bard's tale."
Her teasing draws a genuine laugh from me, and for a moment, the weight of my complicated feelings lifts. This is what I've been missing—simple friendship, uncomplicated joy.
We work side by side, weaving flowers into garlands while Banu regales me with village gossip delivered in her characteristically dramatic style. She has a gift for mimicking people's voices and mannerisms, and soon I'm laughing so hard my sides ache.
"And then," she continues, perfectly imitating the village baker's pompous tone, "he said, 'These rolls are a work of art!Future generations will weep at their beauty!'" She strikes a theatrical pose that has me dissolving into giggles.
"Banu, you're terrible," I gasp, wiping tears from my eyes. "What if he hears you?"
"Then he'll probably commission a statue of himself holding a perfect loaf," she replies without missing a beat. "Made of bread, naturally."
"You're glowing," Elçin observes, approaching our little circle with lethal elegance. Her storm-gray eyes take in my flushed cheeks and genuine laughter with something that might be approval. "I haven't seen you this relaxed since I arrived."
"It's the festival," I reply, gesturing to the preparations around us. "Everything feels... lighter today."
"Good." She settles beside us with fluid grace, but I notice her gaze sweep the square with tactical awareness—not paranoid, just aware. "You deserve moments like this. Especially with what's coming."
"What's coming?" Banu asks, her musical voice sharpening with interest.
Elçin's smile is enigmatic. "Change. It always comes, whether we're ready or not." Her attention shifts to where Sinan has been working all morning. "And sometimes it announces itself in unexpected ways."
As the day progresses, the square fills with more people. Children run between the adults, their laughter adding to the festive atmosphere. The aroma of roasting meat and fresh bread mingles with the scent of autumn flowers, creating a tapestry of sensation that feels like home.
