Page 275 of When Sisters Collide
Together, they plunged into the frenzy—and ran.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
KATELL
The scent of lavender lingered in her damp hair when Katell returned from her bath. A cream-coloured silk tunic had been laid out for her—ankle-length, threaded with gold, finer than anything she’d ever worn. She slipped it on, the fabric whispering against her skin, and stepped barefoot into the long hall, both refreshed and famished.
Laran was still where she’d left him, seated at the head of the table, goblet of wine cupped in one hand, his gaze distant.
Without lifting his head, he gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Sit. Eat.”
This time, Katell obeyed without argument. She crossed the room and lowered herself into the nearest chair, silk pooling around her legs. She filled her plate with cold meats, fresh bread, and sliced fruit.
Laran remained silent, slowly turning his goblet in one hand.
Brooding.
Katell sipped her water, watching him over the rim. A question had lingered on her tongue for days, and now seemed the time to ask it.
She set the cup down and drew in a slow breath. “Will you tell me about her?” A heartbeat passed. Then, almost a whisper: “My mother?”
Laran’s sharp eyes flicked to her. “That depends. What do you wish to know?”
Everything. Every memory, every detail. But instead, she started with something small. “How did you meet her?”
At that, his entire demeanour shifted, and a grin spread across his face. “Andrasta killed my soldiers,” he said, as though recalling a fond memory, “and I saved her life.”
Time lostall meaning as Laran spoke of Andrasta, the woman who became the Rebel Queen—of how she’d dedicated her life to overthrowing the Empire and banishing the Rasennans from the Western Lands.
Katell caught the admiration in his tone. Respect. Perhaps even love—or something near enough to it.
She listened in silence, cherishing every word, every fragment of memory, all while idly picking at her meal.
Through Laran’s stories, her mother became more than a myth. No longer justthe Rebel Queen—but Andrasta, a woman with dreams and doubts and fire in her heart. A mortal so fierce, so full of passion, that she had captivated a god.
A thousand questions burned in Katell’s mind, each more painful than the last. But none would ever be answered.
His descriptions were so vivid that her chest tightened with envy. She had only fragments—fleeting sounds, scents, and shapes—but no clear memories. Everything blurred, always out of reach.
Her heart ached with grief. By the Moon, she missed her mother—a woman she barely remembered. As a child, she had peppered Damocles with questions, desperate to understand why every other child had a mother waiting at home, and she had none. She’d craved the warmth of a comforting embrace, the gentle touch her friends received when they injured themselves while playing by the creek.
Damocles had tried, with his own rough kindness, but he couldn’t replace a mother. Instead, he spun tales to soothe her—tales of a great warrior queen, kind-hearted and brave beyond measure. Alena had clung to those stories, while Katell had pretended indifference. Yet in the dark of night, she’d held them close—a dream of a mother she could never have.
Now the cruel irony struck. The Rebel Queen—the very woman she’d idolised in those stories, the one whose deeds had filled her childhood imagination—had truly been her mother.
Every tale, every heroic adventure, had been drawn from her mother’s life, and Katell had never known.
She stared down at her plate, appetite long gone. At least she had those fragments, however faint. Alena hadn’t been so fortunate. Sent to the Freefolk Lands as an infant, she remembered nothing of the woman who had given them life.
The thought made Katell’s throat tighten.
She hesitated, then asked, “My sister, Alena… is she also yours?—?”
“No.” Laran’s tone was flat. A flicker crossed his expression—too brief to name. “Her father was an Achaean warrior. Kallinos. Both Andrasta and he were captured after the Battle of Kendrisia.”
Katell absorbed this, turning the words over in her mind. “He was also killed in Kisra?”
“Yes,” Laran said, quieter now. “I was there.”
