The cold in Solara's servant quarters was a constant, biting companion, but in the days following the smoldering pillow, it felt different to Emery. It was no longer just the external chill of stone and snow; it was an internal frost, a terror that numbed her heart and seized her breath.
The raw magic, a destructive force she barely understood, was part of her. And if the rumors whispered in hushed tones among the older servants were true – of the King's brutal purge of those who wielded the "white magic," a lineage long thought extinguished – then this burgeoning power was a death sentence.
Emery learned to breathe shallowly, to walk with downcast eyes, to become invisible. Her hands, once prone to trembling from exhaustion, now shook with a desperate effort to contain the tempest within. Every interaction, every minor irritation, became a perilous tightrope walk. A dropped plate, a harsh word from Mistress Elara, the elbow of another servant jostling her – each was a potential trigger, a spark that could ignite the inferno she desperately tried to smother. She focused on the cold, on the numbness in her bare feet, on the steady ache in her back, anything to distract from the surge of emotion that preceded the terrifying heat.
Her duties became an ordeal of constant vigilance. In the vast, echoing kitchens, surrounded by the clang of pots and the shouts of cooks, she moved like a ghost, her movements precise, almost robotic. She scrubbed floors until her knees ached, polished silver until her reflection blurred, and carried heavy trays, her muscles screaming, but her face a blank mask.
Mistress Elara, her eyes like chips of flint, seemed to watch her more closely, her thin lips pursed with an unspoken suspicion that kept Emery's nerves frayed to a thread. The headmistress had noted the damaged pillow, dismissing it as "carelessness" with a harsh cuff to Emery's ear, but Emery knew the woman's gaze lingered too long, too thoughtfully.
Emery found herself avoiding even the glances of the few servants who had shown her small mercies in the past. Kindness, she now realized, was a luxury she couldn't afford. Any connection, any moment of emotional vulnerability, risked an outburst. She built walls around her heart, thicker and colder than the stone of the castle itself, desperate to suppress the very core of her being. The vibrant, terrified part of her that had witnessed the destructive beauty of her own power was now caged, beaten into submission.
One frigid afternoon, while cleaning the expansive gallery that housed portraits of Solara's long-dead monarchs, Emery heard the familiar swish of velvet. Her heart leaped, a frantic drum against her ribs. Veronica. The princess, accompanied by two simpering ladies-in-waiting, swept into the gallery, her laughter echoing too loudly against the high ceilings.
Emery ducked behind a heavy velvet curtain, praying to be unseen. She was scrubbing the marble floor near the far wall, a task so menial she often went unnoticed. But Veronica, it seemed, had an uncanny knack for finding her.
"Look, girls," Veronica's voice dripped with saccharine sweetness, "it's our little mouse. Still scrubbing away at the filth."
Emery closed her eyes, willing herself to be stone. Don't react. Don't feel.
Veronica approached, her footsteps unnervingly silent on the polished floor. Emery kept her head down, her scrubbing motions even and deliberate.
"Are you deaf, orphan?" Veronica's boot, surprisingly light, nudged Emery's shoulder. "I asked you a question."
Emery slowly raised her head, forcing her eyes to remain dull, devoid of any light. Just an empty vessel.
Veronica's ice-blue eyes bore into Emery's storm-grey ones. This time, the strange current from the courtyard was muted, a faint hum beneath the oppressive silence. But Veronica's brow furrowed slightly. Her gaze lingered on Emery's face, not with the usual contempt, but with a flicker of something unreadable – a confused recognition, a fleeting memory of the unusual shift in the air that day.
"There's something...off about you," Veronica murmured, her voice losing its usual venom, replaced by a speculative curiosity. "Always has been."
Emery held her breath, her internal defenses screaming at her. She felt the familiar warmth, a nascent spark, begin to ignite in her palms. Fear, sharp and immediate, was the catalyst. She squeezed her fists, pressing her nails into her skin until it hurt, trying to redirect the surge, to push it back down.
Veronica's ladies-in-waiting exchanged uneasy glances. "Princess, perhaps we should continue our walk? The drafts here are quite frightful."
Veronica ignored them, her gaze still fixed on Emery. "You have a look... like something forgotten. Something dangerous, something I don't understand." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "I don't like things I don't understand, mouse."
A fresh wave of terror threatened to break Emery's fragile control. The warmth in her hands intensified, a dull throb. She could feel the raw power itching beneath her skin, demanding release.
Suddenly, a voice, deep and resonant, cut through the tense air. "Princess Veronica! Your mother requires your immediate presence in the West Wing."
It was Lord Varen, the King's Master of Coin, a stern, unsmiling man known for his unwavering loyalty to the crown. He stood at the far end of the gallery, his presence a stark contrast to Veronica's frivolous cruelty. His eyes, though addressing Veronica, briefly flickered to Emery, a flash of something unreadable – not cruelty, not pity, but perhaps a fleeting recognition of the precariousness of her situation.
Veronica scowled, her moment of intrigue broken. "Very well, Lord Varen. Come, girls." She threw one last, dismissive glance at Emery, a look that promised retribution later, and swept out of the gallery.
Emery let out a long, shuddering breath. The warmth in her hands receded, leaving behind a cold clamminess. She knew that look. Veronica hadn't understood, but she suspected. And suspicion in this palace was often worse than outright accusation.
Later that day, as the sun began its descent, casting long, frigid shadows across the palace grounds, Emery was sent to collect linens from the washhouse, a small, steaming building tucked away near the outer wall. The air inside was thick with heat and the scent of lye soap, a welcome respite from Solara's perpetual chill. She worked quickly, folding piles of rough-spun sheets, her mind still replaying.
Veronica's words, the terrifying flicker of power in her hands.
A shadow fell over her. She looked up, startled. An old man stood in the doorway, his back to the dying light, his face obscured by the steam. He was one of the stable hands, a gnarled, silent figure she'd seen around the palace for years, but never spoken to. His name, if he had one, was unknown to her.
"Careful, child," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones, barely audible over the hiss of the wash and the rhythmic slap of water.
Emery paused, her hands still. "Careful of what?"
The old man stepped closer, his eyes, dark and piercing, finally meeting hers. They held a strange depth, ancient and knowing. "Of the palace. Of what lurks here." He glanced over his shoulder, a swift, almost imperceptible movement, as if ensuring they were alone. "The King... he seeks to snuff out all light. All difference."
Emery's blood ran cold. She knew what he meant. The white magic.
"Your emotions, child," he continued, his voice dropping to a barely audible whisper, "they are seen. They are felt. Especially now. The walls have ears, and the shadows have eyes, placed there by the King's own hand. Evils lurk, seeking any sign of defiance, any flicker of what they tried to destroy."
He took another step closer, his eyes intense. "You carry something precious, something dangerous. Keep it hidden. Control your fear, your anger, your sorrow. Let no one see the flame within. For if they do..." He paused, his gaze hardening. "The King will finish what he started."
Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he turned and melted back into the fading light and the rising steam, leaving Emery alone in the humid silence of the washhouse. Her breath hitched. The old man knew. He knew about her. He knew about the magic.
Her parents. The dark forces. The purge of white magic. It all clicked into place, a terrifying tapestry of truth. She wasn't just an orphan; she was a survivor. And her power, the very thing she feared, was a legacy, a living defiance.
The warning echoed in her ears: Control your fear, your anger, your sorrow. Let no one see the flame within. But how could she, when the palace itself was a crucible of dread and oppression, where every day brought a new cruelty, a new trigger for the fire that raged within her? The weight of the secret, the terror of discovery, and the immense burden of controlling something so raw and volatile, pressed down on her, heavier than all the snow in Solara.
The old man's words offered a chilling clarity, but no comfort, only the stark reality of the peril she now faced. Her suppression was no longer just instinct; it was a desperate battle for survival.