The sound of the restless sea carried into the late Duke’s private quarters, pulling Bo from a nightmare. Another storm, she thought, steadying her breath. Yet the tempest outside was nothing compared to the one raging inside her.
She sat up in the old, grand canopy bed, pressing her back against the wooden headboard. It was a dream, she told herself. Just a dream. The room was dark, lit only by the soft, flickering glow of the fireplace. The polished wood along the pale walls seemed a few shades darker in the low light, and the battle scenes painted across the walls were blurred and indistinct. Everything seemed changed at night—ghostly, almost uncanny.
Even under heavy blankets, Bo’s naked body felt cold, her skin damp with sweat. The fire still burned in the large, square fireplace, but she seemed immune to its warmth. She shivered and drew the rich covers higher, tucking them over her bare chest.
Beside her, Pre slept soundly. He lay on his chest, turned away, the slow rise and fall of his broad back marking each breath.
How can he sleep so easily when the whole world is falling down around us? Bo wondered, watching him.
Pre’s aloofness was baffling; his troops had been crushed in the Battle of the Desert just a few cycles ago, yet he slept as if none of it mattered. Did he not worry? Did he even grasp the weight of it all?
She shut her eyes and swallowed hard. The orange glow of the fireplace and the smell of burning wood brought it all back—that night her home burned, and her House crumbled with it. The sky had been steeped in orange and red, heavy with fire and blood. Everything had fallen at once. But something—no, someone—had endured.
“Satine,” Bo whispered through clenched teeth. She could still see her sister slipping out through the heavy doors, the General close behind. The memory of her own escape flashed next—springing to her feet under her father’s bewildered gaze. Without thinking, she’d leapt off the balcony just seconds before a thermal detonator, hidden beneath the heavy wooden table, exploded—setting off the chain of attacks that would bring down the entire city. She could still feel the jarring crash of her beskar’gam against the shrubs below, pain shooting through every limb. That was the beginning of the end. The only trouble was, it hadn’t ended yet. Satine had survived. Against all odds—against every hope—she’d lived.
The whole episode played out again in her mind. The explosions. Flames licking the outer walls of the castle, spilling through the windows, feeding long chains of black smoke that curled up over the city. The screams and cries of terrified citizens. Ash drifting through the air like a soft, grey drizzle.
Bo shuddered. It had been her doing—tears, pain, and death. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to feel nothing, to wear the strength that the situation demanded.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/61284910/chapters/165819784
