Eight

She sprinted to her room, her heart fluttering with excitement, a giddy warmth spreading through her chest.

She could already picture Jan’s reaction—the wide-eyed shock, the excited disbelief. Jan was going to lose her mind when she heard that Arrella had actually spoken—when she learned about him.

With quick, practiced hands, she slipped into a simple cerulean dress, its soft, cool hue mirroring the deep ocean blue of his eyes. She barely spared a glance in the mirror before dashing out the door, her steps light and quick as she headed toward the far end of the castle—toward the infirmary.

On her way, she accidentally bumped into someone, knocking over several unlabeled potions.

Sorry, she signed, quickly bending down to help them gather the scattered vials.

The person averted their gaze, bowing slightly, before hurriedly scurrying off.

She frowned, a sense of unease creeping up her spine. That was strange.

She stepped inside, the warmth of the room embracing her immediately. It was a quaint but cozy space, with soft, colored light filtering through the arched, glass-tinted windows, casting gentle shadows on the stone walls. The air smelled faintly of herbs, with a sweet and citrusy scent that seemed to soothe her spirits with just a tiny whiff. The shelves were lined with jars of tinctures and bandages, while a small fireplace crackled softly in the corner.

Most patients didn’t stay long—at most, a week to heal even the deepest of wounds, thanks to the Branor family. Their power was renowned: the hands of healing. With a mere touch, they could soothe the sharpest pain, mend broken bones, and ease the weight of sorrow that clung to the soul.

However, some say their power could also inflict pain, reversing the healing process. Perhaps this was what Rovin had meant—accessing a darker side of one's power. Though, he had mentioned it could only happen after a marriage union, which felt oddly ironic in this situation.

He seemed to know a lot about the noble family and their powers.

“Arrella! What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”

Healer Martha Brannor stepped out from the storage space, wiping her hands on her apron. Her chestnut hair—streaked with silver—was pulled into a loose bun, soft wisps escaping to frame her round, rosy-cheeked face. Her warm brown eyes sparkled with the same gentle kindness she saw on her birthday.

My throat’s feeling sore, she signed.

“Oh, I hope it’s not a cold, dear. I know just the thing—lemon, honey, apple, and mint. It’ll soothe your throat right away.” He smiled knowingly. “Take this tonic twice a day for three days, and it’ll be gone in no time.”

She nodded in thanks, accepting the remedy, and made her way toward Jan’s room, eager to share everything that had happened.

Arrella knocked furiously at Jan’s door, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she waited.

Jan cracked it open, eyes squinting in the morning light. “What’s got you here so early?”

I have exciting news, Arrella signed, practically vibrating.

Jan perked up. “You found out who the journal’s from?”

Arrella paused, blinking. She had completely forgotten about the journal. She’d worry about that later.

No. Turn around.

As Jan turned around, Arrella opened her mouth to speak—but nothing came out. Her voice had vanished again, as if it had been snatched and locked away.

She tried again. Still nothing. Her brows drew together, puzzled. She pressed a hand to her throat, surprised at the sudden silence where her voice had been only hours ago.

“Can I turn around now?” Jan asked.

Shoulder slumping in defeat, Arrella dejectedly tapped on Jan’s shoulders.

She turned back, brow furrowed. “What was that about?”

Nothing, Arrella signed quickly. I—I’ve got to go.

“Wait, before you go—I need to tell you something.”

Arrella paused and looked over her shoulder.

“I’m being sent on a scouts mission,” Jan said, voice quieter now. “To the border. They want me to investigate the Reclaimers. Their resistance fighters are growing more… violent. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but I’ll definitely make it to your induction. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Tears welled up. Then came the hug—tight, fierce, lingering. She clung to her as though her heart might shatter if she let go.

“It’s not forever,” Jan assured, cupping her face. “And I will come back.”

Okay, Arrella signed, blinking quickly as she squeezed her best friend harder.

“Be careful,” she whispered, her voice low and urgent. “I spoke to my father yesterday. He thinks the castle might be infiltrated.”

She furrowed her brows, a deep worry crossing her face. “Don’t trust anyone. I can’t watch over you anymore, not while I’m gone.”

Arrella’s throat tightened, but she forced a steady nod. I’ll be careful, she promised.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arrella stood by the window, her gaze distant, the weight of her thoughts pulling her deeper into her sadness. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, the night air brushing against her skin as she watched the moon’s glow shimmer over the quiet world below.

Rovin’s eyes seemed to follow her.

“Why do you look so sad?” he called after a while, his voice carrying an unexpected tenderness, as though his painted gaze could see her pain.

She turned towards him.

“My best friend’s leaving for a scouts mission,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the edge of the windowsill as though grounding herself in the moment. “I won’t see her until next year.”

“Jan?”

“Yes,” Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the grief she tried to suppress. “I know she’ll come back, but it’s different this time. I’ve never been apart from her for so long. We were always together.”

There was a long pause, the air thick with silence, before Rovin’s expression changed, a quiet understanding settling in.

“I know,” he said gently. “You told me about the frog…” His voice held a faint trace of a smile.

Arrella allowed herself a brief smile, though it was fleeting. “Yeah. She threw a frog at me because she was mad I ate her favorite lemon toffee barks—which were meant for me. And she laughed so hard.”

Her chest tightened at the thought of losing those carefree moments. She blinked, trying to push the ache away.

“I’ll always be here, with you.”

Tears welled in her eyes, her heart heavy. She felt comforted, despite the ache, by Rovin's unwavering presence—grateful for the steady reminder that, in this moment, she wasn’t truly alone.

“I’m a painting. I’m stuck here,” Rovin said, his voice tinged with a quiet humor.

She laughed, the loneliness lifting as he laughed with her.

He shifted slightly, as if leaning closer. “So, how was your day today?”

And she told him everything.