Nine

Days turned into weeks, then into months. Before she knew it, the warm summer breeze had turned sharp with chill—frost edging the wind, icy air sweeping through the castle’s stone halls.

Since that first day, Arrella had filled every spare moment in the hidden chamber with Rovin. The secret door always opened easily at her touch, as though it had never forgotten her. She’d taken to calling it the portrait room. Rovin often joked that for someone who could conjure the impossible, Arrella had a remarkably dull imagination.

“You could wish for anything,” he said once, grinning, “and that’s the best you could come up with?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but what else would you call it?”

He gave a mock shrug. “I don’t know. Just… not the portrait room. I’m the only portrait in here. It’s not exactly a gallery.”

“Well, maybe I’ll bring another portrait in here, and the two of you can be friends.”

He rolled his eyes. “Having two portraits doesn’t make it a portrait room, either.”

She squinted her eyes. “You're kind of the whole point of this room.”

He smirked. “And here I thought you were just here for the sofa.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “That’s just a bonus,” she teased, her smile widening.

The name had stuck—mostly to annoy Rovin, but also because it was simple enough to hide the truth, in case anyone ever asked where she’d been.

Drunk on his easy presence and the freedom to speak without hesitation, she felt lighter than she ever had before. With every word, she shed a little more of the weight she carried, allowing herself to just be. His presence became a sanctuary—a quiet space where nothing was expected of her but to be herself. It was addictive.

He quickly became the thing she looked forward to the most. The anticipation of their conversations kept her up at night, eagerly awaiting the next time they could talk. His witty charm had a way of drawing her in, making her forget the world outside the room. And his smiles—kind and genuine smiles and always so happy to see her—were intoxicating. He made her feel seen, heard, in a way she hadn’t realized she needed. It wasn’t just his words that captivated her; it was the way his eyes lit up when he found her exasperating, the quiet confidence in his laughter, the way he listened, as though every word she said mattered to him. It was the way his mere presence seemed to fill the empty spaces in her life.

The more they talked, the more relaxed he became, his walls slowly coming down. And with each conversation, she found herself opening up in ways she hadn't before, sharing pieces of herself she’d kept buried for far too long. There was something safe about him—something she didn’t fully understand, but that she trusted nonetheless.

Sometimes, she couldn’t help but push him with questions about himself, couldn’t stop herself from wanting to know more.

“Do you ever get hungry?” she had asked, tilting her head as she settled cross-legged on the floor, chin resting in her hand.

He looked at her, eyes amused. “No. It’s more like being in a suspended state—never full, but never hungry either.”

“Do you ever get tired?”

“No,” he laughed. “It’s the same as hunger. I hover somewhere between being wide awake and deeply worn down. But when I’m with you…” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I don’t feel the tiredness at all.”

She pressed her lips together, thoughtful. “I saw you sleeping once.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I think that’s more a force of habit than an actual need. Maybe a kind of default mode. Sometimes I close my eyes, and my mind drifts. Everything goes still for a while.” He paused, gaze steady on her. “Then I hear your voice, and when I open my eyes again, I feel alive.”

Sometimes she would come in crying—after a biting conversation with her mother, after the weight of her own lies and masks, after missing Jan so much she felt hollow—and seek solace in his comforting presence.

She often spoke of her mother and their strained relationship. He seemed to understand, listening intently as she confided in him. She shared her struggles with living up to expectations that had been unfairly placed on her—expectations tied to her being unable to speak. The subtle, offhanded comments from her mother, wishing she had been born differently, echoed in her mind. And then there were the darker thoughts that sometimes crept in: that maybe it would be better if she didn’t exist at all. Jan had always been the one to pull her from the darkness, making her laugh with bad jokes and sarcastic digs at the other nobles, understanding her struggles as another young woman burdened by strict expectations

Rovin would soothe her with his steady voice, wrapping her in the comfort of his words, piecing her brokenness back together. He reminded her that she was more than enough—that her courage and resolve to keep living under the constant watch of others were powerful and pure and precious. He told her she was more than just her family name, with her newfound powers or without.

Sometimes their conversations were more retrospective, but a quiet tension settled in when he avoided answering questions about his past or background. He would offer small glimpses of childhood dreams (a sailor, captivated by the stories of the oceans and the seas, imagining himself charting unknown waters and discovering lands beyond the horizon), his best friend growing up (a black stallion named Willow), or his favorite view of the stars up on the oak tree.

But whenever she asked about his family, he would either change the subject or his face would momentarily harden, the pain of old memories slipping through before he could mask it. On the rare days he felt more open, he’d share brief, guarded stories about his brother.

“He was the kindest man I’ve ever known,” he shared, his voice softening with the weight of the memory. “He could be tough, always expecting more from me, but that’s just how he was—always pushing for something greater. He had this sense of adventure, never satisfied with staying in one place for too long, and he joked around a lot, spinning the most ridiculous stories and always hiding your boots.

“He had a charm that made people want to follow him, not because they had to, but because he made them believe in something bigger than themselves.”

He paused, his eyes growing distant, bitterness leaking through. “He wasn’t my real brother; I was adopted. I never knew my real parents, but they were apparently very wealthy. They were friends with my adoptive father, and I didn’t know it then, but they had a reputation. People feared them... until they were chased out and no longer seen again.

“My adoptive father had a wife who died of illness. They had a son around my age, and we grew up like brothers.” He smiled faintly, the memory bittersweet. “We always pulled the sillest pranks on each other but covered each other’s backs when we got caught. He was the only one who ever made me feel like I had a place to belong.”

“He was your Jan,” Arrella said softly.

A brief smile ghosted his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze drifted as the memories took hold, slowly sinking deeper into them, expression fading into something distant—quiet and unreadable.

“What happened?” she asked when the silence grew long.

He shook his head. “On the morning of his birthday, our father left to buy gifts.”

He inhaled sharpy. She held her breath.

“He never came back.”

She swallowed, the urge to pull him into a hug overwhelming—but all she could offer was her quiet presence. She shifted closer to his frame, hoping it would be enough.

“We searched for him,” he continued, voice low. “Even the capital guards helped look, but there wasn’t a single trace.”

He exhaled through his nose, then rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to ground himself.

“What happened to his son?” she asked gently.

His face darkened, the light fading from his eyes. “He left.”

He glanced away as if the memory stung too sharply to face. “He left the day before my nineteenth birthday.”

She tucked those stories deep in her heart, collecting them like rare treasures. Even when silence hung heavy between them, she listened closely, committing every fragment to memory. Later, alone in her room or lost in the lull of lessons, she’d replay them again and again.

Sometimes, she brought him little gifts from outside—bits of life and color to remind him the seasons were changing. Honeyed wildflowers in spring, crisp amber leaves in fall. She’d charm them with whispered words so they stayed fresh, creating a quiet garden of mismatched beauty on the floor between them. Soft greens filled the room, interwoven with vibrant blues, bright whites, and golden oranges.

Once, she made a daisy crown and, with a mischievous grin, whispered it onto his head. The painted petals looked almost ridiculous against his serious face, and she burst into laughter, expecting him to yank it off in annoyance. But instead, his hands lifted the crown gently, fingers tracing each bloom with an unexpected tenderness. He looked at her, eyes soft, and smiled.

And pressed a soft kiss on the flower petal.

She blushed, her eyes widening, her chest light and tight and warm.

Flustered, she dropped her own crown and fled the room.

She didn’t see him for a week.

She felt his absence like a gaping hole in her heart every day, but the thought of confronting it—of facing what it truly meant—terrified her. She couldn’t bring herself to look too closely at her feelings—how she felt about him.

On the final night, the longing for him gnawed at her. She couldn’t hold it back any longer. With quiet steps, she tiptoed into the room, closing the door with a soft click.

His eyes were closed, and maybe it was because of the dreamlike moonlight flooding the room, but he glowed brighter than ever. The silver gleams highlighted his features, casting an ethereal glow over his face, a hint of boyish charm still lingering. Even in the dim light, she could see he looked clearer than before—the lines of his form more defined, the colors less muddled. She wondered if that was why he moved with more ease these days, freer than he had been.

She whispered his name, and slowly, his eyes fluttered open, locking onto hers with a gaze as deep and endless as the ocean.

He smiled softly, his voice full of hope. “You’re back.”

She nodded, tears suddenly welling up in her eyes. “I’m sorry for leaving so suddenly.”

He shook his head. “As long as you come back, you can leave whenever you want. I’ll always be here.”

His words hit her like a wave, and she bit her lip, drawing blood, trying to hold back tears. She had left, just like his brother had. The weight of her actions surged through her, overwhelming her chest. She was angry at herself for causing pain to this precious man—someone who made her feel special in ways she hadn’t known before. Sure, Jan cared for her, but he made her feel like it was okay to not be a Rumore, to not carry the weight of titles or expectations. He saw her at her core, understood her secrets, and still found her beautiful.

She vowed to never leave him again.

As the days passed, he became more open to letting her use her powers on him, allowing her to practice in ways she hadn’t before. With each session, she felt herself growing stronger, a steady pulse of energy deep in her core. But she also sensed the limits, like the edge of a well that could only hold so much. If she practiced too long, she could feel the drain, an emptiness settling in, warning her that she had reached the bottom.

In quieter moments, he would ask her questions about her dreams.

“What would you do if you didn’t have to be a Rumore?” he asked one night, his eyes searching, gaze curious.

She was walking around the room, the lush greenery surrounding her, watering the plants even though they were frozen in stasis. At the sound of his question, she looked up, meeting his gaze.

“You mean, like a job?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It could be. But it doesn’t have to be. What would you do if you weren’t weighed down by your title?”

She paused, her fingers stilling on the watering can as she mulled over his question. The soft, rhythmic sound of water trickling filled the silence. She had thought about this before, but her previous answer had felt more like a dream, something distant and unattainable. She wasn’t sure if she wanted that anymore.

“I used to want to be a painter,” she said slowly, her voice quiet but steady. “Like my father. Painting away the world, always tucked in my little corner, away from everything else.” She let out a breath. “I hated having to be a counselor to the throne when I always felt like such a fraud. The mask, the lies—I didn’t want to carry any of it.”

Her gaze drifted to the plants around her, their stillness almost reflecting the hush inside her from those days. Her hands clenched around the smooth metal, knuckles white as she tried to keep herself grounded.

“But now…” She met his eyes, the shift in her voice softer but filled with something new, something stronger. “Now, I do want to be Head Counselor. Not just because I actually have a voice now—at least with you—but because I want to use my words to help people, to keep peace. I want my words to matter. I want them to have an impact on others. I want to help change things, like your words have helped me.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Even if my voice is small, or silent, I want to find a way to share what I feel. And maybe—just maybe—make a difference.”

Her hands relaxed, and the air around her seemed to shift, as if her words had settled into something real, something she could finally believe in.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, quietly, he breathed, “That’s… beautiful.”

The pride in his eyes made her feel like she was standing in the sun.

Sometimes they wouldn’t speak at all—just quietly bask in each other’s presence. She’d curl up with a book on the worn sofa while he read his, one she’d charmed into his frame. They sat like that for hours, lost in their own worlds but anchored by each other’s company

She cherished every single moment, every little detail she found. The way he grew lighter whenever they dreamed about visiting the ocean, or how his left eyebrow twitched whenever she stopped listening to his intense musings on the depths of the sea. The amused glint he couldn’t suppress whenever she brought a new plant into their room. The way his gaze darkened, molten and intense, when she bit her lip in frustration while practicing her powers. The playful crinkle of his nose and full lift of his lips when she made him laugh—whether with a corny joke or her stubborn retorts.

He had only one dimple, a shallow indent on his left cheek, and sometimes the urge to press her lips against that spot was so strong she had to hold her breath and bury the feeling deep, deep in her heart.

She often caught him staring at her, his eyes penetrating and thoughtful. At first, she would look away, unsettled by the intensity of his gaze, as if he could see her very soul, laid bare before him. Sometimes, she stared back. They’d end up locked in an burning gaze, staring at each other for what felt like a small eternity, the whimsical garden around them their only witness.

Even when her heart swelled with sweetness, overflowing with a tide of emotions she could hardly contain, she remained silent—too afraid to speak, terrified of breaking the fragile magic between them. She kept her feelings locked away, her secret garden, blooming in the quiet of her chest. The moments they shared was delicate—like a dream, like a whisper in the dark—and she wasn’t ready to risk shattering it. All she wanted was to retreat into the stillness, the quiet space they’d carved out for themselves—the two of them, in their little room, far away from the rest of the world. A place where time didn’t press in so heavily, where the future didn’t exist.

But then the world found out, and everything changed.