Not Enough

“Wretched men do wretched things for wretched reasons, but evil is not consigned only to the vile amongst us. Sometimes, good men must do wretched things for just reasons.”

-Excerpt from “Of Love and Tyranny”

The ironclad city gates loomed as I approached, the sunrise peeking from behind the spires of the capital walls. Before the gate sentries caught sight of me, I vanished into thin air—my light magic bending the air around me, masking my presence. To the guards, I was nothing more than an apparition.

I moved like a ghost through the city streets, boots silent upon cobblestone as I approached the grand manor that housed Elma’s family. I had made good time, though I spent half a day securing the sword that now hung sheathed at my side. I hoped I would not need it, but I had been let down by hope before.

The estate stood like a sleeping giant, wreathed in stone and ivy, with uniformed guards at every gate and balcony but one. I narrowed my eyes. This wasn’t just precaution—it was imprisonment. Something was wrong.

I touched the hilt of my sword and closed my eyes, reaching within himself. A second later, the air around me began to invert, a faint sucking sound following the creation of a temporary vacuum in the space around me. Ever useful, wind magic served me well once more. As I approached the side of the manor, I reached for the inlaid stone wall, coaxing the stone into footholds and grips using earth magic. With slow deliberation, I climbed, careful not to make any noise.

I paused on the third-story ledge of the solitary balcony devoid of guards and used my most valuable skill, I listened. Faint words. A soft voice. Her voice.

“Elma,” I whispered. I slipped inside through the glass door connecting the balcony to the inside, and followed the faint sound of her voice. When I arrived at the room, I found the doors unattended, so I knelt down and peeked inside.

There, on the floor of a spacious and well furnished bedroom, sat Elma. Unlike before, she was dressed in finery that suited her noble upbringing, her colorful dress spun from fine materials that shone beautifully in the morning light.

The sight stirred a wrongness in me, and my heart ached as I looked upon her face, her lovely eyes downcast and empty, devoid of hope.

She was humming to herself—a broken tune, like something half-remembered from childhood. After a moment’s careful observation, I realized it was the dance tune I had played the night I met her, a happy piece played to crowds of inebriated revelers. The contrast tugged at my heartstrings. I stood, knocked once on the door, and then slipped inside.

The humming stopped. A few moments passed, confusion plain on her make-up laden face. Then, she masked her emotions and rose from the floor, all elegant grace and composure.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, breathless.

“I came for you,” I whispered. “We don’t have much time. I can get you out.”

Her hands trembled, clutched tight against her silk dress. “No. I can’t.”

“You can. I know the city layout. I can sneak us both out—no one will know until they come and check on you.”

She turned from me, arms wrapped around herself like armor. “You don’t understand, Deryth. I chose this.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I came back of my own will,” she said softly. “To protect my family. If I run now, it all falls apart. The alliance breaks. People die.”

I stepped closer, at a loss. I wanted to embrace her, to spill my feelings for her. However, there was no time, we needed to flee before the guards caught on. “But you’ll be miserable. You’ll be trapped with that monster.”

She was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Deryth, I love you. I realized it when we sat beneath the stars in Fallon.” She turned, eyes shining with tears but jaw clenched. “You mean everything to me. But it’s not enough.”

The silence between us was thick.

“Sometimes,” she said, her voice tight. “Love isn’t what saves people. Sometimes love just hurts more.”

Her words drove the air from my lungs, and I spoke in a breathless whisper. “Then tell me—do you want to marry him?”

“No.”

“Then why—?”

“Because I have to.” She wiped her eyes with trembling fingers. “The wedding is in five days. There’ll be a celebration, a parade through the district. Everyone’s eyes will be on us. It’s done, Deryth. There’s no stopping it now.”

“I could carry you out of here,” I said, desperate. “I could take you far away. We could disappear.”

“No,” she said. “You have to leave the city. Before the wedding. I don’t want you there. I can’t look at you on that day.”

“Elma—”

“Please.” Her voice cracked. “If you care about me, just go.”

I stared at her for a long moment, pushing down the fear and anger that raged inside. My guy twisted, but I persevered, snuffing out the feelings. I had done this before, I was good at this. I didn’t need to feel. I nodded.

Without another word, I turned and climbed out the window, using a quick gust of wind magic to slow my fall. I didn’t look back.

The next morning, the manor bustled with activity. Seamstresses, servants, decorators. All for the impending celebration.

Elma sat motionless in her chair, wrapped in silks and velvet, her hair pinned in shining coils. When Count Cannáed arrived, her ladies withdrew quickly, eyes cast low.

He strode in like a man who owned the room. Tall, lean, and cold-eyed. His smile was predatory.

“So,” he said, looking her up and down, “the prodigal daughter returns.”

Elma said nothing.

“You caused quite the stir,” he continued, circling her. “Running off like that. Your little tantrum made me look like a fool.”

“I apologize,” she said flatly.

“No, you’re not sorry. But you will be.” His voice dropped an octave. “You think you’re clever? Do you think you can run from me? I’m going to make sure you never embarrass me again.”

She turned her face away.

He leaned in. “You know the rumors they spread about me. You probably believe them. But you’ve got no proof. No one does.”

“I know what kind of man you are,” she said, her voice hard.

He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. “Then you know to keep your mouth shut. You’re mine now. And after next week, I’ll have every right to make you obey.”

His grip lingered for a breath longer than necessary. Then he let go and left without another word.

Back in her chambers, the silence was oppressive. Even the breeze outside refused to stir.

Elma sat on her bed in full regalia, staring at the wall. Her fingers were still trembling.

She stood slowly and crossed the room. Her eyes landed on the portrait above the hearth. Her mother’s smiling face, eyes so bright they could be mistaken for alive, painted in vibrant hues that no longer matched the reality of her house.

“Mother…” Elma whispered. “What would you do?”

The portrait, of course, gave no reply.

“You left me. You left us.” Her hands curled into fists. “You were supposed to be strong. You were supposed to fight back. But you ran.”

The tears came quickly, burning hot. Her lip trembled.

“I’m so scared,” she whispered.

The silence answered again.

With a scream, she yanked the portrait from the wall and hurled it across the room. The frame struck the corner of a cabinet and cracked, the canvas sagging inward.

She stood there, heaving with breath, until her knees gave out beneath her and she collapsed to the floor.

The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock—and the sobbing of a girl who had no more choices left.