Eleven

He walked her back to her room.

They walked in silence, the soft echoes of their footsteps filling the quiet corridor. Aiden’s brow furrowed slightly, his gaze distant, lost in his thoughts.

When they reached her door, she gave him a small wave and turned to reach for the handle, but before she could grasp it, his hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her back.

“About Jan,” he said, his tone heavier than usual. “Don’t be too harsh on her when you see her.”

She paused, turning to face him fully. She bit her cheeks, confusion clouding her gaze.

What do you mean? Is she back?

He shook his head slowly, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “Do you trust me?”

She stood there, the space between them thick with unspoken tension. A brief flicker of worry flared, but then she remembered—Jan was safe. This was about something else, but she wasn’t sure what.

Her mind raced as she considered his question, the weight of it settling in her chest like a heavy stone she couldn’t quite grasp.

Did he know? Was her secret out?

Then, as the moment lingered, a quiet clarity settled over her—she didn’t mind if he knew her secret, and she knew. From the moment they met, she felt it—he wouldn’t betray her.

Her gaze softened, a faint tremor beneath her steady breath. It wasn’t the answer she expected, but her nod—slow and deliberate—spoke the quiet understanding that thrummed between them, deeper than words could reach.

He dropped her hand, his gaze lingering for a moment longer. “Read the book,” he instructed, his back fading as he walked away.

Arrella shook her head, the magnitude of her realization lingered around her. With a soft sigh, she stepped into her room and closed the door behind her. The stillness enveloped her as she made her way to the bed, sinking into its softness. She held the book in her hands, the worn cover cool against her fingertips. She stared at the cover, a pang of something familiar twisting in her chest. It was the same ache—the quiet, bittersweet nostalgia—that had crept over her when she first discovered the portrait room.

She opened the book and started reading.

The tale began long ago, when five noble families were chosen to wield powers beyond the grasp of ordinary humans, each bound to a sacred gift that marked them as rulers. The first were the Mages of the Eye, whose gaze could peer into the very fabric of fate, revealing glimpses of what was yet to come. Then there were the Rulers of the People, blessed with ears that could hear the deepest truths buried in the hearts of others. The Healers, a family of compassion and care, powerful hands capable of soothing both physical wounds and broken spirits alike. The Silent Assassins, masters of stealth, could move unseen, erasing every trace of their presence, leaving no scent, no sign. Finally, the Voices of the Blessing—gifted with the power of speech, able to advise kings and shape destinies with their words alone.

For a time, these five families ruled over their kingdoms, and peace and prosperity reigned as they traded in harmony. But as the years passed, each ruler grew greedy for more power, and suspicion crept into their hearts. What had once been a harmonious union soon descended into chaos. Conflicts erupted, blood was spilled, and the kingdoms fell into darkness.

Amid the growing turmoil, a hidden group emerged—those who could no longer stand the bloodshed. They revealed their own gifts, unseen and unknown to the world, and united the warring kingdoms into a single, peaceful nation. They were known as the Keepers of Time, and they were the rulers of the new kingdom. Under their watch, peace endured.

But history liked to repeat itself, and soon, the other noble families, tired of the Timekeepers’ rule, conspired to force them into the shadows once more. They would strike down the heir on his coming-of-age and erase the family from existence.

On the day the Timekeepers were to unite with the Voices of the Blessing in sacred union, they struck. Their gifts, once revered, were feared and resented, and so the sixth noble family vanished from the world, hidden from history and the people.

But there are those who remember, whispers carried through the ages. The members of the Timekeepers wait, biding their time, for the day when they can return and reclaim the throne that was taken from them.

Arrella read and reread the story. It was heavy, laced with sorrow—and strangely familiar, like a half-remembered dream. Another noble family, erased from history? Could it be true? Did Aiden believe it? And the Voices of the Blessing—someone from her own bloodline, tied to this forgotten legacy. But none of her history lessons had ever mentioned a sixth noble family.

Maybe she could ask Rovin. She doubted he’d be forthcoming—he never was when it came to the past—but something told her he knew something about the Timekeepers.

Without thinking, she rushed out of her room, nearly colliding with a pair of servants. They were speaking in hushed, hurried tones—quiet, but too loud to ignore.

“Did you hear about the Reclaimers? Apparently, a lot of the members in the castle joined.”

Arrella’s breath caught, her pace slowing as she strained to catch every word.

“Did you?” a voice asked suspiciously.

There was an indignant scoff.

“Do you know who joined, though?”

“Who?”

“That Nyx girl who’s always with Arrella Rumore.”

Dread crept up Arrella’s spine, her steps faltering. Her face paled, her stomach clenching with a creeping unease.

“No way, a noble?” The disbelief was palpable.

They hummed in agreement. “They’re saying she tried to stop them at first, but everything changed when she met their leader.”

Arrella's heart pounded, her gaze unfocused as her thoughts spun. Jan had joined the Reclaimers? Aiden had promised she was safe.

“No!”

“Yes!”

The voices faded, but Arrella remained frozen, her body stiff with shock. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to clear the weight pressing down on her chest. The cold stone of the hallway was biting, painfully digging into her hands as she gripped the wall for support. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Jan, her best friend, allied with the very group set to destroy them? The realization hit her like a physical blow. She exhaled shakily, her limbs trembling. Betrayal, sharp and bitter, twisted within her. A cold dread crashed into her, the overwhelming feeling of being let down settling deep in her bones.

Without thinking, she pushed off the wall, her footsteps quick and erratic as she moved toward the one place she knew she could go to.

When she stormed inside, tears slipping down her cheeks, Rovin looked up from his book, startled.

His expression shifted instantly, concern overtaking his features. “Arrella? What’s wrong? What happened?”

She shook her head, unwilling to speak. Even thinking about Jan sent a fresh wave of pain through her chest.

“Please, say something,” Rovin urged gently. “Are you hurt?”

Her only answer was a broken sob. The pressure of everything—the wedding, the endless secrets, the aching confusion—burst inside her all at once. She couldn’t untangle any of it.

The thought of being bound to a political marriage—of smiling through clenched teeth while her future was bartered away. Of staying silent, when she’d only just begun to understand the depth of her power. Of Jan’s betrayal, sharp and unexpected, cutting deep. It all pressed in on her at once, a storm of helplessness she couldn't outrun.

She wept for it all.

Logically, she understood that joining the resistance wasn’t the same as being gone forever. Jan hadn’t vanished from the world—she’d simply chosen another path. But emotionally, it felt like a death all the same. Like Jan had shut a door behind her and left Arrella standing on the other side, knocking with no answer. She had promised they would face everything together, and now she was gone, abandoning her.

She heard Rovin desperately calling her name. Through the blur of her tears, she looked up to see him—his palm splayed against the painting’s surface, as if sheer will alone could break through the canvas. His eyes were wide, frantic, mirroring the ache in her chest.

The distance between them had never felt so wide. And yet, in that moment, she felt no one understood her better.

He whispered soft hushes, murmuring soothing words as she slumped to the floor.

She choked back another sob—the futility of loving him, catching in her throat like a curse she couldn’t swallow. Her heart bled as she held on to something she could never truly reach.

“I love you.”

A broken confession escaped her lips, too heavy to keep inside any longer

She lifted her eyes, her breath trembling. His expression was unreadable, distant.

“I love you,” she whispered, her tears falling freely, each one a silent confession.

He inhaled sharply, his voice a strained whimper. “You don’t want that.”

“I love you,” she cried out, her voice breaking. “How can you say that?”

His face hardened, clenching his jaw. “What happened, Arrella? Why are you crying?”

She laughed bitterly, her nose flaring, her sadness curling into anger, the warmth of grief freezing into something sharper.

“You’re just going to ignore what I said?” She threw her hands up. “Fine,” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “I’m being forced into a marriage, my best friend left me for a resistance, and the love of my life can’t even admit what he feels for me!”

His silence was deafening—his face twisting into a grimace as he stood unmoving, rigid, like he was trying to hold himself together. His gaze was unwavering, a storm brewing behind his eyes.

“You don’t know anything.” His voice was harsh, each word measured and sharp, cutting through the air.

“Then tell me!” Her demand was fierce, a challenge laced with desperation. “I’m done with the secrets.”

He looked torn, running his fingers roughly through his hair. In one swift motion, he punched the frame in front of him, the motion full of helpless rage.

“I wish I could hold you,” he said brokenly, his voice raw and thick with anguish.

She was devastated, the distance between them a painful reminder of the future ahead. In less than a month, she was to marry the prince, while he was only a portrait, suspended in the in-between—a painting.

They could never be together.

The thought seized her, and in a moment of helplessness, the weight of it all became unbearable.

With a desperate cry, she gasped, “What if I turned myself into a portrait?”

He inhaled harshly, as if her words had drawn blood. His eyes locked onto hers, haunted and resigned. His shoulders slumped, hands clenched tight and trembling as if he were bracing himself for the worst, for an impact that had already landed.

“Then we could be together,” she croaked. “Forever.”

“You don’t mean that,” he rasped, voice trembling and tight, as though the truth might tear straight through him.

“I do,” she begged, a flicker of madness and longing in her eyes. “I’d rather exist with you, still and silent, than spend another moment pretending I don’t ache for you.”

“So this is your answer? To lock yourself away and hide in a painting?” his voice echoed with an icy coldness. “You’re only fooling yourself if you think this will make it better.”

His words burned her heart, sharp and scalding like a brand marking her skin, scarring her soul.

She released a jagged breath. The sting of his words felt like a slap. “That’s not true.” She bit back the urge to scream, the pressure of it pressing against her ribs.

"You think this is easy for me?" His voice was strained, cracking at the edges, as if the weight of his own words were suffocating him. "I just… I can’t make it real. Not like this.”

"So that’s it?" Her voice shook with a bitter laugh. "You can’t even say it? You can’t even tell me what’s real?” She wiped at her tears furiously, as if she could erase the hurt with each swipe.

"Tell me this isn’t real, this thing between you and me.” Her voice cracked, trembling with the weight of her plea. He didn’t answer. His silence was a deafening roar, harsh and unforgiving, crushing her more than any words he could have spoken.

Her heart shattered into a million little pieces. She turned, fury and hurt swirling inside her like a violent storm. She slammed the door behind her, the sound of it a bitter echo of everything she had lost.

She crumpled to the ground, her body folding in on itself like a broken doll, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees as if she could hold herself together.

And there, in the dim light, she cried for her broken heart.