Chapter 9 — The Applause That Learned to Ask

I hadn't even left the guest wing yet.

“Zyrion!”

Again.

“Zyrion!”

I pulled the blanket over my face.

Seris, sitting beside the window with a cup of tea, didn't even look up.

“You could pretend to be dead.”

“Tempting.”

“They'd probably build a shrine.”

“Don't joke about that.”

“I wasn't.”

Cassian would've laughed.

He wasn't there.

He'd left before dawn after saying he had “command paperwork” to deal with.

Back then, I believed him.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

Seris finally looked over.

“You slept terribly.”

“I slept.”

“You kicked the wall twice.”

“The wall started it.”

“You also said ‘no’ in your sleep.”

“Did I?”

“Three times.”

I looked toward the window.

The chanting continued.

Seris's expression softened.

“You don't have to go out there.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don't.”

“There are people waiting.”

“There are always people waiting.”

I got dressed anyway.

That was the problem.

There were always people waiting.

It started outside the Hall of Ascension.

Word about my refusal of the First Crown had spread through Caeloria overnight.

Some people thought I was brave.

Some thought I was stupid.

Most seemed to think refusing one title meant I had suddenly become available for every other role imaginable.

The first woman grabbed my wing before I reached the stairs.

“Bless my daughter.”

I froze.

A little girl stood beside her.

Maybe six.

Thin.

Pale.

I didn't know what blessing she expected from me.

I wasn't a priest.

But the mother looked desperate.

So I placed two fingers against the girl's forehead.

“May you have a long life.”

She kissed my hand.

Then another person stepped forward.

“My husband hasn't returned from the southern patrol.”

Another.

“Our village well has gone black.”

Another.

“My brother was taken by raiders.”

Another.

“Please.”

I listened.

I promised I'd send messages.

Speak to commanders.

Visit when I could.

Find someone.

Ask someone.

Do something.

Then a nobleman pushed through the crowd.

“My lord!”

I almost groaned.

He bowed so low I could see the top of his head.

“House Meredin would be honoured to offer the hand of my eldest daughter.”

I stared at him.

“Offer what?”

Seris made a choking sound behind me.

The noble smiled.

“Marriage.”

“No.”

He blinked.

I walked away.

Seris followed.

“You handled that well.”

“I said no.”

“Yes. Immediately.”

“I've learned.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

We made it twelve steps.

Another noble appeared.

This one had two daughters.

I turned around.

Seris was laughing before I reached her.

By midday, I'd received four marriage offers, two requests to adopt heirs, seven petitions to settle border disputes, and one very serious invitation to become the patron saint of a bakery.

People touched my wings whenever I passed.

Some asked first.

Most didn't.

They wanted feathers.

Blessings.

Luck.

Proof they'd met me.

One old man pressed his forehead against my hand and thanked me for saving a city I'd never visited.

When I tried correcting him, he started crying.

So I stopped.

Someone would ask for something impossible and I'd start answering before they finished.

“Yes.”

“I'll help.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“I'll go.”

Sometimes I didn't even know what I'd agreed to.

Maybe that was the beginning of the weight I couldn't name. Praise still sounded warm from a distance, but up close it had hands. It pulled at my sleeves, my wings, my time, until even gratitude started feeling heavy inside.

By afternoon, Seris noticed.

We'd escaped the crowds through a laundry corridor and climbed onto the roof of an old archive hall.

Seris handed me half a sandwich.

I ate it in three bites.

She stared.

“What?”

“When did you last eat?”

“This morning.”

“No.”

“Last night?”

She kept staring.

“Yesterday afternoon?”

“Zyrion.”

“I've been busy.”

“You've been saying yes.”

I looked over the city.

“That tends to happen when people ask for help.”

“No. You used to listen first.”

“I still listen.”

“A woman asked if you'd personally escort her cousin's merchant caravan across three provinces.”

“I can send someone.”

“You told her you'd do it.”

I frowned.

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Seris sat beside me.

“A farmer asked you to investigate missing sheep.”

“That sounds manageable.”

“The sheep came back while he was talking.”

I looked at her.

“What are you trying to say?”

She pulled one knee to her chest.

“You're disappearing.”

“That's dramatic.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me what you want to do tomorrow.”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

Seris waited.

“I have meetings.”

“I didn't ask what you're supposed to do.”

“I need to review the western reports.”

“Didn't ask that either.”

“There are families from Lareth arriving.”

“And?”

“They want to meet me.”

“And do you want to meet them?”

I hesitated.

That felt wrong.

Of course I should want to.

They were grateful.

They'd survived.

What kind of person gets annoyed by gratitude?

Seris seemed to read all of that from my face.

“See?”

“See what?”

“You're doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Turning a feeling into a crime.”

I looked away.

Below us, bells rang across the city.

“I can help them.”

“That doesn't mean you have to help everyone.”

“I know.”

“No, you don't.”

“I can't exactly look at someone who's suffering and say I'm tired.”

“Why not?”

“Because they're suffering.”

“And you're not?”

She reached toward my wing.

Her fingers stopped before touching it.

Unlike everyone else, she waited.

I leaned slightly toward her.

Only then did she brush a bent feather back into place.

“They keep grabbing them,” she said.

“It's fine.”

“No, it isn't.”

“They don't mean anything by it.”

“That doesn't make it fine.”

Her hand moved away.

“You say that about everything now.”

I frowned.

“About what?”

“The touching. The ceremonies. The requests. The Council calling you at stupid hours. People deciding your time belongs to them.”

Her eyes met mine.

“You keep acting like being needed means you don't get to have boundaries.”

I didn't answer.

Because she was right.

And because I hated that she was right.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.

“Say no.”

“It isn't that simple.”

“It is sometimes.”

“And when someone dies because I said no?”

There it was.

The real thing.

Seris went quiet.

I stared at my hands.

“Lareth would've burned.”

“You don't know that.”

“I saw them.”

“I know.”

“I could reach them.”

Her expression changed.

She remembered those words.

Everyone did.

I continued.

“If I'm able to stop something and choose not to, how is that different from letting it happen?”

“Because you're one person.”

“I don't get to be one person.”

The words came out before I could stop them.

Silence.

Even the city below seemed far away.

Seris stared at me.

I wished I could take it back.

Not because it wasn't true.

Because I'd finally said it.

She took my hand.

“You do.”

I shook my head.

“Not anymore.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Tell that to them.”

“I am telling you.”

Her grip tightened.

“You refused a crown yesterday because you wouldn't let the Council own your life.”

I looked at her.

“So why are you handing pieces of it to every stranger who asks?”

That hurt.

I tried pulling my hand away.

She didn't let me.

“Seris.”

“No.”

“That's unfair.”

“Good.”

“You don't have to earn the right to exist by being useful, Zyrion.”

I stared at her.

Nobody had ever said that to me.

Not once.

The chanting started again somewhere below.

My name rose between the towers.

I hated how quickly my body reacted.

Shoulders straight.

Wings lifted.

Expression calm.

Ready.

Seris saw that too.

“Stay here.”

“They're calling.”

“Let them.”

“What if—”

“Stay.”

Not an order.

A choice.

I sat back down.

For ten whole minutes, I did nothing.

No blessings.

No promises.

No saving anyone.

Seris ate the other half of my sandwich.

I complained.

She told me heroes who abandon lunch lose sandwich privileges.

For ten minutes, I almost believed her.

Then bells rang from the western district.

Emergency bells.

I was standing before the second note ended.

Seris closed her eyes.

“Zyrion.”

“I have to.”

“You don't even know what happened.”

I was already opening my wings.

That was when I realised she was right.

I'd answered before anyone asked.

I hesitated.

Only for a second.

Then I flew anyway.

Years later, people called that devotion.

They wrote that the Star-Chosen could hear suffering before anyone called his name.

Beautiful, isn't it?

They never wrote about the nights I stopped sleeping.

Or how I started taking empty corridors so nobody could touch me.

Or how every cheer began sounding like another person asking for a piece of me.

The world thought applause meant I was loved.

I started learning that love and need could sound frighteningly alike.

And somewhere inside all that noise, the word “no” was becoming harder to remember.