Chapter 234: The Morning After
Chapter 233: The Morning After
Lyria’s POV
There was no music. The only light in the room came from a single candle placed upon the windowsill, its flame small and wavering, casting shadows that danced across the walls.
Each step I took sent pain shooting through my body. The cuts upon the soles of my feet, still raw, screamed with every movement. The wounds on my back, not yet fully healed from punishments past, ached with a dull, persistent throb that seemed to echo through my bones. My legs trembled beneath me, threatening to give way, and my arms felt heavy. I was tired. I was so tired.
But I did not stop.
I could not stop.
I closed my eyes and imagined I was dancing with Lucian instead. I remembered the warmth of his hand at my waist, the gentle pressure of his fingers guiding me across the floor, the quiet patience in his voice as he counted the rhythm.
One-two-three. One-two-three.
I imagined he was here with me now, holding me steady, keeping me upright when all I wanted was to collapse.
I danced.
I turned.
I stepped.
I rose.
And with every movement, the pain grew sharper, more insistent, as though my body were begging me to stop. But I did not listen. I could not afford to listen. If I stopped, if I faltered, if I gave in to the exhaustion that pulled at me like a tide, they would report it to the Queen. And the Queen would punish my mother instead.
So I danced.
The maids watched me from the corner of the room, their eyes sharp, following my every movement like hawks tracking their prey. Diana stood with her arms folded, her expression hard. Sally shifted from foot to foot, her discomfort evident. Theresa leaned against the wall, her lips pressed together in a thin line of disapproval.
And there was another. Kyia. Jacinta’s maid. She had been sent to keep watch, to ensure that I did not rest, that I did not pause, that I did not allow myself even a moment’s respite. Her presence was an insult, a reminder that even when Jacinta was not present, her eyes were still upon me.
Every time I faltered—every time my steps slowed or my arms lowered—Kyia noticed. She would tsk under her breath, exchange a glance with Diana, or speak out.
"This is your fault," Kyia said at one point, her voice carrying across the room. "If you had not been so... so whatever you are, we would not be standing here at this hour. We would be in our beds, sleeping. Instead, we are forced to watch you stumble about like a fool."
Theresa grumbled in agreement.
"That is true. She brings nothing but trouble. Every time, it is the same. Every time, we suffer because of her."
I did not respond. I could not respond. My voice had fled hours ago, lost somewhere between the hundredth step and the hundredth turn. My throat was dry, my lips cracked, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps that did not seem to fill my lungs properly.
At some point, I stopped feeling anything.
The pain faded into a distant hum. The sounds of the room grew muffled, as though I were underwater. I could no longer hear Kyia’s complaints, or the maids’ grumbling, or even the rhythm of my own footsteps.
There was only the motion.
Only the dance.
Only the endless, mindless repetition of steps I had learned earlier.
One-two-three. One-two-three.
I did not know how long I had been dancing. Hours, perhaps. The candle on the windowsill had burned low, its flame guttering in a pool of melted wax. The darkness beyond the windows had not yet begun to lighten, but it felt as though an eternity had passed since I first entered this room.
I wanted to rest.
That was all I sought.
Just a moment of stillness, a moment of silence, a moment in which I could close my eyes and not be forced to move.
Just a moment.
Perhaps the Goddess heard my plea. Perhaps she took pity on the girl who danced alone in the dark, her feet bleeding, her back aching, her heart heavy with a grief she could not yet fully name.
Because the door opened, and a maid stepped inside, her expression carefully neutral.
The maid turned to me.
"Her Majesty," she said, "in her benevolence, has decreed that you may cease. You are all permitted to leave."
My legs nearly buckled beneath me.
"The maids," the maid continued, "are to administer ointment to Her Highness’s feet before they depart. The Queen does not wish for the suitor candidates to notice any... irregularities during the next date."
She turned to Theresa then and gave her a small container of ointment. Then she turned and left.
Kyia did not wait. She turned on her heel and walked out of the room without a word.
Theresa grumbled as she moved toward me.
"Every time," she muttered. "Every single time, we must clean up after you. It is always work, work, work, because you cannot simply behave."
Diana said nothing, but her silence was its own form of condemnation.
Sally knelt before me and took my foot in her hands.
I did not flinch as Theresa spread the ointment across my soles. The wounds were still raw, and the ointment stung as it seeped into the cuts. But I had endured worse.
I had endured far worse.
A little more pain was nothing.
When they finished, Diana, Theresa, and Sally escorted me to my chambers. The walk was long and silent, the corridors empty except for the guards stationed throughout them.
The moment we reached my chambers, they turned and left.
I was thankful they were gone.
I moved to my bed and lay upon it.
Exhaustion swallowed me whole, leaving no room for thoughts, no room for dreams, no room for anything but the blessed darkness of unconsciousness.
I did not know how long I slept.
It did not feel like enough.
But the Queen did not care.
The maids did not care.
No one cared.
And I had a date to attend.
