Ophelia stumbled out into the hallway. She took a turn to her right. Her attention was glued to the floor—that is, until her nose hit something hard. Vera’s armor.
Vera crossed her arms and huffed. “Oh,” she said. “You’re still here?” it didn’t sound like a question, but a reproach. “Well, no matter.” Vera stepped forth, until her back faced Ophelia’s. “I don’t care for what you do, but I swear that if Elian forgets who he is again because of you, I’ll make sure you suffer along with him.” The knight’s footsteps were sharp, knives to Ophelia’s ears as they rang across the corridor bathed in golds, decorated by chandeliers, where candles burned for a King that had perished, and a King born from today’s events.
In a matter of seconds, Vera had disappeared—yet, her words did not. They lingered like ghosts that haunted Ophelia’s mind as the young woman forced herself to carry on whilst she pretended nothing had happened. She dragged her feet over to the front of the doors where the funeral was still being held. Her fingers lingered against the handle. Her palm quivered. In truth, she didn’t want to return.
She didn’t want to hear the rumors about her causing their ruler’s demise, didn’t want to face the eyes of the human people, for their glares were rarely kind when it came to her. And after a minute that seemed like a mountain, Ophelia let go of the door and walked away.
Am I making a mistake by remaining here? The young woman couldn’t help but wonder: for what was the use of staying in this castle, this village, among humans who had no sympathy towards her kind; this land where everyone had a place to return to, a place to belong—where there were no spaces to be filled, and no need for another, no need for her.
Ophelia’s boot hit another door.
She glanced upward.
Somehow, she had arrived before the castle’s library.
The entrance creaked open—it invited her in.
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