Chapter Text
My face is stretched in the thin mask of a smile as I nod and curtsy to Elara Merandus. Behind me, Father dips his head at her. My mind becomes blissfully blank as I bury my thoughts quickly under a veil of blabber and gossip, little things quickly pulled and dropped. Diamondglass shimmering under the gentle rays of the morning sun. Elane’s dress. The aroma of spices in the lamb at lunch.
It’s never wise to expose your thoughts near a whisperer, and I almost sigh in relief as I feel the raking hands drift away. The shadow quickly dissipates, gone in the blink of an eye, leaving me with the murmurs of my own mind.
Without another word, the Queen smirks at us and leaves as quickly as she came, her footsteps already fading. No guards trail her. I shiver. With her power, I suppose that she has no use for them.
After all, why bother with something that can be seen when you can inflict invisible wounds. The ones that truly hurt most.
Mother’s snake twists away from its still posture around her collarbone and hisses with annoyance, betraying her own desire to escape into the privacy of our own living quarters. I share the same feeling, but my features remain in the same taut lines.
We arrived at the palace earlier than the other royal families. Too early, in fact for my liking.
The bullet around my neck bobs on my throat, and the fine silver chain seems to shrink with every exhalation. I adjust it a bit with my ability. A chain link further apart - so small that no one besides me would know, but still enough so that I can breathe. Although, with Father marching stone-faced beside me, I know that I am still a prisoner in a cage that I can never escape. But if stretching is the only taste of freedom that is allowed, I’m making the most of it.
Even in the open walkways with the sun pouring on my neck, I can still feel the oily unnaturalness that the palace oozes.
A red servant scurries past and for a second I wonder what an ordinary life could be like. The unreachable taste of freedom. Being ordinary. Invisible. Forgotten. Trampled. The thought quickly flies out of my head, souring.
I am Silver and I will never be Red.
Father’s voice rings in my head. I am eight again. He bellows at a Red servant and smashes another plate to the ground. She's on the ground crying. She holds her hands up in sheer terror and the palms are embedded with white splinters of porcelain. She mouths something but I cannot hear what she says.
But it doesn't matter.
I am Silver and I will never be Red.