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There had been a time when Daenora had believed, fundamentally and with certainty, that the stories her family told about themselves were true. Even after her marriage, for a time. It was hard to escape what she had been raised with. She had told herself that Aerion hurting her was natural, that it had to happen. For a long time, even after she had shedded so many beliefs, dropping like feathers away from her, she had held onto a belief that she had a duty as a wife. That she owed understanding that she was not given in return. Patience that she had never received. That she had to respond to violence with placation and keep her head bowed. That if she did it all right, maybe he’d stop.
Kiera had been the one to change that, with her vibrant hair and bright smile. She did the furthest thing from hiding herself away, and Daenora had never seen a more beautiful woman. Kiera was utterly, undeniably herself, even in a place that judged her for it. She made Daenora want to live a life like that. More than that, to become the kind of woman who would tell Kiera how beautiful she was, how much she admired her. Kiera was far more courageous than any man Daenora had ever known, too. For those reasons, she began, more and more, to realise how much of what she had been told near her whole life was mere falsity.