Chapter 195
CELESTE’S POV
“A gift?” Celeste repeated, feeling her eyebrows climb as the irritation in her chest sharpened into something closer to anger. “What do you mean he gave you a gift?”
Staring at Atasha’s smiling face only made it worse. That soft, calm expression did not belong to someone trapped in a brutal northern fortress. It belonged to someone content, someone cherished, someone who did not understand how lucky she was.
Why did Atasha look happy in a place like this when every story about the North painted it as a land of monsters and blood? She should have been miserable! She should have been begging to leave. She should have been clinging to Celeste as her only hope, not sitting there with that steady smile as if everything in her life were finally where it belonged.
Atasha’s fingers brushed the edge of the table, her gaze dipping briefly to her hands before returning to Celeste. “Coming to the North gave me a gift,” she said, the words simple and infuriatingly calm.
Before Celeste could ask what foolish thing she meant, Atasha reached to her side and slid something from beneath the fold of her gown. Steel flashed under the lamplight as she pulled a dagger free.
Celeste shot upright on the bench, the cushion scraping under her. “What are you doing?” she demanded, the question spilling out faster than she could filter it. Her eyes jumped between Atasha’s face and the blade, expecting her to drop it or set it aside, anything that made sense.
Atasha did not drop it.
She turned the dagger in her hand, then brought the edge to her own palm. For a heartbeat Celeste thought she was bluffing, that she would stop at the last moment and use it as some dramatic gesture.
She did not stop.
The blade sliced across the center of Atasha’s palm in one smooth motion. Blood welled up immediately, bright and thick, spilling over her skin and dripping toward the floor.
Celeste lurched to her feet so fast the bench jolted backward. “Stop that, you idiot, you are bleeding,” she snapped, the words hitting the air before she realized how panicked they sounded. “What are you thinking, cutting yourself like that?”
The rebuke died in her throat.
Right in front of her, the blood slowed, the torn skin pulling together as if invisible threads were stitching it from within. The angry line of the wound closed, tightening and smoothing until only a faint pink mark remained. Even that faded as Celeste stared, leaving only unbroken skin and a smear of drying blood on the surface that had nowhere to go.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“That…” She pointed, her hand shaking despite her effort to keep it steady. “What is that, Atasha? What did you just do?”
Atasha lifted her palm, turning it slowly so Celeste could see the skin clearly. Her expression did not change much, though there was a glint in her eyes that had never been there before. “It is the gift I mentioned,” she said. “A gift from the North.”
Celeste took a step back, the back of her knees bumping into the bench. “That is not a gift,” she snapped, her voice rising. “That is something a witch can do. That is witchcraft.”
“I am not a witch,” Atasha answered. “They already tested me. I passed every examination they demanded. I am no witch, my dear sister. In fact, as we speak, the King’s representative should be on her way home to tell the King that what I have is… a miracle.”
Celeste swallowed hard, the back of her mouth suddenly dry. “Explain,” she ordered, because asking politely felt impossible after what she had just seen. “Explain how you can do that if you are not a witch. Explain how you cut your own hand open and healed it like it was nothing.”
Atasha wiped the remaining blood off her palm with a cloth from the table, folding it neatly as if this were common practice now. “It is a long story,” she said, setting the cloth aside. “We do not have the time for all of it.”
Celeste’s fingers tightened on the bench. “I have all the time in the world,” she said. “I traveled days to get here. I crossed half the continent for you. Do not tell me we lack time.”
Atasha looked at her for a long moment, those calm eyes assessing her in a way that made Celeste’s skin crawl. Then her lips curved, not in mockery, not exactly, but in a way that did not feel like the shy smiles Celeste remembered.
“Do you?” Atasha asked quietly. “Do you really have that much time, Sister?”
Celeste frowned, irritation warring with a faint prickle of unease. She did not understand what Atasha meant, and for some reason she did not want to ask. The way Atasha held her gaze made every follow-up question feel like walking into a trap she could not see.
Atasha stood, smoothing down the front of her gown with her now unmarked hand. “Even if you do,” she continued, “I do not.”
She moved toward the window and glanced outside, the movement almost casual, almost theatrical, as if she knew exactly how the gesture would look. Celeste’s teeth clenched. Of course Atasha would start posing now, looking out at the snowy courtyard like some tragic heroine weighed down by duty.
“Unfortunately, I have soldiers to heal,” Atasha said. “There are wounded men waiting, and some of them will not last the night without help.”
Celeste swallowed, the image of the blood outside pressing suddenly against that statement. Soldiers and wounded men. Real bodies attached to that battlefield she had just walked through. Atasha was talking about them as if they were her responsibility, as if she belonged to this place as much as the stone walls and the northern snow.
Before Celeste could decide whether to argue, to demand that Atasha sit back down and focus on her instead, Atasha was already heading toward the door.
“You traveled far,” she said, pausing only long enough to look back over her shoulder. “You should rest. We can talk more when you have eaten and warmed up. For now, I have to serve the North.”
Serve the North.
The words dug under Celeste’s skin.
Atasha opened the door and stepped through without waiting for an answer, leaving Celeste sitting there with her mouth slightly open and no idea which argument she should throw first.
The door closed gently behind her.
For a long stretch of heartbeats, Celeste could only stare at the wood, her mind scrambling to catch up. Atasha had just cut her own hand, healed it in front of her, mentioned tests and representatives and blessings, then walked out as if Celeste were a guest to be handled later.
Someone would ride straight to the King and declare that Atasha was special, that Atasha was valuable, that Atasha was something worth protecting. Meanwhile, Celeste would be sitting in this room with nothing but her empty hands and collapsing pack to show for all the years she had spent believing she was the favored
one.
The realization burned.
Finally, the shock cracked enough for anger to slip through. Celeste surged to her feet, the bench scraping loudly against the floor as she stalked toward the door. Atasha did not get to walk away from her. Atasha did not get to leave her here like some discarded guest after dropping all of that and disappearing.
She wrenched the door open.
Two guards stood right outside, filling the doorway in a way that made the corridor feel suddenly smaller. They were broad-shouldered, armored, and very clearly not the same tired soldiers she had seen near the gates. Their posture was straight, their expressions unreadable, their eyes flicking to her the moment the door moved.
Celeste glared up at them. “Move aside,” she snapped. “I was just speaking with the consort. I need to catch up to her.”
One of the guards, bowed his head slightly, but his body did not shift. “My Lady,” he said, “Lord Cassian and Her Highness have given orders that you are to rest after your journey. They instructed us to ensure you are not disturbed.”
Her jaw dropped. “Not disturbed?” she repeated, her voice rising. “I am her sister. She just left this room. I am simply going to talk to her. You will move. NOW!”
The second guard shook his head once. “We were told to keep you here for now,” he said. “Food will be brought to you. If you require anything, you may ask the servants. Her Highness will see you again when her duties are finished.”
Celeste stared at them, disbelief clawing at her throat. “Are you saying I cannot leave this room?” she demanded. “Are you trying to imprison me?”
“We are following orders,” the older guard replied. “Please, return inside, my Lady. The corridor is not safe for wandering after today’s events.”
