A Wicked Game [The Crown Saga II] (Under Editing)

Cracks of Truth

I hummed, annoyed, when my concentration broke, the bed swaying as I shifted my weight.

Beads of sweat clung to my brow. The exercise didn't demand immense physical strain, but the mental stress was far more exhausting than anything Art had put me through before.

A frustrated grunt made my nostrils flare as I jumped out of bed, the swaying too distracting to maintain the required concentration. The floor hadn't worked for the past two days, but I guess it was still better than the bed.

I slumped down onto the shaggy carpet in the middle of the room, crossing my legs and taking a deep breath before raising the tuning fork to level with my eyes.

The tines shimmered in the colorful afternoon sun peeking through my windows. The metal felt cold against my fingers, the footpiece stabbing my damp palm, leaving me able to focus on the pain.

It took a few moments for me to settle into my new position, shutting out the sounds aiming to distract me from the tool in my hand. I held my breath as even that sound proved enough to disturb my focus. However, I couldn't stop my beating heart, its pulse echoing louder than a troubled machine.

I released my breath when black spots started dancing before my eyes, heaving for air to avoid passing out again.

Nothing. Not even the slightest bit of movement between the tines—not the faintest melody. Then, my stomach growled.

Time had slipped through my fingers faster than I'd realized. Dinner ended an hour ago, and I'd missed it—much to my stomach's disapproval as I didn't eat much during Lunch.

"Shut up," I muttered after the seventh rumbling complaint from my empty midsection, squeezing my eyes shut to dismiss the persistent hunger.

A jab of panic made my body jump as the chair by my vanity table fell over. I twisted my head to look for the source and found Faye standing rigid with a bowl of damping soup and a golden package locked under her arm.

"Faye," I whispered, startling her awake from her paralysis. Then, desperate to flee, she placed the soup on the table, spilling precious drops in the process.

"Cursed blood," she hissed, violently shaking her hand as if she'd burned herself.

It had been days—maybe weeks—since I'd last seen her. She'd started tracking my schedule and only appeared to manage her duties while I was busy. So, this may be the only chance I'd have to unravel this ridiculous dispute for months to come.

"Faye, wait," I said when she put the package down to leave. "We have to talk."

Unfortunately, my groggy head and famished body slowed me down, and Faye slipped away before I could catch her.

"Faye!" I shouted again, but her stubborn mind remained unwavering, determined to reach the door before I could reach her.

I swallowed hard, realizing that the only way to stop her would mean breaking the promise I'd made long ago.

The door slammed shut right before her, pushed by an unnatural gust obeying my shaken command. "I'm sorry," I said, grabbing her wrist as she turned around to watch me with an outraged expression, "but you can't keep avoiding me. I miss you, Faye, and I want to understand what makes you so upset that you refuse to talk to me."

"So now you want to listen? Or do you simply expect me to agree with you and ignorantly dismiss my own opinions like the last time we talked?" she asked, her voice stern and bitter. "You accused me of being an awful friend for not blatantly jumping to your defense. You didn't even stop to let me explain why I appeared skeptical of your claims."