Hated by her lineage, Iliya Dalaminai dwells in self isolation, awaiting the day her cousin marries so she might escape the Throne.
Feared by the Gods, Sorein Chakrine's crown is mainly a relic put on display at royal ceremonies to ward off evil.
Wh...
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Iliya watched families flock to the Temple in the newfound sunlight, music drifting up into her window. Children dashed through the streets as dancers warmed up, their joy palpable.
A foreign feeling ached in Iliya's chest, seeing how close her people were to one another. Laughing, smiling, playing games. Eating the delicious foods that only surfaced for the festival.
Her mouth watered just thinking of it.
For the first time in years, Iliya realized how lonely she felt as she stood on her balcony.
Siofra had mentioned coming to see her so she wouldn't be alone today. No doubt, she was running errands for the royals
Iliya knew the chances were good that those words would be nothing more than that.
Words.
A phrase to offer some sliver of comfort.
The ache in her heart flooded and morphed into something more. Something that felt like longing.
To be someone else, if only for the day. A person with less responsibility. Without a silent, lethal weight on their shoulders.
Ambiguous.
Free.
Iliya looked at herself in the mirror. Her mahogany hair had grown so long, it hovered at her hips, and her golden skin didn't glow as she spent less time training in the sun.
Hidden.
In what world could she be hidden?
Almost the spitting image of her mother, the queen, save for the swirling black ink dancing up her wrist and forearm, lost beneath a glamor of enchantments. Secrets kept by the obsidian jewelry fixed to every finger and chained together by thin silver bands around Iliya's wrist.
Iliya was also shorter, leaner, and her cheekbones were higher and sharper.
As long as she looked identical to her mother, she would never be normal.
Taking fistfuls of her hair, she began weaving them together, working tirelessly to suspend the braid all the way down her spine.
Iliya shrugged off her royal garments, pulling on a gorgeous lace blouse meant for Temple and some white, knee length tights.
She was just an ordinary girl.
If no one looked at her, if no one saw the rings or her lime green eyes with accents of honey, straight from Destry herself.
A dark pit grew in her stomach, gaping and expanding into a terrifying abyss of anxiety and doubt.
She was crazy.
Absolutely mental.
Iliya squinted at the mirror, blurring the reflection enough to wonder if she too might forget. She didn't want to recognize herself either.
