Chapter 6 You Are My Lady
The carriage wheels groaned against the uneven road.
Neoma sat with her back pressed against the cushioned seat, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the blurred landscape beyond the window. Grey sky. Brown fields. Trees stripped bare by the coming winter. Everything looked dead. Everything felt dead.
Mira sat across from her, watching in silence.
Three days on the road. Three days of emptiness.
Neoma had not spoken since they left Valdris.
She had not eaten. She had not slept. She had existed, hollow and still, as if the woman who had once lived inside her skin had already died.
Mira reached forward and touched her knee.
"My lady..."
Neoma did not move.
"You need to eat something. Just a little."
"I am not hungry."
"You haven't eaten in three days."
"I am not hungry, Mira."
Her voice was flat. Hollow. A voice that belonged to someone who had already given up.
Mira withdrew her hand. Her eyes glistened, but she said nothing.
The carriage continued its slow crawl toward Drakoria.
---
The sun began to set. Golden light spilled through the window, catching the dust motes that floated in the air. Neoma watched them dance, watched them rise and fall, and for a moment, her mind drifted.
She remembered the stables.
She remembered the way the afternoon light had filtered through the wooden beams, casting long shadows across the hay-strewn floor. She remembered the smell of horses and leather and straw. She remembered the warmth of his hand in hers.
Orion.
His name echoed in her skull like a ghost she could not banish.
She closed her eyes, and there he was.
---
The first time she saw him, she had been angry.
Her father had just told her about the arranged marriage. She had fled to the stables, her favorite place, to escape the weight of her father's words, to breathe air that did not taste like duty. She had expected to be alone.
She was not.
A man stood near her horse, his back to her, his hands running gently down the mare's neck. He spoke softly, words she could not hear, and the horse, her horse, the one that bit everyone but her, leaned into his touch as she trusted him.
Neoma had frozen. "Who are you?"
He turned. And she forgot how to breathe.
He was beautiful. Not in the soft way of court nobles who had never known hardship. He was sharp angles, steady hands, and eyes the color of storm clouds. His clothes were simple, his hands looked soft despite the hard work he did, but there was something in the way he held himself that did not match the stable hand's uniform.
"I'm new," he had said. "I was hired to tend the horses."
"By whom?" She asked
"Your father."
She had nodded slowly. She had not believed him. Something about him was wrong, too poised, too composed, too aware of his own presence. But she had let it go.
She had not known anything about him but she had only known that when he smiled, the weight in her chest became lighter.
---
Neoma's eyes snapped open.
The carriage was dark now. The sun had set completely. Mira stirred in her sleep, murmuring something soft. Neoma watched her for a long moment. Mira had followed her without hesitation. Without question. She had given up everything to stand beside a woman who was already dead inside.
Neoma whispered into the dark: "I'm sorry, Mira."
She wasn't sure if she was apologizing for waking her, or for everything else.
She stared at the shadows on the ceiling and felt the ghost of his hand in hers.
"You're sad," he had said one evening. They were sitting in the garden, hidden behind a wall of roses. He had asked her why she looked like she was carrying the weight of the world.
"I'm not sad," she had lied.
"You are My Lady." He had said
"I'm fine."
He had taken her hand. His thumb traced circles on her palm. "You don't have to pretend with me."
She had looked at him, and for one terrifying moment, she had wanted to tell him everything. The arranged marriage. The kingdom's ruin. The stranger she was being sold to.
But she had swallowed the words.
Instead, she had leaned into him and let him hold her.
---
She had told him she loved him.
Not once or twice more than she could count.
She had also let him feel it through her touch, her gaze, her presence.
And now they would never get to him anymore.
Neoma pressed her palm against her chest, over her heart.
She could still feel him there. She could still feel his warmth, his presence, the steady beat of his heart against her cheek.
She had destroyed him and embarrassed him.
She had watched the light die in his eyes and had done nothing to stop it.
She had told him she felt nothing.
She had lied about everything.
The tears came then, silent and hot, carving tracks down her cheeks. She did not wipe them away. She let them fall, let them soak into the fabric of her gown, let the grief consume her in the darkness of the carriage.
"I hope whatever you're running from was worth it."
His voice. His final words. They had been soft, hollow, a voice that had already accepted its own destruction.
Neoma pressed her fist against her mouth to muffle the sob that tore through her.
Orion.
She thought of the stables. The gardens. The moonlight.
She thought of the way he had looked at her like she was the only light left in the world.
She thought of the way she had killed that light with her own hands.
She would never see him again. She would never feel his hand in hers. She would never hear his voice, gentle and warm, calling her name in the dark.
She was going to marry a stranger. Spend the rest of her life pretending the only man she ever loved had never existed.
And somewhere out there, Orion was alive. He was breathing. He was hating her.
She hoped he hated her enough to forget her.
She hoped he found someone who could love him without chains.
She hoped he lived happily.
She hoped he forgot her like she was already dead.
