CHAPTER 245: WITH FONDESS, SERENA

Serena stretched out her legs in front of her and stared blankly at the window, the sun had nearly disappeared between the hills and the birds chirped loudly, returning to their little homes.

The pressure in her head refused to go away, she looked down at her hands and then clenched them. Soon her hand drifted to her neck and she let out a choked sound.

How could she really? Serena was never free, Charlotte had just reinforced the fact. She wondered what she could do. Go to Darius? No, this was already embarrassing enough and Charlotte said he had so much work to be done. Silas was so much leeway and it showed with the way Charlotte behaved.

Annamarie would not be able to help, she would not even know Charlotte or whatever her real name was. Serena pulled her knees up and rested her chin on her knee.

Serena’s throat still burned. The ghost of Charlotte’s hand lingered on her skin like some invisible collar, tightening whenever she tried to draw breath. She sat unmoving for what could have been minutes or hours, time had folded itself oddly. The world outside the window remained unchanged: the sun now dipped completely beneath the hills, and shadows stretched long and languid across the earth.

She hadn’t cried in a long time. but now... she blinked as tears gathered stubbornly at the corners of her eyes. Her hand lifted again to her neck, tracing the ache there as though it might fade beneath her touch. A bitter laugh escaped her lips, soft and short, like it had startled her.

Feyra stirred inside her, a soft breeze brushing over her thoughts.

’You should not allow this to wound you so deeply,’ came the wolf’s voice, low and careful. ’You have known far worse.’

"I know," Serena whispered aloud. "I know that. I should be used to it."

’You are not weak for feeling pain. That woman, she meant to humiliate you.’

"It is just another reminder," Serena murmured.

’Of what?’

"That no matter where I go, I will always be... something to leash eventually."

Feyra went quiet.

Serena remained on the floor for a little longer, her cheek pressed to her knees, her body folded in on itself like a dying flower. Eventually, the cold on the stone began to sting through the fabric of her dress. It was enough to prompt movement.

She pushed herself to her feet, though her legs trembled beneath her. The silence in her chamber was suffocating. She crossed the room toward the wardrobe, ignoring the tightness in her throat. Her fingers paused briefly on the metal latch before she opened it.

Her eyes passed over her clothes, neatly folded, pressed, carefully curated to blend into Ironshade’s palate. At the very bottom of the trunk, behind a grey wool tunic, lay a piece of deep burgundy cloth. With careful hands, Serena retrieved the shawl. It smelled faintly of lavender and something older, dust, perhaps, or time.

She sat before the mirror. Her fingers knew what to do even before she told them. She parted her hair and began the work of braiding it back, then winding the braid low, securing it at her nape with the shawl. She tied it in the same fashion she had so many years ago, the way all the girls did before gatherings or during long winter evenings in the Hall.

No one in Ironshade wore their hair like this. When she’d first arrived, she stuck out like a sore thumb with her ill fitting clothes and tightly bound hair. But tonight, she could not care less.

She blinked at her reflection. It was not that she looked stronger or more composed, but somehow... more herself.

Blocking out Charlotte’s voice, Serena crossed the room to her desk. She reached for the envelope she’d written earlier and stared at it a long while. The letter was folded precisely, impersonal in tone. It read like a report, stiff and distanced. She’d written it that way on purpose. That was what emissaries from Crimsonclaw were supposed to sound like.

But Elen did not deserve that. Serena ripped the envelope in half.

She took a fresh piece of parchment and dipped her quill. Her fingers hesitated only once before she began anew.

Dearest Elen,

Forgive me for the delay in writing you properly. I had wanted to send only a trinket in gratitude, but that would have done you poor justice. Your gift of friendship meant a great deal to me, though I am unsure if I said it properly the first time.

I thought of you when I passed a vendor selling silks today, and though I doubt it will match your fine embroidery, I’ve decided to stitch something myself. I fear I may have grown a little out of practice, but that makes it more fun, does it not?

You are often in my thoughts, more often than you likely guess.

With fondness,

Serena

When she finished, she set the parchment aside to dry. Her eyes wandered to the small sewing box she’d pushed beneath the bed. She knelt, tugged it free, and opened it with trembling hands. She bit on her lip and looked through the items in the box, the tool she had carefully put together over the duration of her stay here.

Selecting a piece of dark blue cloth, Serena gathered her tools and took a seat by the low table. She lit the nearby candle, its glow soft and flickering, and began to sew.

Every one of her stitches were careful. She chose a leaf motif, simple and interwoven. Her fingers were not as nimble as they once were, but with each movement, her breath grew steadier.

Perhaps this would not fix anything. Perhaps Elen would never see the full message hidden in the threads. But in the quiet, Serena let herself take ownership of this one thing, a single act of her kindness unclaimed by fear.

And for tonight, that would be enough.