Chapter 43 The Pull
I don’t sleep well. Which isn’t new, but this feels different. My dreams keep slipping into strange fragments: flashes of firelight, wings cutting across a sky I’ve never seen, a voice that isn’t mine whispering in a language I don’t know. When I wake, the room is eerily quiet and still. I feel an ache in my chest. It's not horribly painful, more like a dragging heaviness that doesn’t belong there. My head feels foggy, like I’m carrying someone else’s exhaustion, and my stomach might be doing somersaults.
“Great,” I mutter, rubbing at my eyes. “I’ve been here less than a week, and I’ve already caught castle depression.”
Gilfred blinks at me from the foot of the bed, unimpressed. I push myself up, stretch until my spine pops, and try to shake it off, but I can't. I feel...like shit.
I dress quickly, pulling on one of the soft sweaters the staff brought me yesterday, and wander out into the corridor. The castle is quiet this early and my shoes sound too loud on the marble floors. Every few steps, I pause, unsure where I’m even going. Honestly, I don't even know where I'm going, I'm just...going, hoping something will make this icky feeling go away. By the time I reach the main hall, the ache has crawled higher, making it hard to breathe. I press a hand to my sternum, frowning. “Okay, that’s new.”
I spot one of the guards by the stairs and force a smile. “Morning.”
He looks startled, as if I’ve just spoken to him in tongues. “Good morning, Lady Snow— I mean, Miss Bella.”
“Uh-huh.” I wave vaguely. “Has the king been seen yet?”
His posture stiffens instantly. “His Majesty is attending to matters in the council wing. He— he will be present for breakfast.”
“Right. Council wing. Very important.”
I turn away before he can respond, heading down the hall toward the smaller dining room I’ve been using. At this point, it's like my chest is trying to fold inward. Damien’s already in the dining room, standing near the tall window, half bathed in light. He’s reading something or pretending to, and the air around him glows faintly with the morning sun.
“Good morning,” he says without looking up.
My breath catches before I can answer. Because the pain, the heaviness, that icky feeling, whatever it was — it’s gone. Completely.
“Morning,” I manage finally, taking the seat opposite him.
He sets the papers aside and studies me. “You look pale.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly. “Just what every woman wants to hear first thing in the morning.”
His brow furrows. “Are you unwell?”
“No, just tired. I think the castle air is messing with me.”
“The castle air?”
I wave a hand vaguely. “Too much marble. Not enough oxygen.”
That earns me a small exhale that might actually be a laugh. He gestures to the food spread between us. “You should eat.”
I eye the plates. “Please tell me this is considered breakfast and not a pre-banquet appetiser.”
“It’s breakfast,” he says, though there’s a twitch of humour at his mouth.
We fall into silence again and I poke at a pastry, trying to ignore how light I suddenly feel. The ache hasn’t returned, and now that it’s gone, I realise how much it had been pressing on me. Maybe I just needed food.
“Are you feeling better now?” he asks after a while.
I glance up. “Better?”
He tilts his head, watching me closely. “When you came in, you looked... strained.”
“I’m fine.” I pause, then add, “You, uh, slept?”
He shakes his head. “Not much.”
I want to ask why, but something about the way his eyes drift toward the window tells me he wouldn’t answer anyway. So instead, I change the subject. “You know, I think I’m starting to understand how your staff stays so thin. It’s from running back and forth bringing you these five-course meals every three hours.”
That earns another small sound from him, almost a chuckle. “It’s tradition,” he says.
“Right. Tradition. The polite way of saying overkill.”
He smiles softly now, “You’re difficult.”
“I prefer persistent.”
The conversation drifts into quieter things after that — the weather, the village at the foot of the mountain, the now frozen river that winds through the valley. He speaks carefully, like every word still has to pass through years of restraint before reaching the air. But he listens, too. Really listens. And the longer we talk, the steadier I feel. When breakfast ends, he excuses himself to attend more “matters of state,” whatever that means, and I wander aimlessly for a while. But the moment he leaves the room, the heaviness creeps back in. It’s faint at first, a slow pull under the skin, but it builds as the minutes pass. I find myself heading toward the nearest window, staring out at the snow-covered gardens. The ache sharpens, and I press a hand to my chest again. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
Gilfred chirps softly from the hall behind me, as if to say everything, probably. By the time the sun begins to set, I’ve given up pretending I don’t notice the pattern. The further he is, the worse it gets. When he’s near, it’s gone. Simple as that. I test it by walking the length of the west corridor, further, further, until my stomach twists in protest. Then I turn back, and with every step closer to the great hall, it eases. By the time I reach the doorway, it’s almost gone again. Damien’s there, speaking quietly with one of his advisors. He looks tired, I can see it in his eyes. When he notices me, his voice trails off, and the advisor bows quickly and retreats.
“Bella,” he says, surprised. “Is everything all right?”
I should say yes. I should tell him I just got lost, that I was exploring, anything normal. But instead, what comes out is: “I think I need air.”
His brow lifts slightly, but he nods. “Then you should walk the terrace. The wind is calm tonight.”
He starts toward the doors that lead outside, and I follow without thinking. The instant he’s beside me, the pressure in my chest eases completely, and I exhale, dizzy with relief. Out on the terrace the snow glows faintly in the twilight, the air crisp and clean. I rest my hands on the stone railing and breathe. That's better. Much better. Damien stands beside me, silent, watching the horizon. The sky is all shades of violet and silver, the first stars beginning to appear. For a long time, neither of us speaks. Then, softly, I say, “Thank you.”
He looks at me, puzzled. “For what?”
I don’t know how to explain it, so I just smile. “For the view.”
His gaze lingers a moment longer before he looks back to the snow. “You’re welcome, Snowflake.”
The name rolls off his tongue like second nature, and though I still don’t understand why my chest feels lighter now than it did this morning, I stop questioning it. For tonight, the ache is gone.