Castalla could remember a time when she could dive into someone’s mind, into their heart. Hear their thoughts and feel their emotions. To be wrapped up in someone’s ecstatic joy, their immense love, was both pleasure and devastation. For a while now it felt as though it were the only way to experience such wild emotions, to breach someone’s privacy and envelope herself in their abandon. But she’d left much of her powers on the shores of her homeland, even as the ghosts of her past had made the treacherous journey to Novus with her. Now she could all but guess the thoughts and feelings of the patrons around her, attempt some cruel fake of the joy that lingered in their calls and shouts, their singing and chatting. Skender had been her one chance at a life like that. Her one escape from the bloody battlefield of her past, from the promised future that she could never achieve. Her one escape from the beast in her bones and the monster in her mind. But he had been torn away from her by the bloodied teeth of the betrayer, Adrian. His life ebbing out from the gash in his chest, from the blow meant for her. The White Wolf had been the symbol of her people, the sword of her kingdom, but Skender had always been better than her, a flame of goodness that light the shadows of her demon-infested heart.
Her thoughts began to wander like seeds in the wind as her gaze jumped from horse to horse absentmindedly. The dull roar of drunk patrons and happy merry-makers faded into monotony, a soft symphony to the thoughts that chased themselves into fatigue in her mind. Despite being surrounded by so many equines she never felt more alone. It was at these times, perhaps, when she felt most alone. When the rest of the world was happy and cheerful, chasing away the cold winters day with the burn of whiskey or the sweet caress of wine. Such innocence, such carefree pleasure was not a luxury the Wolf would ever afford. Of course she was no fool- she knew the sorrow and misery a trained smile could hide, the pain each drop of alcohol could chase away. Sometimes the saddest voices could be the loudest. But there were few who could understand the life she’d had, the life she would always lead. And even fewer who would ever know what it was like- to stain your soul beyond recognition, to suffer the worst mortal-kind could offer in the desperate hope that it might make the world a better place. Only to fail, to find out that it hadn’t made a damn difference, that you had lost so much, given so much all for nothing. Oh but you are a hero! They would chorus, singing the songs that romanticised her infamy, painted her misdeeds in rosy colours.
She had once been in a tavern like this one, filled with melancholy and alcohol and pestered by so many who wanted to know how it felt to be a hero, how she had in fact killed the Tyrant King. She had answered them then, the raw truth in a hoarse voice, her gaze distant and her tongue poisoned.
Being a hero is taking the hit meant for someone else, charging into battle knowing you may not make it out alive but that at least you can save people. There is nothing honourable and romantic about being imprisoned and tortured, having your ankles broken one by one, mauled by daggers and swords, ruminating in toxic fear and living in your own filth for weeks. There is nothing beautiful about stabbing someone in the back as they do unimaginable things to a helpless child or liberating slaves chained to the ground with no food or water. Being the hero means seeing the darkest parts of the world, continuing on in the face of death and inspiring those stories that portray it as such chivalrous work. Listening while people sing joyously of your deeds, even as your soul is stained by yet more death. Being a hero is giving up any chance of sleeping without nightmares, accepting that you will never live a normal life, never feel whole again.
They had stopped asking her after that, unable to deal with the truth behind the legends of the White Wolf. A princess, a warrior princess like her, should be a beacon of life and light. And she could be- she was both wildfire and coldest ice, burning and veracious. Untameable. Uncontrollable. Unchecked. Dangerous. But she was not what the stories told, not deep down.
Castalla was torn from her thoughts when a winged stallion clasped in shadows and burning umber settled himself into the only available seat, coincidentally next to her. Many had avoided taking it, perhaps because the scars on her skin, the dagger at her leg and the dark look upon her face perturbed them from getting too close. But the ebony steed seemed not to notice her, not until he twisted his head suddenly in her direction and their eyes met. Icy cold and burning amber congealed and despite herself, Castalla felt a flicker of his fire in her gut. Surprise filtered through the dull tangle of emotions in her chest, though her face remained, as ever, impassive as his gaze rested on her for a few moments. Though she held his stare, she noted the runes across his nose, the scars at his shoulders that were so reminiscent of the dragon-shifters in Alanaris that had suffered the removal of their wings. When at last he broke the look she almost felt bereft of the fire in his eyes. Yet, that he was here drinking alone, suggested he was far from the lively happiness of the majority of customers. Castalla couldn’t help but wonder about his story, his reason for gracing the uproarious tavern.
When the barmaid returned with the steed’s wine she made to take the glass before Castalla, now empty after she’d downed the rest. “I’ll have the bottle,” she offered, placing coin before the other mare who did not take long to return with the mostly full bottle of whiskey. Mind made up, she settled a little deeper in her seat, intending to stay for a while.
“Not here to sing and celebrate?” She didn’t look at him as she made the remark, instead raising the whiskey bottle to her lips and taking a swift draught.
