Chapter 27: Chains Do Not Decide Who Belongs to the Sky

Lyria’s POV

My gaze followed hers.

I could not help it.

The moment Patricia’s hands had stilled and her eyes had drifted downward, my own did the same, as though some invisible thread had tugged them there.

The chain lay where it always did.

Curled upon the floor like something alive.

It circled her ankle with a cruel familiarity, the iron darkened by rust and age, the links thick and merciless against skin that had grown too thin to defend itself. It vanished beneath the narrow bed frame, drawn tight into a bolt sunk deep into the stone.

I hated it.

I hated how ordinary and normal it had become.

I hated how the palace could allow such a thing to exist quietly beneath its polished ceilings and painted domes.

I lifted my hands.

My fingers moved before my thoughts could soften the question.

"Should I try once more to get it off?" I signed and spoke at the same time, my voice gentle, my hands clear and careful. "The ch–chains, I mean."

Patricia rolled her eyes upward in a manner so unmistakably familiar that I almost smiled despite myself.

Her hands lifted.

’You always ask this, every time you come here too.’

I pressed my lips together.

She was right.

She signed again, slower this time.

’Even if you could remove them... how do you expect us to leave?’

Her fingers paused briefly.

Then continued.

’I am the King’s prisoner.’

I drew a slow breath.

My hands rose at once.

"I d–do not c–care," I signed firmly, my voice barely wavering. "I do not c–care if you a–are his p–prisoner."

Her eyes lifted to mine.

"I th–thought..." I continued, forcing the words past the tightness in my chest, "I th–thought that since you belong to him—" I stopped and corrected myself at once, my fingers moving sharply. "No, not b–belong. I meant—since you are under his p–protection—"

A faint, humourless curl touched her mouth.

’You can just say I belong to him. That’s the truth, after all.’

I shook my head, choosing not to use those words. She did not belong to anyone except herself.

"Y–you do not belong to t–the King," I said firmly as I signed. "But as I was saying, I thought t–that since you are his p–prisoner, that you would be treated better. He treats you even worse than all t–the o–thers."

"You sh–should just hold on," I signed, the words flowing more easily than they ever did beyond these walls. "J–just a little longer."

Her gaze did not leave my face.

"I will get you out of h–here," I told her quietly. "I p–promise."

The vow settled into my chest like something solid.

"You," I signed, pointing gently toward her, "me, and my m–mother... we w–ill all l–leave this place."

My fingers slowed.

My voice softened.

"And we will l–live in peace when we do."

For a moment, Patricia did not respond.

She only watched me.

Then her hands rose.

’Do you remember the last time you tried to escape?’

I paused at that. I frowned before I could stop myself.

Of course I remembered.

How could I not?

The memory lived beneath my ribs, sharp and waiting.

I had been sixteen.

Still foolish enough to believe that courage alone could carry a broken body across a kingdom.

Still naïve enough to think the palace gates were only doors.

I lowered my hands slowly.

"Yes," I signed, my voice barely more than breath.

I could see it again.

The narrow servants’ stairwell.

The bundle of blankets in my arms. My mother on my back, her head resting against my shoulders, her breathing faint.

I had come here first. I had stood where I stood now, begging Patricia to come with me.

But she had refused firmly, telling me that my plan would not work and that I was being foolish.

I remembered how angry I had been then. How hurt I was that she had decided to continue her suffering when we could get out. It turned out she was right, and I had been nothing but a foolish child.

I had left without looking back. I had decided then that if she would not come, then I would go without her.

I never even got far. I had just begun struggling to take Mother out of the palace when I was surrounded by guards.

My father had been waiting for me—patiently.

The memory of his voice still lingered. He had stared at me with disgust, and I remembered Jacinta laughing at me just as I cried for them to let me go.

I shook my head as my gaze lifted to Patricia.

"I remember," I told her softly.

My fingers curled.

"But I am s–smarter now."

Her brows lifted faintly.

"I am not running blind a–anymore," I continued. "I a–am s–saving m–money too. All we have to do is wait until my mother recovers."

Patricia frowned.

"I know you are worried," I told her. "I–I understand why you are. But I’m making sure my mother doesn’t m–miss any treatment. If the Queen doesn’t give her any for even a d–day, I try to give it to her."

"She will w–wake," I signed quietly. "I k–know she will."

"And when she does..." My hands steadied. "W–we w–will l–leave t–together."

"And you w–will c–come w–with us this time. N–no arguments," I told her.

The silence stretched.

The candle guttered softly as Patricia’s shoulders eased.

Slowly, as though something heavy had been lifted from them.

Her hands rose.

’You speak as though the world were already waiting for you.’

I smiled faintly.

Perhaps it was.

Or perhaps I simply refused to believe it was not.

Her fingers moved again.

’It is dangerous, little one.’

"I k–know," I replied at once, my hands matching the words without hesitation.

She searched my face.

’And yet you are very certain.’

I nodded.

Her mouth curved then, just slightly.

As though she were afraid it might break if she allowed it to grow too large.

Her hands lifted again.

’That would be a good day.’

The words struck me harder than any warning ever could.

My chest warmed at once with a bright flutter.

"Yes," I signed, unable to stop the small rush of joy in my movements. "A very g–good day."

I leaned closer.

My voice softened into something almost conspiratorial.

"And w–when it c–comes..." I signed, my fingers dancing lightly in the dim glow of the candle, "we w–will c–celebrate it."

My smile widened before I could restrain it.

"Every d–day after we l–leave," I told her. "We will c–celebrate."