Whispers Waltz Around Our Dreams . . .

For most of her life Losa had felt as if she weren’t a whole being, but rather a series of hastily stitched pieces that threatened to tear from their main core as soon as something tugged too hard at her seams. Court life pulled her in every direction: she needed to be stoic and cool-headed for the ambassadors; she needed to be outgoing and warm to the children; she needed to impress the lords and ladies with her wit and charm, she needed to hold her head high and look regal enough to wear a crown, and most of the time Losa tricked herself into believing that all of these demands yanked her with equalizing force so that even if she felt strained and tired at least she was balanced. But then the pink princess ached with a craving for freedom . . . or a disaster finally tested her resolve . . . and she fell apart like a shredded paper doll, useless despite the pretty colors she’d been painted. It was as though the “cultured heiress” side of her were nothing but a hollow skin, stretched around a miasma of failure. Of ugliness. For Losa did feel ugly, defiled, worthless, and the negative emotions festered in her chest like an infection one step from septic.

Losa told herself that the sickness started on the mountain, when Zawyne had been able to subdue an aggressive beast with her aura but Losa had not. Zawyne’s mere presence had settled a brittle, seething tension . . . her voice like a balm on a burn . . . and although Losa had put her life on the line to defend a child, she had ultimately been ineffective. Pointless. In fact, the brute who’d threatened one of the young Tempests and herself actually became more angry when the cotton candy faerie opened her mouth. He’d gripped her by the neck, and thrown her to the dirt while her newly acquired Ofer watched. The bastard had known. He had seen her filth before Losa saw it herself. And the realization, the final nail in the coffin of her self-confidence, wounded the young woman so deeply she had cut her emotions off like a necrosized limb. This was why the gods had given her to Duma as his soulmate: Losa was just as twisted, just as hideous inside, as the fallen Tempest.

The days after the painful encounter on the mountain saw Losa wandering the land like a ghost, mournful and quiet. She kept her soul locked up tight, afraid that opening up would somehow contaminate the other Arucs Irae. So far none had questioned her self-imposed solitude - which was probably for the better. A sliver of Losa wanted somebody to notice, to care . . . to pry just a little bit, and tell her that it was okay if she fell apart . . . but no one did. Maybe they sensed her corruption, a vile thread in the air she couldn’t hold back. The same way wolves will avoid a rabid mongrel, so too did her fellow rainbows give her a wide berth without actually knowing why. When Losa walked back to Dierne after colliding with a burst of this land’s innate magic - the encounter leaving her limbs with stripes of bright blue lightning - it was as if she’d been turned invisible instead. Fine. Don’t look at me. I don’t want you looking at me, anyway. Bitter words she gathered around herself like a shield of thorns. Half of us are dead because of me.

She’d gone to sleep that night heartsick, same as always. Funny how one could learn to live with a constant ache. Losa did not dream . . . she had no dreams left. Only nightmares, or the absence of them. Brindled legs tucked close to her bodice. Her chin dipped toward her chest. She slept the entire night, numb to the chill that crept into her den, to worn out to shiver.

Only when a familiar cologne entered her lungs did the girl stir. She turned in her sleep, murmuring. “Hurricane . . . ?”

Mismatched eyes flickered blurrily open. They were met by twin pools of lightning. Hurricane was here. By her den. In the flesh.

It was not as if Hurricane weren’t around. He was - he’d been steadfastly contributing to Dierne Hrof since he came here with Losa seasons ago. His masculine scent wove itself tightly into the invisible wall separating the territory from the freelands; often, he’d drag kills in for others to eat, his broad sides still huffing with exertion, before charging back to the gates to defend them. Losa, living as a pastel poltergeist for months now, did not feel brave enough to approach the loyal gladiator she brought with her. She feared that drawing too close would allow him to catch wind of the rot inside of her. And she knew Hurricane would not pressure her with his company - of all her guards, he had been the only one to understand how dearly the princess thirsted for liberty. Yes, she felt safest with him nearby; yes, Hurricane protected her better than anyone she’d ever met. The midnight monster had probably assumed that Losa needed plenty of space to work out whatever was eating at her - which, in the past, had been the right move. Except Losa had been enjoying too much time alone. She was acting like a prisoner, and what she wanted right now was not to be ignore, slighted, valueless, but instead adored and important and cared for. She wanted her favorite guard. She wanted the male she’d chosen as a mate, despite the gods ordering otherwise.

A childlike whimper left her lips before she could stop it. And then Losa was wiggling on her belly out of her den to snuggle against Hurricane, the pressure of her body demanding that he conform to her shape, her face burying itself into the course inkjet hairs of his ruff to flood her senses with the signature warmth of Thunder Killer. “You’re always supposed to sleep by my den, idiot.” Suspiciously wobbly words muttered quietly into his fur.

☽Arcus Irae Princess | Sister to Zawyne | Chained to Duma | Bound to Hurricane | xathira☾