Chapter 8: ‎Chapter 7 — The Day of the Grip ‎

‎Aurora’s pen scratched. Ink pooled at the corner of a letter already longer than most she had ever written.

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‎Dear Mother,

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‎She did not say she had grown. The strokes said it for her, steadier than they had been at six. The letters no longer wavered like reeds in wind. She did not say the years had passed. The margin drawings did it instead: a broad back with a boy’s face that kept changing; a girl with tied hair and gloves; a faceless woman carved again and again until the page felt crowded with her absence.

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‎The words carried only what could not fit in pictures. Small things. Cold mornings. Chores. The ache that walked beside her like a shadow.

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‎When the page was full, she folded it once, twice. The paper crackled softly. She slid it into the Dream Box where other folded years slept. The hinge closed with a sigh of wood.

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‎The door creaked.

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‎Brandon leaned in, shoulders filling the frame. His eyes went at once to her skirt. Too short, his frown said. His mouth made a joke of it anyway. “What happened? Did the cloth shrink?”

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‎Aurora looked at him, said nothing.

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‎Then she sprang at him without warning. Reflex caught her — his arms always did. He laughed, swung her up, turned her into an airplane, the floor falling away as if she were lighter than she felt.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

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‎“Still at it,” he muttered, grinning, breath puffing. He tucked her against him, princess-style, a routine worn smooth over the years. She clung to his neck, eyes steady.

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‎“Your mother,” he said after a moment. “Is she…” The question stumbled.

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‎“She is fine,” Aurora answered. Flat, final.

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‎Brandon grunted, accepting or pretending to. He shifted her weight, carried her down the corridor.

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‎They found Zara waiting by the stairs. Her jacket was fitted, hair pulled into a severe ponytail, gloves snug on her hands. She looked like someone braced for battle. Her gaze flicked once to Aurora’s grip on Brandon’s neck. A small tremor crossed her face — a catch of unease — before smoothing back into calm.

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‎“Ready,” Zara said.

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‎The cafeteria smelled of steam and grain. Trays clattered. Children hunched over bowls. Brandon forced cheer, tapping spoons, telling little stories between bites. Zara ate in silence. Aurora barely touched her food, watching them both with her stillness.

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‎Sister Martel lingered more than usual, hands brushing shoulders, eyes softer than the day allowed. When the last bowls emptied, she gathered them. Her voice held no room for refusal. “Line up. It is time.”

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‎The march began.

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‎From the Inner Ring to the Core the streets narrowed. Walls climbed higher, shadows deeper. The air thickened as if the city itself leaned closer.

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‎Halfway, a man with a heavy face blocked their path. “You’re late.”

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‎“They’re children,” Martel said, sharp as a shield edge.

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‎The man grunted, dismissed her with a jerk of his chin. “This way.”

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‎Martel’s lips pressed thin, but she followed until the Core’s side door swallowed the children. She did not step past it.

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‎The hall beyond made them small. Circular tiers rose like a stone amphitheater, shelves burdened with weapons and armor. The lowest racks were plain steel. Above, iron and bronze glimmered. Higher still, relics gave off their own pale light. Oil and iron stung the air. The silence was heavy, pressing into their throats.

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‎Hierarchy stood plain as architecture: the ordinary low, the holy high.

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‎An old woman frowned at them from the shadows. “You’re late.”

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‎The heavy-faced man snapped back, “Ask your sister,” and stormed away, his steps ringing off stone.

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‎The children stood where they were placed, caught in silence. Breath shallow, eyes wide, the weight of steel and history above them.

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‎Then the doors groaned open.

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‎A herald’s voice cut the air, clear and cold:

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‎“His Majesty, King Gustave!”

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