Astrid

“No way.”

Isabelle has been saying that for the past hour. I do not know why. What way is she searching for? Clearly, we are not lost. And yet she keeps repeating those words as she gawks at every room I show her.

I show her the throne room.

We do not go inside.

While we make our way to the main entrance, she does a quick spin to survey the architecture.

“I didn’t think this- I mean, what you were telling me earlier -”

“I wasn’t joking,” I tell her. “Of course, if you have seen enough and want to leave, you may do so at any moment.”

She nods. “Why did you invite me here, though? I mean, why me?”

My thoughts scramble to find a plausible explanation, one which would not pressure her or scare her away. “There is an, er, enchantment over this castle. It makes us unable to leave this place. So sometimes I use the magic mirror to see the rest of the world for a brief hour before my time is up.”

“So you just happened to get the wild idea of bringing someone else into the castle?”

It is obvious from the steady look on her face that she is testing me. I wonder if I will pass.

“You may not understand it, but between the lot of us, it sometimes gets...lonely.”

“Us?” she frowns.

“Yes, us. Bayorn the guardsman, Imogen and her young son, Eli, myself and -”

“Me.”

We both jump. Towards the corner of the first space that greets the main entrance of the castle, Kieran leans against the armrest of a long couch. He is dressed in a simple blue cotton shirt, much like Isabelle’s jacket, and sparring trousers. In his hands he twiddles with one of his daggers.

I wonder if he is secretly debating on whether or not he should pitch the blade at my chest.

Isabelle glances at me. I find my words again. “Isabelle, this is Kieran. The Master of the house.”

The tension in her voice is apparent. “Um, what’s up?”

“Where are you from, Isabelle?”

“San Francisco.”

“San Francisco,” he repeats, appraising her from head to toe. And rather rudely, I might add. I glare at him.

He catches my pointed look and rolls his eyes. Sheathing his dagger into the strap against his thigh, he approaches her and extends a hand.

“You here to stay?” he slips into a colloquial tone similar to Isabelle’s. She blinks in astonishment.

“I don’t know. Am I invited?”

“Sure you are,” his eyes flicker to me briefly. “They recently painted a guest room, after all.”

Kieran

There is a knock before the door to my chambers creaks quietly behind me.

“Sire?” Bayorn sounds, his voice void of all the gentleness that only appears around the women and child. Now it is controlled, dutiful. “It was suggested that perhaps we prepare for your transformation two hours earlier during the first week of Lady Isabelle’s stay. Extra protective measures, now that the numbers have increased in the castle.”

I bring the glass of spirit to my lips and smirk. “Suggested by whom? Astrid?” The final syllable of each word blends with the first of the next in a slur.

“By me.”

He comes to stand beside me. Even without looking I know that his hands are folded over each other in front of him, soldier’s jacket pressed neatly and shoulders square. Prepared for battle.

In comparison, his enemy sits in an old bathrobe, attempting – and failing, according to past experiences – to drown the coming pain in numbing inebriation.

“Sit, Captain.”

He takes his place on the brocade chair next to me. The moonlight that spills from the windows illuminates the singular threads of gray on his head. He watches me wearily.

I cannot help but chortle again. “Speak your opinions frankly, Bayorn. I command you.”

“I only think of ensuring your comfort tonight.”

“Comfort.” The word in itself cracks me up. I down the liquid and rotate the glass in my palm. My sharpened eyesight catches onto the tiny droplet that dribbles along the surface under the dim glow from the fireplace.

“You must regret every moment of each night. To spend them all stationed outside a dungeon instead of having a family of your own to return home to.” My words are laced with a cold bitterness.

He leans back in his seat, unhinged. “I do have a family. And I do not regret serving you.”

“Please, Bayorn,” I spit. “I was a wretched boy who grew up to become something even worse. Every one of my subjects regretted serving me. Even before the curse, I was beyond saving.”

“Your family never thought so. When I served your father, he always held out hope for the man you would eventually grow to become.”

I hate speaking of them. What is the use, if they cannot be brought back? If justice cannot be served for the crime against the royal family? My family?

My shoulder aches. I set the glass down to massage it gently. Bayorn keeps his watchful gaze trailed on me all the while, as if expecting me to turn into the monster at any moment.

“Rheanna should have been queen.” Anna. Wise and tenacious Anna. “I planned to abdicate my right to the throne for her. My father would have strongly disagreed at first, but he would have approved once she monopolized foreign trades.”

“Or ordered for a castle to be built for every poor subject.” Bayorn nods, cracking a smile. “The kindest young woman in the kingdom.”

“And the bravest,” I sigh in agreement.

The muscles in my abdomen are starting to contract uncomfortably. I suck in a breath and try to think of the looming moon outside instead.

“May I speak truthfully, my lord?”

“That is what I’ve been asking for.”

He glances out the window. “You are right. You were...stubborn. And ignorant of the entire world around you. But at least you used to fight to get what you wanted. From the moment Lady Selaena presented you with a possibility to vanquish this enchantment, you had already given up.”

I wince when a burst of ice shoots up my spine. “Hope is painful. And useless.”

“Hope is your last chance to right your wrongs. To give yourself – not the Prince you were, but the person you are now – a final chance to truly attain that which you deserve.”

“And what do I deserve, Bayorn? Besides punishment for my sins?”

He leans forward before he stands. With my neck bent forward against the pain, all I can see is the hilt of the sword strapped to his belt.

"Redemption."