Chapter 8 BASH

~Helena pov~

Agreeing to Prince Bernard's proposal hadn't been a bold, thought-out decision, it was a surrender. One I gave in to without resistance, thinking perhaps it was the only sliver of leverage I had left. But when I heard his voice drift from the car window "She might never come back" to the others in my pack, something inside me coiled.

He said it so easily. So finally.

A sour wave churned in my gut.

When we arrived at his kingdom, my breath caught. It wasn't just vast, it was alive. The structures, the layout, the towering elegance, it mimicked a human city but pulsed with something else. The place had everything: medical quarters, markets, military sectors. Clean, orderly, magnificent.

"Your luggage has been sent to your room. Dinner is at seven-thirty every day in the common hall," he informed me curtly.

That was all.

No warmth, no welcome. Just instructions and systems.

And that's how I learned there was no private dining. No soft tray brought in on polished silverware. Just a shared hall. I would eat like everyone else. Among everyone else.

Now, I sat cross-legged on the tiny cot in my assigned room. The bed creaked every time I moved. It was quiet. Too quiet. No maids bustling in and out. No scent of mother's perfume clinging to the pillows.

I was one of the early arrivals. Fewer eyes on me. Good. The less seen, the better.

A hollow throb spread across my chest.

My gaze swept the room. It was dimly lit, almost shy. The bathroom was barely four steps away from my bed. The wardrobe looked like it had been designed for a child's belongings. Half of my things didn't even arrive.

I stood and opened the wardrobe again, as if expecting it to grow. It didn't. My fingers ran over the one silk dress that had made it through transit. The fabric was out of place here. Like me.

A breath stuttered out of me.

This... this wasn't home.

And for the first time, I realized, I didn't know what that word meant anymore.

I tugged my sleeve up and checked my watch.

7:41 p.m.

The numbers blurred for a second. I lurched upright, grabbed a sweater from the back of the chair, and slammed the door behind me.

Boots muffled against marble, the hallways stretching endlessly as I ran through. Two guards in silver-trimmed uniforms turned as I approached.

"The common hall?" I asked, breath sharp.

One pointed left, but the other lingered with a half-curious glance. I didn't wait for more.

The heavy doors made a slow sound as I pushed them open.

Inside, the room was hollowed out, scattered with tired footsteps and the faint scrape of cutlery. Long tables stretched across the space, mostly empty. Trays sat in place, streaked with leftovers. Crumpled napkins. A few low murmurs.

Behind the counter stood a woman folding white napkins into perfect triangles. Her chef's hat sat slightly askew, hair coiled into a knot at the nape of her neck. She didn't smile.

"I'm sorry," I managed, still catching my breath.

She didn't blink. Just tilted her head toward the far end of the counter. "You're one of the last. There's not much left."

My plate hovered midair as I scanned the trays.

Beef. Noodles. A trace of sauce smeared across the bottom of the bread bin. Fruit tray empty. Chicken gone.

I gripped the plate tighter, the edges pressing into my palm.

"I don't eat beef... or noodles," I said, trying not to sound like I was complaining.

She didn't look at me. "This is what's available. It's formulated to meet your nutritional intake."

Not taste. Not a choice. Not culture. Nutritional.

I scooped a small corner of beef and a forkful of sticky noodles. Steam curled lazily from the trays.

When I looked up, she was holding out a small bowl of salad, the leaves and cream shining under the well lighted lights. I took it, fingers brushing hers for half a second.

She turned away.

My fingers moved fast. A glance left, a glance right. Then most of the salad vanished onto my plate. Crisp lettuce. A few slices of cucumber. One cherry tomato that rolled to the edge.

A chair scraped behind me. I didn't look. Just made my way to the corner table, the one pushed up against the wall. No one else sat there. That was the point.

I ate slowly.

The beef stuck in strands between my teeth. The noodles clung together like a mass of glue. The salad was the only thing that went down easily.

Voices drifted from the table closest to the drink station. Low, but not low enough.

"She just dumped all the salad on her plate. Didn't even care."

"Rich girls don't know how to share. What did you expect?"

A breath caught in my chest. I didn't glance up.

Another voice, louder. "She's that one from Crestmoon, right? The one who screamed because she didn't get her own dorm."

"She thinks she's above us."

The fork paused halfway to my mouth.

A brittle crunch echoed as lettuce cracked between my molars.

I set the fork down. Not hard. Just... final.

Lifted the plate. Walked the right path to the trash. It felt like every step dragged a gaze behind me.

The bin's lid opened with a lazy groan. I tipped the contents in.

No slam. No flinch. Just the quiet weight of disappointment.

Then I turned.

Walked out without a word.

Following me down to the corridor were the sounds from my own footsteps and how the hallways swallowed me whole. My breath caught as I turned corners, unsure where I was even going. I passed windows with drawn curtains, doors left ajar, and tapestries stitched in gold thread.

My legs moved faster.

My vision blurred, not from tears, not yet, but from the ache curling in my bones. I ran. Not out of weakness. Out of need. Out of the desire to break free from the echo of their words.

And then, there it was. That scent.

Grass. Faint and fresh.

I veered toward it, fingers skimming the iron garden gate before pushing it open. No hesitation. No pause.

The garden greeted me with twilight. Trimmed hedges lined stone paths. Flowering trees stretched toward a dusky sky. My feet pounded the path. Past the blooms. Past a quiet bench. Past everything.

Toward the back wall.

The training grounds stood beyond it, silent and still. The old wooden door to the equipment room creaked as I slipped in, shadows swallowing me whole.

The door shut behind me.

I pressed my palms to the cold stone floor and sat beside a crate.

For a few minutes, I just breathed. No tears. No screams.

Not when they tore our house apart.

Not when my parents' caskets were carried out.

Not even when I stood beside Bernard with a trembling signature and no real choice.

But here, alone, I let the silence wrap around me.

My shoulders sagged.

My fingers curled into my sleeves.

One tear slid down my cheek. Then another. Not a river, just a leak from something sealed too long.

I thought of my mother's humming. The way Dad used to stir his tea wrong, always too loud. Home had been strange, warm, and familiar.

Now, every space felt borrowed.

Every interaction, rehearsed.

A quiet breath slipped from my lips, part laugh, part sigh.

Hiding in a dusty room. How noble of me.

But still, I'd made it through dinner.

I hadn't cried in front of them.

I'd walked out on my own two feet.

Maybe that counted.

I thought about the orphanage kids I used to visit during the winter solstice. How some of them had no photos, no graves, no names.

Maybe we weren't so different now.

My fists clenched slightly at the thought.

If what happened wasn't an accident... if someone took them from me-I would find out. Eventually.

I wasn't ready to say it aloud, not yet. But I thought about it.

The door creaked open.

Footsteps.

Light flickered on. The room flooded with harsh yellow.

I blinked.

Prince Bernard stood in the doorway. Hands in his coat pockets. His gaze caught mine.

No words. Just tension.

His jaw shifted, like he wasn't sure what to say.

I didn't look away.

"Could you please," I said, my voice quieter than intended, "send me back home?"

He didn't speak.

"At least there, I can be hated in peace. Not here. Not... not where I'm a shadow to people who've already made their judgments."

I sat straighter. Shoulders back.

He still said nothing.

But for the first time, I didn't feel like I was begging.

I was asking.

And I deserved an answer.