<h4>Chapter 92: In My room</h4>


    She simply sat on the bed, motionless, even as Aria’s bodyy face down beside her, the soft trembles that ran through Aria’s bare limbsing and going in silent intervals. But still, Rymora made no move to fetch a cloth to cover her. She knew—instinctively—that Aria wasn’t trembling from cold. It was something deeper, something far more consuming.


    A short while passed, long enough for the water to dry and for Rymora to finish tending to her own hair. She had set the towel aside, her gaze flicking to Aria only asionally, respectful and quiet as always.


    Eventually, Aria pushed herself up from the bed. Her hair clung to her damp back in ces, strands curling at the ends. She moved slowly, like someone shaking off the weight of a nightmare that still lingered at the edge of her mind.


    "I’m just..." she began, her voice raspy and uneven, eyes flicking toward Rymora as though searching for the words she herself couldn’t quite touch. A flicker of conflict crossed her expression.


    "I’m just a bit—" she tried again, but faltered, halted mid-sentence.


    Rymora, instead of answering, had already reached for the parchment on the nearby table, her fingers moving quickly as she scribbled. Her movements were swift but careful, the scratch of quill against paper the only sound in the quiet room.


    When she was finished, she passed the note to Aria, who took it immediately and read.


    <i>’We can make you fall seriously sick! If you get sick there’s no way you’ll be able to participate in the tournament!</i><i>Possibly, the winner could be allowed to take your ce!’</i>


    At first, Aria blinked slowly, not fully grasping the weight of the suggestion. But as she reread the words, her brows furrowed and her eyes widened—just slightly. The idea began to take root.


    Over and over again, the sentence looped in her head until her lips parted and a sharp breath escaped. <i>It could work.</i> They wouldn’t force someone frail and on the verge of copse into a bloodied ring.


    Her eyes, once dulled and distant, suddenly flickered to life with a faint glimmer of hope. She turned toward Rymora, her movements brisk with sudden urgency.


    "Are you sure? Do you really think this would work?" she asked, voice hushed but filled with the urgency of someone who desperately needed to believe. Rymora nodded, once, then again, more firmly, to show she truly meant it.


    Aria’s lips curled upward into a tentative smile—not of joy, but of sheer relief—as she got to her feet and began pacing the floor. Her bare feet moved across the cold stone quickly, nervously, her arms moving as she spoke with renewed energy.


    Part of her had been quietly resigned to the worst. Her mind had shifted from revenge to mere survival. <i>Get Liora out. Keep the rest of the family safe. Survive.</i> That had been her only focus.


    She knew, without a doubt, that if she stepped into the tournament she would lose—<i>badly</i>. Death had been a certainty, not a possibility.


    "But how? If I’m not ill enough then there’s no way! They’ll still force me to go through with it!" Aria said, her voice trembling as she turned sharply to look at Rymora.


    Rymora’s expression mirrored her seriousness. Thoughtful and calm, she stared at Aria, the quill already back in her hand. A pause passed, thick with the sound of their mutual anxiety, before she began writing again.


    Aria, too impatient to wait for the note to be handed to her, crossed over to the bed, sitting beside Rymora, her skin still bare and her hair half-dried, not caring for appearances.


    <i>’You’re right! A simple cold won’t work!’</i><i>’I could find some rotten or spoiled food! That should be enough to make you weak!’</i>


    The idea alone made Aria’s stomach turn, and she visibly winced—but she didn’t reject it. Disgusting as it sounded, it was still better than stepping into a battle she knew she wouldn’t walk away from.


    She nodded seriously, the motion slow and deliberate, even as her lips tightened at the thought. Rymora, still focused, kept writing.


    <i>’If that doesn’t work I can get something from a healer!’</i>


    That suggestion struck Aria as even better. There was no doubt—if it came from a healer, something meant to induce weakness or sleep, an overdose would leave her far too unwell to fight. She could recoverter. For now, she only needed <i>out</i>.


    Still, as the note continued, Aria read:


    <i>’Still...I believe we should wait until the tournament starts to know just how it’s going to go!’</i>


    Aria didn’t respond with words. She only nodded, her face distant again, as if her mind had drifted away from the present and was now staring deep into some vision only she could see.


    Rymora didn’t speak, didn’t try to rouse her. She simply waited, quietly respectful. But time pressed forward, and Aria couldn’t stay still forever—not with breakfast and expectations looming.


    Eventually, Aria rose and began dressing. The garments in her wardrobe offered littlefort. She pulled the yellow gown over her body, her nose wrinkling the moment the fabric touched her skin.


    It was short. Far too short. And it had a ribbon tied at the back—a dainty, frilled touch that made her loathe it all the more.


    Her frown deepened. The pretty little bow felt like a mockery.


    "The tournament starts this evening, so we might as well see how it goes. But just in case... I need you to get what we need," Aria mumbled under her breath, her eyes locked on the mirror. The reflection staring back at her wore a look of restrained fury—sharp, agitated, and unwilling.


    Behind her, Rymora nodded, understanding the urgency. She stepped forward and reached to touch Aria’s hair, motioning to braid it. But Aria gently waved her off, not bothering with pretense or appearance.


    There was no reason to look beautiful. Not when she’d be standing beside Zyren, on disy for the entire court.


    It was already bad enough to be watched. She wouldn’t give them a reason to stare any longer than they had to.


    When she was done dressing, Aria left the room and made her way to the food hall. The familiar scent of roasted meats and sweet fruit lingered in the air. Like always, she sat on Zyren’sp while eating, bncing the porcin te carefully.


    Zyren said nothing to her, and Aria didn’t care. She finished her meal quietly, without wasting a single bite, her mind elsewhere as she prepared to stand and return to her room.


    But before she could shift off him, his hand gripped her waist with sudden possessiveness, halting her. In the next breath, he rose—and lifted her into his arms.


    Aria gasped softly, startled, her eyes flying wide as she stared up at him in disbelief.


    "I have something for you in my room," he said, his tone low and matter-of-fact, as if that were exnation enough.


    With that, he stepped forward, signaling his departure. The rest of the table understood immediately, resuming their meal without protest as he strode toward a destination Aria knew all too well—his room.