Sigh

                                    

                                          
I don't bother changing; I plop myself down on the couch and lay there in silence, staring at the tangled vines that hang lazily from the ceiling like forgotten dreams. They sway gently in the draft, whispering secrets I can't quite grasp. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the world around me fade into the shadows of memory. It pulls me back to my days at Ava's base, a time I thought I understood but now know I barely scratched the surface.
Rebels. They were nothing more than a punchline back then, a joke shared among the privileged in the castle halls, dismissed as crazed idealists. I never cared for Xylaris, knowing deep down that the man he presented to the world was little more than a mask. It was easy to look the other way, to convince myself that the upheaval was unjustified, that the rebels were merely stirring a pot of discontent for no good reason. But the truth is often more complex, and being out there with them opened my eyes to a reality I could no longer ignore.
The only ones who live comfortably in this kingdom are those with social standing or those who provide some sort of service to Xylaris. Everyone else? They toil and struggle, clawing their way through life, their existence a mere cog in a machine that doesn't care if they grind to dust. While the King and his inner circle feast and laugh, their plates filled with the fruits of their labor, the rest of us are left to fend for ourselves, working away our lives just to scrape by.
At first, Xylaris turned a blind eye to the rebels, as if their existence was nothing more than an irritation. He heard the whispers, but they barely registered in the grand scheme of his royal pursuits. It wasn't until Alexandria's death that something shifted within him. Grief, like a poison, took root in his heart, twisting his sorrow into something far more sinister. After Ava took me to her village—a place that had once thrived with laughter and life—what I saw shattered my understanding of his rule.
Xylaris heard the whispers of dissent in that village. He associated them with his wife's tragic passing, and in his wrath, he became a storm, ripping through the lives of the innocent. Homes were reduced to smoldering ruins, families were torn apart, women and children caught in the crossfire of a king's fury. He left nothing but ashes and memories. I had always believed I understood the world from behind the castle walls, but witnessing the aftermath of his orders was a cold splash of reality that I could never unsee.
Countless other villages have met a similar fate—each one a testament to a ruler blinded by grief and anger, who acts without remorse, without consideration. I can understand his sadness; I can even empathize with it. But understanding does not absolve him of the violence that spills from his orders like blood from a wound. 
As I lay here, the weight of this knowledge presses down on me. They fight for a chance at life, at dignity, while he wallows in his own despair, drawing lines of destruction across a map he no longer recognizes. I may have started this journey as an observer, but now, I can feel the fire of their fight igniting within me—a call to action I can't ignore.
I think back to that day, it started off like any other. Alexandria and I had breakfast, she was planning her next ball.
"This one will be the best of the season!" She grinned from ear to ear, her brown eyes sparkling as she surveyed the vision board she had painstakingly assembled. Swaths of fabric, splashes of color, and sketches of ornate table settings filled the board, all meticulously curated to create an atmosphere of enchantment. She had said that about every ball she threw, and somehow, she had always been right. Each event became the talk of the ton for weeks, with everyone raving about the decor, the food, or the elegance of the queen's attire. Whispers of how the next ball would surely top it filled the air like the sweet notes of a favorite melody.
I still remembered the squeal of delight that erupted from the girls when the Queen's invitations arrived. It was like music, a chorus of excitement that echoed through the hallways of their households, igniting a flurry of dresses being dusted off and hats being crafted.