Circle of Reign by Jacob Cooper Page A

void. The sorrow that occupied a portion of her heart was pumped through her veins, immobilizing her to a state that the remaining servants in the hold believed to be shock. Regret invaded her with almost every breath she took, rooting itself firmly in her lungs as a tumor that stubbornly refused to be expelled, causing weakness and lethargy to sweep over her.
    The guilt, however, was the key to her continuance. The sorrow and regret sucked life from her on a daily basis, pulling her more and more to what would surely be a catatonic state if not for the guilt. It was energizing and compelled her to action, to do her duty as a mother and the lady of her hold. Yes, the guilt. The guilt of not keeping Reign closer to the hold; the guilt of blaming Thannuel for the same; the guilt of sending him out to find her, which, though a rational decision, tormented her nonetheless; and finally, the guilt of not being able to find her little Reign. It was likely the only element of who she was that pushed her, that kept her from sinking into an abyss and letting the light in her eyes completely go out. The light had faded, true, but it was definitely not extinguished.
    Every morning, before the sun would peek over the horizon, Lady Kerr spent as many moments as she could stand in Reign’s chambers. She sat quietly there this morning, on the edge of Reign’s bed, just as she had every morning for the past eight cycles.
Come back to me
. As she let her emotional guard down, Moira thought upon the dozens of times she had chased Reign around the hold in little games of cat and mouse.
Fox and Squirrel, actually
, Moira remembered. Reign had always claimed to be a squirrel runningto hide her winter stash of acorns from the sneaky bad fox. Moira, of course, was the sneaky bad fox.
    “A fox doesn’t want acorns,” Moira tried to teach her daughter.
    “This one does!” Reign would say and giggle as she ran away, fully expecting Moira to chase her. The giggling was contagious and the hold servants would join in.
    “Over here!” they would call. “We’ll hide you from your mother!”
    “She’s not my mother! She’s the sneaky bad fox!”
    When Moira would eventually catch her, Reign would laugh so joyfully. This seemed to invite tickling, so Moira would oblige her and the laughter would grow even louder.
    Not even echoes of that joyful sound remained now. Moira had checked, placing her ear to the stonewalls of the hold, praying that they had somehow absorbed and maintained the remnants of her daughter’s sweet voice.
Ancient Heavens, have I forgotten what her laugh sounds like?
The quiet only intensified her longing.
How cruel silence can be
. Recently, Reign had wanted to grow up so fast. She would be ten now, if—
No, she
is
ten now
, Moira scolded herself for thinking of Reign in the past tense.
    The Changrual had counseled her in her grief to look inward and discover her new purpose, what they called her “highest calling”. She had rebuffed them and their counsel, not thinking she had the luxury of such philosophical ponderings. Slowly, however, the question rooted itself within her.
What is my highest calling now?
She could not help but let her mind run freely on the subject during solitary moments such as now.
    Nothing had been taken from her daughter’s room or disturbed in any way. Even the pile of disheveled clothing that Reign refused to properly put away, despite Moira’s constant insistence, seemed sacred now. She took one of Reign’s pillows and hugged it to her chest tightly. They had long ago lost her daughter’s scent, but she inhaled deeply just the same, hoping for any last remaining aroma of her young Reign. Moira’s tears came and flowed downher pale cheeks, wetting the pillow. It was stained with her tears from the many visits.
    “I miss you,” she whispered in a shuddered exhale. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She remained for a few moments longer and prayed that the Ancient Heavens would watch over