As soon as the door shuts, my mood darkens. The tears I choked back minutes ago threaten to return, as do the thoughts of last night's nightmares. Memories of blood and bullets beat against a barred door deep inside my mind, trying desperately to break free. I push them back with force.

         It's only a few hours, I tell myself. She'll be back in five hours. You can get through that, easy.

         But five hours isn't always five hours, I've learned. Isolation has a way of playing tricks on you. Time slows down and speeds up at odd intervals, so days might last for months, or nights for years. A second might seem slower and thicker than honey dripping off of a spoon.

         Time might've been moving normally a few minutes ago, but now that Halima's gone, it's all but stopped. Each second hesitates before letting the next have its turn. The present seems to swallow the future. Those five hours, just five hours could contain an eternity.

         I sigh, sitting down in the chair near my bookcase. It's not just the room that's trapped me, I realize, but time itself. I'm both physically and temporally confined, and there's nothing I can do about it.

         I can't break out of this damned room; I've tried, and tried, and each time the guards caught me before I made it halfway down the hall. And I can't make time speed up; I try to distract myself with books, with playing word games, even with counting the cracks in the ceiling, but there's still always too much of it between waking up and sleeping.  Too much time when I'm alone with my memories.

         She's coming back, don't worry, I tell myself, trying to soothe the anxiety swirling inside of me. Only five hours, then you'll see her again.

         I almost laugh at how desperately I cling to Halima's visits each day. Just half an hour of chatter with a child, and I await her like a starving man awaits food, counting down the minutes.

         But I can't help it. Halima might've been just my maid before, but she's become my lifeline. When she's here, I remember how to smile. I feel human again. She brings food, and conversation, and a steadying sliver of normalcy.

         It never lasts, though. Already I feel that sliver slipping away.

         The room is empty, but my mind starts to fill it in. My eyes linger in the shadowed corners, waiting for movement. I see something something flicker in my peripheral vision and turn a bit too sharply, when I know it's just the curtain billowing in the wind.  

         Someone is watching you, my fearful mind tries to convince me. Someone is watching you somehow. They probably have a gun. You should get away from the window so they don't have a clear shot. You should get under the bed, it's safer under there-

         I take a deep breath, trying to stop my panicked thoughts from building more momentum. In through the nose, out through the mouth, like Shira taught me when we were young. Your heart is racing because it's getting ready to fight. But there's nothing here to fight, no danger. Relax now. No one's watching.

         I sink into the chair, relaxing the tension in my muscles. Of course there's nothing there. The stone walls are several feet thick, the door is shut, and I'm far enough from the window that even if someone was able to climb the three stories to look in, they wouldn't see me.

         Yet I can't entirely shake the feeling I'm being observed.

         Maybe it's the Eye of the Goddess, I think sardonically, come to watch over me.

         The priestesses told us growing up that if we had faith, we'd never be alone. We were Amarins, after all, chosen of the Goddess, and she would watch protect us. I almost laugh, thinking of how that turned out.

          If the Goddess is real, if she's watching, it's not as a protective mother. She's an impartial observer at best.

         I wonder what an impartial observer, goddess or otherwise, would see right now. If they just looked in the window, knowing nothing of Shikkah or the Dimaraste and their murder, what would they think?

         They would be confused, I decide quickly, by a small girl with unbrushed hair and a face faded by weeks of disturbed sleep. Her eyes would be bloodshot from crying and her skin pale as death from lack of sunlight. They might mistake her for a prisoner if she wasn't dressed in

bright red silk.

         How absurd, I think. A ghost dressed for a party.

          I know Halima was just trying to cheer me up by putting me into something beautiful and bright. And the bit of routine did help; having her lay out my clothes and style my hair felt like a bit of civilization reaching out to me from across the void. But no amount of nice clothing can make me forget the hollow feeling inside of me. Pretty fabric can't keep Shira safe, and embellishments won't stop me from seeing their bodies every time I close my eyes.

         It's the same with the rest of the room: I have running water, and a comfortable bed, and a bookshelf filled with bound vellum, but none of that mitigates the fact that I'm a prisoner in my own home.

         Sometimes I wish I was just chained up in a dirt hut; at least it would be more honest. Living in the same room as before the massacre, wearing the same clothes, makes me feel like I'm impersonating myself. And doing a horrible job at it; I'm not the same person anymore. I can't wear her skin.

         I sigh and let my hair down, tugging out the braids. Then I strip off the red tunic and change into a white shift and loose cotton pants, utilitarian clothing my mother and aunts never approved of me wearing. Still well-made, but not embellished to show my wealth or rank.

         I stare down at the red tunic lying crumpled on my bed. It reminds me of the beetle shells I'd find littering the palace halls during summer. The beetles would come to the mouth if the river, swarm, mate, and die, leaving their discarded rainbow husks to blow around Arzsa for months afterwards. They were beautiful, but they still represented a death.

         I touch the fabric and think of my nineteenth birthing day again. That night feels like a lifetime ago, but if I close my eyes, I can almost feel Shira's breath against my cheek. I can almost feel his hand on my back as we spin in endless circles amongst the roses and desert lilies.

         He stayed with me long after all the rest of the family had retired to bed, and we sat on top of the parapets and watched the sun rise over the dunes. It reflected red and gold, light glinting off miniscule particles of mica so the sand shined metallic. I fell asleep leaning against his shoulder.

         The memory evaporates as quickly as it appeared, leaving me cold, clutching the tunic like it might take me back to a time when I felt whole. But that night under the stars suddenly feels irretrievably far away. And Shira- Shira feels the farthest of all.  

         I grip the fabric in my hands tighter. What if I never see him again? What will I do if he really is dead, and I have to live the rest of my life without him? How can I imagine a future where I never hear him laugh, or stand by his side, or see his eyes crinkle when he smiles? I feel myself begin to shake slightly, my muscles tensing.

         What if he was shot down by a madman and died alone?

         I lean forward, steadying myself against the bed. A small sob escapes.

         I can picture it so clearly in my mind: Shira, still wearing his beautiful silver tunic, lying dead in a ditch. Mud coating his white-blond hair, brown eyes gone glassy. His skin the color of ash.

         I feel the weight of my failure hanging above me like a sword ready to fall. I almost wish it would; I can hardly stand the waiting. The stasis. Goddess, maybe I deserve for it to fall. I should've known better. I could have stopped this. I was stupid and blind and trusting, and because of it I'm locked here in this little microcosm, with no way of knowing if the last person I love is even alive.

         I honestly don't know if I can survive without him. I don't know if I want to.

         I bite my lip, hard, willing the pain to chase the thought from my mind. I can't afford to think this way. I have only a little stability, a wisp of a thing, and I can't afford to let it go. I need to keep my wits about me.

         Why? A sarcastic voice inside my head asks. What's the point, Izsaiki? Your people are murdered, your Izsai is dead or fled, and you're locked in a heavily guarded palace. It's all over now, can't you see that?

         "No." I whisper to myself, tasting tears on my tongue. Then I say it louder, my voice shattering the stillness of the room. "No. It's not. It's not over, I'm not dead."

         Yet.

         "Shit." I groan, closing my eyes and trying to push the darkness from my head. It clings to me like a bur, sapping me, making me want to lie on the floor and never get up.

         "Zsavina." I hear myself say. "If you're watching, if you're even real, please keep him safe. Just keep him safe. It's the least you can do, after what's happened. You were- you were supposed to protect us."

         You were supposed to protect us... even to my own ears, I sound like a child. A lost, scared little girl talking to the air like it might respond.

         I straighten up and wipe my eyes, then release my death grip on the tunic. What am I doing? When did I become so- so pathetic?

         I shake my head. I'm not letting myself fall apart again. Not like that first week. I need to stop thinking; I need a distraction. So I do what I've always done when my mind starts fighting me; I turn to my body.

         The drills Arn D'Verin first taught me ten years ago are grueling. Push ups, curls, chin-ups using the canopy rail of my bed, short sprints from one side of the room to the other until I'm covered in sweat and panting. I don't have my knife to practice with, much less a sword, but I imagine I do and practice my footwork. Then I run through the drills again, adding in additional exercises to work every muscle in my arms, my legs, my core.

         The entire time I hear shouting in my ear: 'faster girl, come on now, you won't get away from anyone if you don't run faster! You call that a push-up? Straighten your back! You want to be a fighter, well then, do fifteen more. You're small, you've got to work harder to compensate for that. You hurt? Good! Use that pain, channel it- that's what'll keep you alive in a fight. Feel the pain, acknowledge it, and push through.'

         I end up lying on the floor, breathing so hard I fear I'm going to faint. My body is in incredible pain, but my mind is blissfully empty. I feel nothing but the sweat cooling on my skin.