Today, I break the silence.
“The specimen,” I say, my voice becoming a low, even monotone that sounds unnaturally loud in the small cell. “I require access to it for observation.”
Her back stiffens. She does not turn to face me, but I see her knuckles go white where she grips the handle of the bucket. “You will stay away from my son.”
“Its health, its unique biological markers, must be documented,” I continue, ignoring her emotional terminology. “It is a necessary step in the research.”
She turns then, and the hatred in her eyes is a pure, hot thing. It should be intimidating. I find it… intriguing. “He is not your research project, you monster. He is a child. You will never touch him.”
She leaves without another word, the slam of the iron door her final statement. A futile gesture. Access to the specimen is not a request; it is an eventuality.
Her refusal, however, proves to be an insignificant obstacle. The specimen is drawn to the anomaly of my presence. A day later, I sense him. A small shape, peeking around the edge of the cell door, which the guard Tarek has left slightly ajar.
He is a puzzle. I observe him as he makes these brief, furtive appearances. The logical part of my assessment is straightforward. I note the faint, silvery luminescence to his eyes in the dim light, a clear Vrakken trait. I observe his speed when he thinks no one is watching, a burst of unnatural quickness as he chases a rat down the corridor. I can feel the low, steady hum of the Purna magic in his blood, a sign of perfect health and vitality. He is a flawless synthesis. The cure seems not only possible, but probable.
But there is other information, illogical and extraneous, that I cannot discard.
I watch as he falls while running, his knee scraping against the stone. The Anomaly rushes to him, her face a mask of concern. He cries, but the moment she gathers him into her arms, the crying ceases. He presses his face into her shoulder, a gesture of complete trust and dependence. She murmures something to him, her hand glowing with a soft, golden light as she places it over his injury. The Purna magic, consciously wielded. Another new development I must account for.
I observe them in the courtyard through the high, barred window of my cell. She is teaching him to track. He laughs, a bright, clear sound that is utterly alien in the landscape of my mind. He exhibits a fierce devotion to her, his gaze constantly seeking her approval. These are behaviors I cannot quantify. Attachment. Affection. Love. They are chaotic variables, useless emotions that serve no logical purpose. They clutter the equation, yet they are central to the specimen’s existence. It is a paradox I have not yet solved.
One evening, he is braver. He approaches the bars of my cell, his small hands gripping the cold iron. He does not speak. He simply watches me with an intense, curious gaze. I remain perfectly still, returning the observation.
After a long moment, he holds up a piece of folded, rough parchment. He pushes it through the bars. It flutters to the floor. He says nothing, then turns and scurries away.
I do not move for a long time. Eventually, I shift my weight, the chains clinking, and lean down to retrieve the offering. I unfold the parchment.
It is a child’s drawing. Crude, rendered in charcoal. A massive figure with black wings and silver hair stands beside a smaller figure with long, golden hair. They are holding hands. The face of the large, winged figure is a simple circle with two dots for eyes. But from the corner of each eye, a single, charcoal line curves downwards. A tear.
I stare at the image. The depiction is obvious. The winged monster with the sad eyes. Me.
A foreign, unwelcome sensation registers in my chest. A pressure. A tightening around my heart that has no logical, physical cause. It is an anomaly in my own body, an emotion I cannot name and do not wish to comprehend. It is a weakness. And it has been sparked by a simple drawing from a creature I am here to dissect.
11
ELZA
Sleep offers no escape. It is a treacherous country, haunted by the memories of the past. I wake in the cold, dark hours before dawn, my body tangled in sweat-drenched sheets, a silent scream trapped in my throat. The nightmare is always the same: a lightless cell, the weight of a god-like body, and the roaring, chaotic storm of his mind violating my own.
I sit up, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. The nightmare fades, but the psychic link remains. It is a constant, low-grade hum at the back of my mind, a phantom cord that connects me to the monster in my dungeon. It whispers to me in my sleep, feeding me echoes of his infuriating, predatory stillness.
I am so tired. The exhaustion is a heavy cloak I cannot shrug off. I am a queen, a leader, a mother. I must be strong. But every moment he is here, chained beneath my feet, he leeches that strength away, drop by precious drop.
The morning brings no relief. After ensuring Lyren is safe in his lessons with Tarek, I make the daily trek to the lower cells. The duty of bringing him food and water is one I have taken upon myself. I cannot ask any of my people to face him. Icannot risk him manipulating one of them. And, if I am honest with myself, I cannot bear the thought of anyone else being in his presence. It is a possessiveness that is ugly and unwanted, another symptom of the poison he left in my soul.
Today, something is wrong. The air in the corridor is tainted with the sharp, coppery scent of fresh blood. My heart begins a low, heavy drum against my ribs.
When Tarek opens the door, I see it. He is chained to the wall as always, perfectly still, but a dark, wet stain mars the shoulder of his simple woolen trousers. It seeps from a ragged gash on his upper thigh, one of the deeper wounds he sustained during his capture. A wound that had been healing.
My gaze snaps to his. His starless eyes are fixed on me, his expression a mask of cold indifference. But I see the faint, almost imperceptible flicker of triumph in their depths.
He did this himself.
I know it with a certainty that makes my stomach clench. He reopened the wound. Deliberately.
I set the water bucket and food bowl down, my movements stiff. “What happened?” The question is a demand, sharp and cold.
His voice is a maddeningly calm rumble. “The dampening magic is impure. It irritates the flesh and inhibits the natural healing process.”
