I remain at the table, reviewing documents I have already memorized, long after my council disperses and the war room empties.
Even when her presence presses at the edge of my thoughts like a splinter beneath skin.
When I finally leave, I head straight to my quarters. A deliberate choice. A test of restraint to deny myself any information about how she’s faring in her cell.
But my sleep is fitful. Each time I close my eyes, I see white hair against dark earth. Defiant light eyes laced with murderous intent. Hell’s gates. At times, I swear I can feel the haunting weight of her in my arms.
In the early hours of dawn, I use supply and inventory lists of the armory to keep my mind focused on important matters. But as soon as the sun fully breaks through the curtains of my office, I’m out of patience.
I descend to the dungeon.
The guard assigned to her straightens the moment I appear.
“How is she?” I ask. “Anything of note?”
Micah gives a quick shake of his head. “She hasn’t stirred much at all except to use the bathroom. Hasn’t touched the food I left for her. Or the bed. From what I’ve seen, if she rested at all, it was while sitting up.”
Agitation begins to crawl along my skin.
“She slept on the floor?” I tap the toe of my boot against the stone. The sound echoes faintly. Even through leather, the cold seeps up. Down here, it would chill a person to the bone.
“Yes, sir.”
“Wasn’t the bedding replaced?”
“It was.”
“And she didn’t touch it or the food?”
He shrugs, uneasy. “She likely thought it might be drugged or poisoned. Other prisoners have done the same.”
“What about the water?”
“Untouched.”
My mouth sets into a hard line. I raise a hand, cutting off any further explanation, and stride down the corridor toward the final cell.
As I draw nearer, I let my thoughts brush against hers.
Why must you be so difficult, Little One?
Outwardly, there’s no visible reaction. Her eyes remain closed. She sits in the far corner with her knees drawn tightly to her chest, cloak wrapped around her as though she could disappear into it. Though the cell has been scrubbed, the smell still lingers—damp stone, mildew, and waste.
Thankfully, I have a strong stomach.
But I do not care for the thought that she has endured it for nearly twelve hours.
I drag my knuckles along the iron bars. The ring given to me by my maker scrapes across the metal, leaving behind a scratch mark. The sound grates.
Her eyelids flutter open.
In the dimness, her eyes catch the light and return it—too bright for this place. Offset by the darkness surrounding her. She looks cold. Her skin has gone pale to the point of translucence. Her lips are tinged faintly blue, and there’s a hint of frost on her breath as it leaves her lips.
My gaze shifts to the bed and the mound of blankets there.
Stubborn, pitiful creature. Why suffer when there’s no need?
Get out of my head.
