I should be mad at them, for what they did to him.But they’re all I have left.
The shadows snap at my heels at the muffled sound of boots scuffing and voices closing in.
Yara steps through the threshold, flanked by two Scavengers.The scent of smoke and decay rolls off them, swamping the room.Their long grey coats and matching masks make my stomach drop; it feels like only yesterday they came to carry Da away, only never to see him again.
They take in the scene with a cold, practiced eye—they’ve seen too many bodies to feign surprise.
“Name?”one asks, his tone a flat line—either bored or numb, it’s hard to tell.
“Sylas Thorne,” Yara says for me.
“Cause?”
My fingers knot restlessly into the hem of my coat as I avert my gaze, desperate to be invisible.
“Black rot,” she answers, the words feeling like a bittersweet mercy and a stinking lie all at once.
They exchange a look that screamsof course, and set about their work.Stretcher, sheet, and hands that grab with a clinical familiarity–whether it’s cruel or gentle, I’m unsure.
When the white sheet erases his face, my knees try to give, but the shadows possessively brace around my legs, forcing them to lock.I’ve got to be strong.Sylas always said I was, even if I’ve never felt less like myself than I do now.
Heading out the door, the Scavs pause.One of them turns in my direction, a vein bulging in his temple from the dead weight he has to carry.Sylas’ weight.
“He’ll be burnt before nightfall,” he says, the words falling from his mouth like a dull recipe.
A curt nod sends them through the threshold, their grunts fading into the street as the door clicks shut.Yara turns to me, thin strands of grey hair masking her eyes in the draft they left behind.
“You can’t stay, child.”
I open my mouth to protest, but the words die in my throat.A small, desperate part of me wants to cling to her, to the only warmth left in this world.But another part—the one carved out by the Hollow—forces a slow, defeated shake of my head.
“I need to be here,” I say, the words cracked and hoarse as I look to Sylas’ empty bed.“Just for a while.”
Her face is a mask of concentration.Her filmed blue eyes are fixed on me, but she isn’tlooking; she’s sensing, tracing the barbed edges of my presence in her mind’s eye.She nods once, her feet skimming the floorboards as she draws closer.Her hand finds my cheek, and a crease forms between her brows as if she can feel the guilt I’m carrying.
“Grab some things and go, girl.Don’t stay long.”
I nod as she pulls her hand away and retreats to the door.I turn back to the bed, the hollow in the mattress a stark, brutal reality I can’t outrun.
“Seren…” she says, her filmed eyes finding mine with a sudden, sharp clarity.“Whatever they say about the old gods…remember this: fear is a tool.Make sure you’re the one holding the hilt—not the blade.”
Before I can process the warning, she speaks again.“And Seren…take the bag.”
My head swivels toward her, but my shadows are faster—they coil toward the foot of Sylas’ bed where the satchel sits.I look up to ask why, but she’s already vanished into the gloom of the streets.
A cold, heavy silence seeps into the void she left behind.Just like that, I’m alone.The brief respite—the flickering hope of having someone in my corner—evaporates like mist.
A sick dread coils in my gut as the reality of my situation slams home.I grab the bag, the soft cloth a ghostly link to the safety she represents, but the sting of abandonment is sharp and immediate.I need to move, yet my limbs are leaden and disobedient.
My hands ache to do something—anything to avoid the sight of Sylas’ empty bed.I scramble through my satchel until my fingers find the reassuring texture of smooth, thick paper.The charcoal stylus is my only sanctuary, the only way I know how to bleed out what I’ve lost.I sink into the mattress, finally buckling under the weight of it all.
The coils within snarl through the cushioning, recoiling in response to my weight.I don’t deserve this comfort—not after what I’ve done.
The floorboards bite through my coat as I slump from the edge of the mattress, my sketchbook landing with a heavy thud in my lap.My fingers throb for the feel of charcoal against paper.I have to quiet the shards of broken glass rattling behind my ribs, every jagged edge desperate to tear through my skin.
At this moment, I don’t care who is hunting me.I only want to sit in the space Sylas left behind—to prove he existed before the world washes him away.I am the sole architect of this void, and the silence in this room screams my name.
The charcoal stains my fingers as I draw without thought, my despair bleeding onto the page.Lines find each other, morphing into a ghost I know too well.
