The scent of hot food stirs a hollow growl within me.My stomach complains, bitter and aching for a taste of something—anything—other than potatocake.I cave, rising to my knees and shuffling to the nightstand.I snatch the warm bread, dipping it into the oil-slick broth.
A cough snaps me out of my hunger.I turn, broth dribbling down my chin, to find her staring.The white sclera of her eyes widens.She jolts, the mere sight of me turning her into a frightened rabbit, scurrying for the door.
“Wait!My voice cracks, crumbs spilling down my chest.“Please.”
She freezes, her back to me, as if a single glance my way will condemn her to the depths of hell.
“I need…something.”I say, wiping the remnant of broth from my face.“...to draw with.”
Slowly, she turns, a deep crease forming as her brow creases.Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
“When I’m…anxious, I like to draw.”I pick at the remaining bread, watching crumbs fall into my lap.
The girl’s silver-moon eyes dart back and forth, searching for an answer she isn’t authorised to give.Without a word, she bows her head and rushes out, the door closing behind her with a heavy click.
The scent of warm bread and meaty broth makes my mouth water.I don’t wait for her to return; instead I turn back to the tray and devour everything in sight.
My reflection ripples in the grease lining the bowl.I stare, waiting for my image to shift the same way it did in the mirror back in the Hollow—but it doesn’t.The image staring back at me doesn’t just show my face—it shows what I’ve already become.And the thing that scares me the most—I don’t know who or what that is.
A lock clicks.The door opens once again.
But it isn’t the girl.It’shim.
Kael.
His cloak hangs open, the sharp grey uniform beneath freshly pressed—devoid of wrinkles or originality.Our journey through the underbelly of Auria leaves no trace, as if it never even happened.Runes etched into his dark leather belt glint softly, as if repelled by the darkness within me.
He stands, arms crossed over his chest as he looks down at his nose to where I still sit.
“You want to draw?”His voice is laced with sarcasm.“That’s your request?”
The map pulses harder, sending a spike of pain through my eye sockets.I wince and nod, a flush of heat spreading over my cheeks
“My hands—” I glance down at my fingers, picking the edges of the cuticles until a small spot of crimson blooms on my thumb.I lift my chin, watching the muscle in his jaw flex.For a second, I see it: a quick tightening around his eyes, a small fissure in his brow.Then it’s gone, vanishing behind a mask of indifference.
Concern?No.It can’t be.
“—it helps…when I’m anxious.”I whisper.The food curdles in my stomach at the thought of begging, but my hands itch for something to do—some way to bleed these thoughts out of my head.
My shoulders hunch as my chest caves, the marble biting into my knees as he towers above me.I turn away, back to the empty bowl, afraid to see the answer on his face.
“You think I’ll hand you parchment and ink to sketch your pretty little drawings?”He steps closer, boots silent against the rug.“No.But you’ll have your charcoal.”
My head snaps up.The corner of his mouth curls as he pulls a short stick of blackened wood from inside his cloak and flicks it onto the floor.It lands with a sharp click, settling between us.Both of our gazes fix firmly on the stylus at my knees.The tension in the room is deafening—a wire stretching between us, waiting for one of us to snap.
My fingers twitch.A crazed, jittery motion overtakes me as I inch towards the wood—a puppet’s dance controlled by the gnawing creature in my core.I stop, my hand curling back as his silver eyes burn into me.Watching.
“You know what I could do with this.”A smirk threatens the corners of my mouth.
Just as he’s about to turn, he pauses.“Yes.Believe me, although we have just met, I’m well aware of what your kind are capable of.”
“And yet,” I say, my gaze dropping to the blackened wood, “you still give it to me?”
His mouth curves.“Make do,” he says, a thread of wickedness curling in his tone.“If it’ssoimportant to you.”
He turns on his heel, the silver links at his side rattling like a slow-moving river.At the door, he pauses and glances back.“Oh, and Seren—” The way my name stretches on his tongue causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand.“Let those thoughts convince you to end it all you want.You’ll never succeed, no matter how hard you try.”
He nods to the manacles, then to the runes lining the ceiling.“You aren’t our first, and most definitely won’t be our last.Both you and this room are protected.No harm can be done while you’re stuck in here.”His sneer is a dangerous promise—one that hints at ancient secrets and casual cruelty.
