The door slams shut.
I stare at the charcoal stylus.It’s smokiness fills my nose, reminding me of home.Of comfort.Of Sylas.
Make do.
The walls gleam around me—white, pristine and unmarked.
I can’t wait to stain them.
* * *
I lose track of time.
The charcoal moves of its own accord, my hands frantically following the rhythm humming in my head—the map, the woman, the shadows, the crescent.I have to get it all down.I have to understand.
Black lines slither across the surfaces, venomous strokes coiling over the white and gold room.The room resists me—the light pushing back against every mark—but the charcoal obeys.
The woman’s eyes come first: dark and endless, smoke bleeding from the edges.Then her hair: smudged charcoal forming the pale, golden locks that float on a ghostly wind.
My shadows, drawn with trembling hands, pace the length of my legs.They coil with tension—or excitement; it’s hard to tell.
A final stroke, and I stop, gasping for air.
The room feels smaller now, as if it's breathing with me.Charcoal dust fills the cracks of my skin.I look down at my hands; black smudges mark the manacles.Dark against gold.My stain is everywhere and I can’t help the shadow of a smile that plays across my lips.
Focusing on the dull edge of the coal, Kael’s voice echoes in my mind:You are protected.
Like a defiant child, I place the end to my wrist, just beneath the manacle.I slice with force, but nothing happens.My skin doesn’t break.No marks form whatsoever.
Without thought, I thrust the edge into my neck, bracing for pain.But again, nothing happens.Again and again I try.But nothing.An invisible barrier prevents me from breaking out of this perfectly pristine hell hole.
A painful stillness fills the silence, holding the screams of my frustration at bay.
Kael’s voice reverberates through my mind again:Wash.
I hate that I obey him, but I do.
The bathroom is just as lavish as the bedroom—white marble, gold fixtures, a claw-footed tub gleaming beneath soft light.It’s obscene.All of it.The kind of room designed to make a person forget they were ever dirty.
Black smudges the porcelain as I turn the taps.The scent of honeysuckle fills the air—sickly and thick.Bubbles foam where the stream hits the water, and the corner of my mouth lifts at the memory of Sylas and me sharing our weekly soak when we were young.The pit inside me opens wider at the realisation: all I have left of him are the memories we once shared.
The tub fills quickly.I strip away my filthy clothes, my skin shivering against the cool night air.
I sink beneath the surface.The heat bites before it yields, my muscles melting as years of tension finally release.The water clouds to a murky grey, streaked with charcoal and the remnants of home.
I lean back against the porcelain and close my eyes.The visions return—the woman, the promise.
“Free,” I whisper.The word tastes sour in the empty room.
My gaze drifts to the ceiling.A chandelier hangs above me, its crystal strands shimmering in the lamplight and fracturing in the air into expensive, heavy colours.Even the light here feels wrong.My stomach twists at the thought of this opulence—the way they bathe in gold while my people rot in the dirt.
I sink lower, hoping the water will drown the thoughts.I let it rise until only my nose breaks the surface, muffling the world until the only sound is the rhythmic thud of my heart.
And in the quiet, a memory surfaces.
* * *
When I was little,shadows used to play with me.
