My skin is pale and sallow—almost translucent in the brightness.Years without sunlight have turned it thin and uneven; a patchwork of shadow and ash.My eyes, once dark and sharp, are already clouding, greying at the edges like storm smoke.My black hair hangs in brittle strands, coarse and lifeless.I lift a lock between my fingers and it snaps at the touch.
No wonder Yara found it easy to take a piece of me.But why?Why did she want it?
The hollows of my cheeks catch the light, the bones beneath pressing too close, turning my features severe.Food was never the priority.Sylas was.The tonic was.Hunger was just background noise.
I wipe a hand over my face and pause, noticing my nails properly in this harsh light.They are lined with years of dirt that even last night’s wash couldn’t lift.It’s my only proof that I was real once—that I belonged to a world of soot and soil and survival.
No smirk greets me in the reflection.No movement that isn’t mine.This is me.As I’ve never seen myself before.
I turn on the tap, water pools in my palms before I splash it over my face, waiting for the sting to turn numb.The trickling sound of water fills my ears until a knock at the door breaks the spell.My shadows jerk in response.
The maid from last night enters, carrying a tray and a bundle of folded clothes.As she looks up, her gaze hits the walls.
She stops dead.Her jaw drops, her breath catching as her eyes trace the drawings staring back at her—the woman, the shadows, the crescent—all crawling across the once-white stone.She makes a tiny, warding motion over her chest before lowering the tray to the table and setting the clothes on the bed.
The room is silent, but my head is a cacophony of imagined whispers, scrutinizing my every move.Heat flushes my neck.I shrink behind the washroom door, suddenly aware of how exposed I am—both mind and body.The voices and images were too much to bear; now, I feel like a fool for allowing the monster within to paint its confessions so visibly.
The girl clears her throat, breaking the quiet: “Fresh garments,” she says, her voice trembling.“And food.”
I watch her retreat through a crack in the door frame, mumbling a curt thanks.The door clicks shut with a speed that smells of fear.
For a long time, I just stand there, head tilted back against the frame, staring at the fractured glass glittering in the chandelier.I’ve given them proof.Black on white.Exactly what they came for.
A monster worth burning?Worth ending?
I don’t think I am.But who knows anymore.
I walk over to the bed, where the clothes lie in an orderly, accusing pile.I unfold a heavy jumpsuit made of coarse, institutional grey—the kind of fabric designed to make a girl like me stand out against their sea of cream and gold.
My nose wrinkles and a muscle twitches in my cheek as I clench my teeth.
This room—the luxuries, the hollow normalcy of it all—cannot hide the truth: I am their prisoner.A specimen to be subjected to abject horror, all to confirm their suspicion that I am a monster.But how much of a monster am I?
I close my eyes.The map etched into my vision reminds me of the only thing that matters: Freedom.
She—whoever she is—won’t let it get that far.She promised.
The crescent at my neck warms in response.I close my hand around it, using the heat to power me through whatever comes next.
The Hollow was my blacksmith.It threw me into the furnace of the wastes only to beat me into steel.I will not be defined by this prison, but by my escape.
When I open my eyes, my vision is sharper—a pool of still, clear resolve that refuses to waver.
A soft, weary gust of air fills the silence as I release a slow, heavy breath.My shoulders slump, yielding to a defeat I must now inhabit.The grey jumpsuit’s rough fabric scratches against my skin, hanging like a sack—a shapeless testament to mass production.
I wonder how many others have worn this before me?
Steam from the broth curls in the light.The meaty scent awakens my senses, and I devour it as I did the night before.My attention returns to the markings on the walls.
They are worse in daylight.The woman’s eyes follow me, persistent, silent observers.I try to piece it all together, but though every line seems connected, the meaning slips through my fingers like blood.
I don’t know how long I sit here.In Auria, time moves by bells, not by hunger.Another din rings out, and I cast my gaze to the window, looking out at the city sprawled below.
I walk over, fingers tracing the edges of the pane in search of a lock, but they are sealed shut.I lean my head against the glass, watching my breath fog the surface, blurring the bright lights into a dull glow.
It looks peaceful.Perfect.And I hate it.
The sun slips behind a spire, painting the city in a muted gold.Shadows at my feet stir restlessly, and that’s when I hear the lock click.
