Light in the upper halls softens into pink and orange hues, glass prisms scattering pastel shades across the marble until the air itself feels gilded.My boots click against the stone; it feels like walking inside a reliquary that has long since lost its god.
Riven’s door waits at the end of the hall, flanked by two sentries in mirror-bright armour.They step aside without a word.
Inside, he’s pouring wine again.The scent—sweet and heady—mixes with the ever-present cloy of honeysuckle oil.
“Kael,” he says, not looking up.“You have something to report?”
“She’s stable.Eating.Resting.”
He takes a sip, a slick of red coating his upper lip.“Anything else?”he asks, peering over the rim of his goblet before downing another mouthful.
“She’s been drawing.”
He raises a brow.“Drawing?”
“Covering the walls with murals.Maps, crescents, faces.”I hesitate.“They look… specific.”
“Specific how?”
“Like memories.”
Riven sets down the decanter and wipes his fingers on a cloth.“And where did she find the tools for such…artistry?”He raises an eyebrow in a sharp, silent question.
“She asked for something to draw with.I gave her charcoal.Nothing else.”
He stares, eyes fixed on me, pressing for the truth I’m withholding.I offer nothing in return.Grabbing his goblet, he takes another heavy swallow, leaving only a dark, red dreg at the bottom.
“Artistry from a monster.How…quaint.”
“She’s no artist,” I say.‘It’s something else.”
His eyes glint like cut steel.“Tomorrow she will be examined.I want to see what the shadows have made of her.”His mouth twitches at the corner, exposing his red-stained teeth in a predatorial smile.
Examined.The word curdles in my gut.I know his examinations.
He steps around the desk, close enough for me to smell the sour tang of wine on his breath.“You will bring her to me at first light.We’ll see if the legends are true—if the Vessel carries her god within the flesh.”
I say nothing, but the crawling beneath my skin sets my teeth on edge.
His hand gestures vaguely, as if shaping invisible curves.“There are…marks…I must confirm.”
My features betray me, my lip curling in a distaste I can’t hide.
“She’s still a person,” I say, forcing the words through gritted teeth.“Not a specimen.”
He laughs softly.“Everything is a specimen, Kael.Even you.”
Power surges in my chest.I bite back a retort I want to unleash.Instead, I bow just low enough to satisfy him and turn for the door.
His voice follows, smooth as oil.“Be sure she’s clean.”
I storm past the guards, my cloak riding the whirlwind of anger that follows.
* * *
My library waitsin a quiet corner of the east wing, tucked behind corridors no one uses anymore.The guards call it the Archive of Dust—a nod to the lack of hands that touch the scrolls within.
It’s become my solitude, a place for the introspection I crave when my superiors feel like a lingering presence that never fully retreats.
