I coax the flames to life with the poker, watching their shadows dance across the walls.The water boils in the blackened pot hanging above; trickles form as the tonic’s oils spread, releasing small rainbows of light from their surface.
A tug forms at my spine, breaking my gaze.My shadows stretch long and restless across the wall; the further they go, the deeper the pull.
In the safety of our home, they don’t follow me.Instead, they move on their own, shivering across the floorboards, curling around Syla’s bed as if curious…or protective.Sylas barely stirs, he’s grown accustomed to them over the years.
I freeze as a tendril caresses his cheek.“Come,” I whisper.
The shadow stills, as if listening to my command, before it retreats, slow as smoke, back to my feet.
“How’s your day been?”Sylas croaks.
I clear my throat, my hand tracing idle circles as I stir the tonic in the pot.“Usual.How are you feeling?”
“Usual,” he rasps, smirking faintly at his own mimicry.
I move from the hearth to sit on the edge of the bed.My pale fingers trace his hairline, plucking a stray black hair from his sweat-slick brow.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I murmur, though my thoughts know otherwise.
“We both know that’s a lie.I’ll end up the same way as Da.”My face tightens before I can stop it, the sadness is old, older than I care to admit—like a bruise that never heals.
Not the kind of sorrow you ask anyone to fix.I stopped expecting that a long time ago.
“Let’s hope not too soon, ey?”I feign a smile, hoping my carefree words will make him feel at ease.
His lips purse as his body fights for a smile, his eyes flutter and close, like even that small effort costs too much.
“Let me finish your tonic,” I say softly, my hand stroking his face the same way Da would do.“Then you can rest.”
* * *
With Sylas dozingin a medicated sleep, I sit by the window.Calling it a window is generous, as it’s just a hole with a wooden shutter I keep closed for privacy.Now I push it open to let in the cool, musty breath of night.
I stare up to the ceiling of black, my mind conjuring up images of our Great Pale Mother’s rays shining down on my skin.The old tales say our power is strongest when she shines upon us; a strength I long to feel.
It’s been so long since the war, that our Divine Mother’s power dwindles as quickly as life with the rot.Her shadow-mark rarely appears on her acolytes, and the unlucky few blessed with one are turned in as quick as they can say ‘by the mother’s veil.’
The market noise has dulled, its clamor barely audible this far from the city.But the faint patter of footsteps and hushed voices slice through the quiet.
I lean out of the window just enough to see a cluster of cloaked figures disappearing into an alleyway.No one runs like that in the Hollow unless they’re running away from something, or hiding a secret.
Yara’s words echo in the corners of my mind:You should come, it’s the Veil Rite.
Another figure slips through the shadows, following the others.Hoods are drawn low, hands hidden.All discernable features obscured from overly curious neighbours.
I squint, trying to catch a face, but they vanish as quickly as they came.
Then something sharp tugs at my spine.The shadow slides forward, stretching toward the window, as a loose tendril hangs free, tasting the air.
It pulls at the space it occupies in my body, tugging at my muscles like it compels me to follow.
No.I demand, forcing the words through the silent language we share.
The wisp of shadow recoils as the shutter creaks drawing to a close.But my hands linger on the grain, my knuckles whitening from fighting against the internal tug of war.The actions speaking my true thoughts.
Not yet.Not tonight.
I turn back to Sylas.His breathing is soft, and steady, the rattle in his chest from the rot clawing its way further into his lungs, occupies the silent tears that streak the walls.But my shadow hasn’t come back to my feet, it waits in the corner, watching.On the damp stone beside it, a shape bleeds into being—a crescent, black and slick, where no hand has touched.
