Page 17 of Enslak

But something was different.

The scent.

Not Zarlak. Not the stink of rot and waste and hatred. This was something else. My nose twitched, pulling in air, trying to make sense of what my broken mind couldn't process.

Flowers.

The word surfaced from somewhere deep. Somewhere I could barely reach anymore. A memory of something green and growing. Something from before the pits. Before the collar. Before everything became blood and pain and fight-sleep-fight-sleep-fight.

Flowers.

And underneath—something else. A sweetness that made my chest feel strange. Made the constant tension in my muscles ease just a little.

Female.

The knowledge came without thought. Without words. Just instinct. Recognition of something my body understood even when my mind couldn't hold the concept long enough to name it.

I stood in the center of the cell, blood dripping from wounds I'd taken in the arena. Couldn't remember what I'd fought. Something big. Something with teeth.

Did I win?

Must have. I was here. It wasn't.

The figure that entered wore Zarlak's shape. Zarlak's face.

But everything else was wrong.

The movements looked the same but felt different. Softer. Careful instead of careless. And that scent. That impossible scent that made something in my chest unclench. Made the fog in my head thin just enough that I could almost think clearly.

I watched as not-Zarlak approached and waved the guards away. Waited for the hose. For the cold water that would blast away blood and gore. That would make my wounds scream.

It didn't come.

Instead, not-Zarlak reached for something else.

A cloth. Soft. Clean.

The first touch made me flinch.

Not from pain.

From shock.

The touch was gentle.

I didn't understand. Couldn't process it. My mind tried to categorize the sensation and failed. Nothing in my existence had prepared me for gentleness. For care.

The cloth moved across my shoulder, wiping away blood. The pressure was light. Careful around the deep gash where something's claw had caught me.

My breathing slowed. The constant readiness to fight, to defend, to survive eased. Just a fraction. Just enough that I could feel how tired I was. How much everything hurt.

Not-Zarlak moved around me, the cloth never stopping. Never rough. Wiping away the evidence of the arena. Tending to wounds that usually went ignored until they healed on their own.

Or killed me.

I stood very still, afraid that if I moved, this strange dream would shatter. The real Zarlak would return with his hose and his hatred.

Then not-Zarlak did something that made my world tilt sideways.