6. Selis #2
Something tightens in my chest, sharp and hot.
I look away first, disgusted at myself.
The silence that falls between us crackles louder than any fire, sharper than any threat. It's the kind of silence that makes you realize you were listening for something you weren’t ready to hear.
She’s not supposed to have so much fire left. Not supposed to make something in me flood with admiration and hunger in equal measure.
I set my jaw and focus forward, trees thinning ahead—the road visible now, a muddy scar carved between frostbitten hills.
Good.
A faster pace. Fewer shadows to crawl through.
Less time to listen to the sound of my own sanity fraying.
I yank the chain harder.
Naera stumbles forward, still glowing, still breathing, still burning like a star that refuses to go out. Still refusing to fall apart the way she’s supposed to.
And part of me hopes she doesn’t.
** *
We walk the road until the moon slips behind the hills and the stars dull to gray. Dawn claws its way over the treetops by the time I veer off again, leading us into thicker woods.
We need water. I’m running low.
The air sharpens as the terrain dips, and I hear it before I see it: a thin, reluctant trickle winding through a hollow, more ice than flow, barely moving beneath the crust.
We descend into the frostbitten basin, my boots skidding slightly over the half-thawed mud. The stream glitters faintly in the winter starlight, whispering against its banks like it's telling secrets to the moss.
I crouch at the edge, scooping a handful of water to splash over my face. Cold enough to bite. Keeps me sharp. I scoop another handful, taking a sip from my palms.
Behind me, she sways where she stands—chained, pale, glowering. I can feel her eyes pressing into my back like teeth.
"May I drink?" she asks, voice low, strained.
I arch a brow, glancing at her over my shoulder. “I thought you lot didn’t need things like food. Water.”
Her jaw tightens. “My throat burns.”
I pause, just briefly. Her voice isn’t pleading—it’s flat, brittle around the edges, like she’s trying not to cough out dust.
Interesting.
I stand beside her, pulling the cuffs toward me with a short jerk of the chain. Her hands are trembling—faint, involuntary—but she doesn’t try to shy away. Doesn’t flinch. Just tilts her wrists toward me like she’s offering me the bones .
Her skin is cold. Marked. Angry red lines circle both wrists where the metal’s bitten in too long. One of them has started to scab, dried blood catching at the edge.
I don’t like that.
Not because I care. Not really.
But because I need her functional. We still have a small journey until we reach The Garden.
I unclip one of the cuffs with a flick of my wrist, the lock hissing open like it regrets the decision.
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t thank me.
Just cradles her freed wrist with the other, flexing her fingers like she’s making sure they still work.
“You’re not much use to me dead,” I mutter, turning back to the stream. “Drink.”
She hesitates.
And that, more than anything, irritates me.
I straighten slowly, eyes narrowing. “Thinking about running?”
She flinches—barely—but it’s enough.
I grin. Sharp. Wide. “Try it. You won’t get far. And I might enjoy the hunt.”
She says nothing. Just lowers her gaze to the stream.
“That’s what I thought.” I lean in a little, voice dropping to a mock-gentle murmur. “Drink the water. Be a good girl, starlight.”
Slowly—painfully, pride bleeding out of every stiff movement—she kneels beside the stream. Her fingers are clumsy with cold as she cups the water, lifting it to her mouth.
She drinks, slow, careful, like every swallow costs her something .
I crouch beside her again, watching.
Close.
Closer.
Her mouth is pink from cold, her lashes damp. Her glow is fainter here, like the frost itself is trying to snuff her out.
“See?” I purr. “Wasn’t so hard. Obedience looks good on you.”
She doesn’t look at me. But her voice cuts through the cold, low, when she says, “Pity you don’t know what anything good looks like anymore.”
The words slice cleaner than any blade.
I blink once. Just once.
It’s a tiny crack in my amusement—a hairline fracture running through my grin—but it’s there.
She watches me over the rim of her hands, water trailing down her wrists in pale rivulets. Her eyes are steady. Not triumphant. Not smug. Just... sad. Like she’s already looked inside me, seen the rot in the foundation, and decided I wasn’t worth hating properly.
The fire in my chest snarls. Ugly. Wild. Starved. I move before I can think.
My hand snaps out and grabs the back of her neck—not gently. Like she’s some disobedient pup. I drag her forward.
She gasps, but doesn’t fight.
Her knees scrape the earth as I yank her close—close enough to count the flecks of silver in her pale blue irises, close enough to taste the winter still clinging to her breath.
"Careful," I say, voice low and lethal. "You keep talking like that, and someone might start thinking you’ve got something worth bleeding for."
Her breath hitches, but not with fear. With something closer to defiance .
She doesn't look away.
Doesn’t flinch.
She meets me there—in the space between violence and something far, far worse.
I hold her gaze longer than I should. Long enough that it costs me something to break it. Her skin is warm beneath my palm, softer than it should be. My grip tightens before I realize it.
Then I shove her back, releasing her before she can see anything human clawing through my face.
"Get up," I say, harsher than intended. "We’re moving."
The stream gurgles behind us, slow and cold and uncaring.
Naera rises without a sound. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t glare.
Which somehow stings worse.
I grab her arm, snapping the cuffs back into place around her wrists with quick, practiced efficiency. She doesn't resist. Just holds still and silence, the metal biting back into her skin like it belongs there.
I haul her up the slope, back toward the road. The chain bites between us, linking my rage to her silence like a leash braided out of thorns.
The woods yawn wider around us, cold and endless.
And still— still —her words keep bleeding under my skin like a second heartbeat.
Pity you don’t know what anything good looks like anymore.
I grit my teeth. Shake it off. Keep walking.
I’ve heard worse. Done worse.
But that soft, mournful tone in her voice—that quiet, aching grief when she said it?
That’s the part I can’t seem to shake.
I’m not sure why she got under my skin like she did.
That’s the worst part.