Chapter 65
Xyliria had found the weak point, the fracture in my resolve, and she pressed against it again and again and again.
Every day, she put me in front of her. Every day, she made me choose.
Choose who to save.
Choose who to kill.
And every day, I did it.
One day, it was Fenric or a middle-aged fae woman, her dark hair streaked with silver, her face lined with years of wisdom and love. She trembled as she stumbled before me, her wide eyes darting around the room.
“My wife,” her voice broke as she raised her hands in a feeble attempt at defence. “She’ll be worried… waiting for me.”
Her words faltered as I moved, her instincts taking over despite the ache in my soul. It was quick. But the memory twisted my heart.
Another time, it was Brynelle or an elder fae male, his face weathered but serene as he knelt. His gaze met mine, steady and knowing.
“I understand,” he had said, a resigned smile on his face.
He didn’t fight. He didn’t even try. He waited for me to do what had to be done. My hands had trembled so violently that it took longer than it should have. Longer than I could forgive.
Then there was Cindrissian or a young female fae, her blonde hair matted with dirt, her face streaked with tears, her hands clasped together as she pleaded.
“Please,” she sobbed, her pleas tumbling over each other. “My family—they’re waiting for me. My daughter—she’s a child. She needs me. Please…”
I had stopped looking them in the eyes by then.
The others whispered when they thought I wasn’t listening. I knew they watched me, glancing at me when they thought I wouldn’t notice. The concern was always there, it stuck to the air like humidity.
Varyth was furious.
He paced the cell, his hands clenched into fists so tightly that his nails cut into his palms. He was angry at Xyliria, at Ashterion, at the guards who dragged me away each day.
But more than anything, he was angry at himself. I saw it in the way his hands twitched with the urge to tear the walls apart.
I had stopped arguing. Slipped into that space where the pain couldn’t reach me, where nothing could. And that was what drove him mad. Not my suffering. Not my choices. But the emptiness of me.
Because Xyliria had known. She had known that my breaking wouldn’t come from one unbearable moment, from one devastating wound. It would come from the slow unravelling.
It was working.
For the first time, I considered it.
Xyliria’s offer.
Truly considered it.
If I said yes—if I agreed to stay, to serve, to become her weapon—then maybe it would stop. Maybe I wouldn’t have to choose again.
I wouldn’t have to look into their eyes as they begged. As they understood. As they waited for me to decide who lived and who died with blood already on my hands.
I knew what Xyliria wanted. What she would make of me.
She would use me to kill. She would point me at her enemies, her threats, and I would burn them to ash without thought, without mercy. She would take every drop of my power and twist it into something cruel and obedient.
But at least…
At least they wouldn’t have to see me become the monster.
Varyth wouldn’t have to watch me return from another decision I couldn’t take back and pretend he didn’t see the cracks growing in me. At least Darian wouldn’t have to mask the way he flinched when I entered. At least Cindrissian wouldn’t have to meet my eyes and know.
If I accepted, I could stop pretending.
I could let the last of myself slip beneath the surface, and no one would have to witness it.
No more pleading voices. No more blood on my hands that belonged to strangers with families. With names I couldn’t afford to remember. No more choices.
Just orders.
Just silence.
And gods, I was so tired.
Tired of fighting. Tired of hoping. Tired of clinging to a morality that Xyliria had burned out of me one name at a time.
Maybe this was what she meant by mercy.
The stone of the cell was cold against my skin, the weight of exhaustion pinning me in place.
The others were asleep, their breathing steady, their bodies curled against the chill of our prison.
Varyth’s arm was draped around me, heavy with protective instinct even in sleep.
His warmth was the only real comfort in this place, a grounding presence amid the horrors that had become our existence.
And then, I heard them.
A soft, melodic hum.
Faint. Almost inaudible beneath the breath and the drip of water on stone. But it was there.
Careful not to wake Varyth, I hummed the melody of a song I had learned since arriving in this realm, a fae lullaby. The one I’d hummed to the first girl.
A song of loss and tragedy, of love stolen too soon and grief that stretched beyond lifetimes. Lira had taught it to me, a song to honour Navaire in a way that children could understand.
The darkness listened.
And then, it echoed me.
The hum deepened, shifting, at first merely imitating the song I offered. But then—it changed. The music wove through the air like smoke.
It was beautiful.
It ached.
There were no words, it didn’t need them.
Heartbreak. Loss. Longing. It all drifted through the air. As though the world itself knew exactly what I needed to hear.
I closed my eyes and listened. The melody wrapped around me, a gentle caress against my battered soul. It seeped into the cracks of my being, filling the hollow spaces with a bittersweet warmth. For a moment, I forgot where I was, lost in the haunting notes that emanated from the stones around us.
As I listened, memories played through my mind. Faces of those I had been forced to choose, their final moments etched into my mind with cruel clarity. But now, instead of the crushing weight of guilt, there was a shared sorrow, the world itself mourning with me.
The song lifted, becoming more intricate, weaving threads of hope through the melancholy. It spoke of resilience, of strength found in the darkest moments.
My breath formed but never finished, suspended in the stillness between heartbeats as the music reached into my very essence, touching a part of me I thought had been lost forever.
Tears slipped silently down my cheeks, but for once, they weren’t born of despair. The song understood, accepted, and offered solace without judgment. It didn’t absolve. It didn’t lie. It just stayed.
In the hum of its music, I heard what it could not speak.
You are not alone in this.
I let the song lull me back into sleep, my body easing against Varyth’s warmth, the world shifting around me with the quiet knowledge that something, somewhere, was listening.