Chapter 22 A Fever’s Awakening #2
“And we begin tomorrow,” he said, stepping back. His gaze traveled over me, taking in the clean shift, the mat, the blanket—these small mercies that now seemed like cruel taunts rather than comforts.
His eyes met mine again, and this time, there was no mistaking the anticipation in them.
He stepped further from the bars, his movements deliberately slow, as if savoring my rising dread.
“Tonight, I’ll leave you to contemplate your future.
The anticipation can be so sweet, wouldn’t you agree?
” He turned to go, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Oh, and Mireille? Do try to sleep. You’ll need all your strength. ”
The silence after Valen’s departure was its own form of torment—thick and heavy as a burial shroud.
I sat motionless on my thin mat, listening to his footsteps fade into nothing, leaving only the distant drip of water and the soft scurrying of unseen creatures for company.
I drew my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them as if I could somehow hold myself together against the coming storm.
But beneath the fear lurked something else—a desperate need for connection, for some voice other than the one inside my head that counted down the hours until Valen’s return.
Death is a gift, Valen had said. One I do not yet wish to give you.
They sliced through me, laying bare the terrible truth of my situation.
I wasn’t being kept alive out of mercy or some twisted affection.
My continued existence was merely a vehicle for Valen’s revenge—a canvas upon which he would paint his retribution in shades of pain and humiliation.
And somehow, impossibly, my father would witness it all.
I pressed my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind my lids, trying to drive away the image of Valen’s smile as he’d spoken of tomorrow. What tortures had he devised during my confinement? What fresh hells awaited me when the night gave way to morning?
The hollowness in my chest pulsed, a reminder of my continued living. Perhaps my harbinger would tell me what piece of myself I had lost in exchange for this unwanted healing. Perhaps he could tell me why Valen seemed so invested in my torture.
Decision crystallized through fear, and I pushed myself to my feet.
My legs trembled beneath me, still weak from the fever, but they held my weight as I crossed the small confines of my cell.
The stone floor was cold against my bare feet, each step sending pinpricks of sensation up through my calves, but at least they no longer hurt.
I moved deliberately toward the wall that separated my cell from the one beside it—from him.
The wall between us was rough-hewn stone, cold and damp beneath my palms as I pressed against it.
I closed my eyes, trying to sense any presence on the other side, any indication that I wasn’t alone in this darkness.
My ear found a spot where the mortar had crumbled slightly between two stones, creating a small crevice that might allow sound to pass more easily.
“Are you there?” My voice was barely more than a whisper, yet it seemed to echo in the silence of my cell. I waited, breath held, for any response from the other side.
Nothing.
I bit my lip, uncertainty flooding through me. Perhaps he was sleeping, or perhaps he simply had no interest in speaking with me. Yet I couldn’t shake the sense that he was there, listening, weighing whether to acknowledge me.
“Death?” I tried again, using the name I had given him in my delirium. Still, nothing but silence greeted me.
Desperation crept into my voice as I made one final attempt. “Please.” The word emerged as a soft plea, naked and vulnerable in the dungeon air.
A long sigh filtered through the small gap in the stones, followed by the subtle shift of chains. “I am here.” His voice was deep, resonant with power I couldn’t begin to comprehend. “Though I’m not sure what comfort my presence offers you.”
Relief flooded through me at the sound of his voice—proof that I wasn’t entirely alone in this pit of despair. “You didn’t kill me,” I said quietly, pressing closer to the wall as if I could somehow slip through the stones to see him. “Why?”
A low sound followed—not quite a laugh, more like a weary exhale dressed in irony. “Why should I grant you the mercy of death?” His chains shifted again. “Besides, my freedom is worth far more than ending your existence.”
His words stung, but still, I pressed my forehead against the cool stone, desperate for his conversation.
“You promised,” I whispered.
“I promised nothing.” His voice took on a rough edge that hadn’t been there before. “I merely observed that you were dying. An observation, not a vow.”
The dismissal hurt. Everything hurt. Not my body, no, my body seemed to be completely healed. But my chest, the place beyond my ribs that now felt hollow.
It all hurt.
I had wanted to die.
I had wanted to die so desperately that I had reached for him, expecting that end to be delivered by his hands.
How worthless was I, that even death rejected me?
I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling tears prick behind my lids. “What did you take from me?” I asked, my voice barely audible even to my own ears. “When you healed me. There’s a... hollowness. Like something’s missing.”
The silence stretched so long I thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice had softened, though a slight edge remained.
“A fragment of your soul,” he said quietly. “The price of healing. Nothing is free in this world or any other.”
My fingers pressed against my chest, tracing the outline of my collarbone as if I might find physical evidence of this theft.
“You took a piece of my soul?” The words felt strange on my tongue, too mystical for the practical princess I had once been.
Yet, after watching my husband transform into the blood god, what was one more impossibility?
“Just a sliver,” he replied, and I thought I detected regret in his tone. “You’ll hardly miss it.”
But I did miss it. The emptiness ached like a phantom limb, a constant throb of what was no longer there. “Will it... grow back?” I asked, feeling foolish even as the question left my lips.
He released a breath, almost a chuckle. “Souls don’t regenerate, little fawn. What’s taken remains taken.”
“So instead of dying, my body was healed, only for you to rip away a piece of my soul,” I said, pressing my palm harder against the rough stone, wanting to focus on anything but the aching emptiness. “At least in death, I would have been whole.”
A soft rustling of chains, then silence for several heartbeats.
“Wholeness is glorified,” he finally said, his tone pitched in a way to almost offer reassurance.
“Most souls are fractured things anyway, little pieces given away through love, through hate, through promises and betrayals. You’ve merely done consciously what others do without realizing. ”
“That’s not comforting.”
“I was not trying to comfort you.”
We fell silent then, the darkness between our cells thick with so many of my unspoken thoughts. I could feel his demeanor softening with each question I asked, but I had one more, and I wasn’t sure he would answer.
“Do you know why Valen couldn’t heal me himself? He’s a god, isn’t he? The God of Blood. Surely he could have—“
The prisoner’s chains rattled violently against stone at the mention of Valen, making me flinch back from the wall.
“Ask him when he comes next,” Death said, his voice colder than before. “My patience is not absolute, especially when it comes to your husband.”
“I just want to understand—“
“Why?” he interrupted. “Will understanding change your fate? Will it ease your suffering to know the precise mechanisms of his divine power?”
I bit my lip, stunned by the sudden hostility. The hollow space in my chest throbbed in response to his anger, as if the stolen piece of my soul recognized its captor’s displeasure.
My gaze focused on the stone ground, feeling uncomfortable with this silence. I glanced at my mat, wondering if I should return to it. I had pressed too hard, too insistently. How had I managed to already push my only companion away?
Suddenly, he sighed. A sound of reluctant surrender.
I heard his chains rattle softly, as if he was rubbing his face.
“Our abilities are not the same,” he finally said, tone clipped.
“The God of Blood needs exactly that—blood. It fuels his power, gives form to his will. Without it, he is... limited.”
I pressed closer to the wall, hungry for this knowledge despite his obvious irritation. I said nothing, hoping he would keep speaking.
“Blood is powerful,” he continued, “but it relies on... compatibility. When infection ravages a mortal body, the blood itself becomes tainted, rejecting even a God’s influence. Vharok cannot heal what blood itself refuses to accept.”
“But you could,” I whispered, keeping my voice soft to not ruin this reluctant offering of conversation. “Your power worked where his couldn’t. You don’t have such limitations.”
His voice softened—fractionally. “Correct,” he said, and a strange pride curled in my gut at the word. “Although, I require physical contact to channel my power in chains such as these. Blood is messy. Unnecessary with my power. But without touch, I am equally limited.”
I remembered the sensation of being cradled against his chest, his fingers tangled in my hair, the intimacy of that healing touch. The memory sent an unexpected warmth through me that momentarily filled the hollow space behind my ribs.
“So that is why you’re in chains?” I asked. “To prevent you from touching anyone?”
A low, bitter laugh echoed through the stone. “Partly. Yes, the chains limit my reach, though they serve other purposes as well.” I heard him release a long breath, as if controlling his next words. “Without these chains, I do not have any limitations. To heal or to harm.”