Two Souls Worth Saving #2
Lila exhales. “So you see—she’s not all bad. She might’ve jailed you, but I’m sure she has her reasons. I mean, you’re the same, right? Not all bad, other than you being here to end the world and all that. I’m sure you have your reasons or commands to follow or whatever.”
She pauses. “Riight?”
“Would you believe me if I said, if you understood the whole of it, you would see it as I do?”
“Maybe. Hard to say.”
“At least she hasn’t killed you. And she would have, if she thought you deserved it. So there’s hope that she’ll let you out eventually.”
I shake my head and wrap my fingers around the bars.
“Maybe you’re right. But I don’t know her well enough to trust in that. She could still kill me.”
“Not if you don’t give her a reason. She would’ve already done it if she thought you needed killing. That’s what I’m saying.”
“I think she needs information from me,” I reply. “That’s why I’m still alive.”
“See? Hope. So give her what you know and don’t be an asshole about it, and then”—she dusts off her hands—“it's a win-win for everyone.”
This girl.
“I wish it were that simple. But I’m a Horseman, like you said. My purpose is set. Whether I care for Eri or not, I’m bound to see it through.”
She studies me for a long moment.
“So you’re still planning on eradicating the human race, then? That's what you’re saying?”
“No,” I tell her. “That’s not my purpose. It’s much more complicated than that.”
She leaves the bars and disappears for a moment. When she returns, she’s carrying a folding camp chair, which she props beside the bars before dropping into it cross-legged.
“Then uncomplicate it for me,” she says. “Give me the rundown. What’s the grand plan, Horseman?”
A quiet chuckle slips out of me. I move to the wall where I can still see her and lower myself to the floor, my back resting against the cool stone. I prop one arm on my knee.
And for reasons I can’t quite explain, I talk.
I’m honest. I tell her as much as I’m able—what God sent me here to do, what the balance requires, what judgment means, and why the souls matter.
She stops me halfway through to grab a snack, but she’s back within minutes. She listens with such focus that she absentmindedly scarfs down an entire bag of pretzels, only glancing down when she reaches back into the bag and finds it empty.
Another is retrieved from somewhere inside her cell as she’s back at it. Stuffing them in her mouth, which causes her cheeks to puff out as she chews.
She’s curious in a way that feels genuine, peppering me with questions that force me to clarify things even for myself.
The next day looks much the same.
So does the one after that.
Except this time, Eridessa delivers a cardboard box filled with food and basic supplies meant to last me several days. She tells Lila she’s heading out for more. When I ask where she’s going, she offers only a vague answer and shares a knowing look with Lila.
She doesn’t trust me.
Something I’ll need to change if I’m ever to leave this place.
But I can’t begin to work on that until she returns.
So while she’s gone, I think. About my strategy. About my truth. About how to earn faith from a woman who learned long ago not to give it freely.
Lila, meanwhile, is generous with advice.
And, frustratingly, she isn’t wrong.
Be honest. Tell her what you know. Don’t try to double-cross her. Maybe think about how you can work together. It doesn’t sound like your paths are that different. Your methods might be, but maybe there’s a middle ground. Or at least a way to help each other see things more clearly.
I don’t tell her that for a teenager, she’s remarkably perceptive.
I don’t need to.
She seems to know.
Eridessa
I make it back from the supply run just before nightfall.
My muscles ache from the long journey, dust still clinging to my boots and cloak, but no rest waits for me.
There never is. I unload what I’ve brought back first—supplies stacked neatly where they belong—then move through the house on autopilot, tending to the creatures who depend on me before doing anything else.
Water refreshed. Feed measured. Enclosures checked.
Only then do I allow myself to turn toward the living.
I cook despite the fatigue, forcing myself to assemble something warm and filling for Lila and Orán.
In the kitchen, I sort through what I scavenged: dried lentils, a small sack of rice, smoked rabbit I traded for at a roadside outpost, and—miraculously—a bundle of wild onions and a sprig of rosemary I found growing near a burned orchard.
I take my time with the meal despite the fatigue, chopping and simmering, letting the broth deepen while the rice softens.
It isn’t elaborate, but it’s warm, filling, and real.
There’s comfort in the ritual. In the small acts of care that still exist in a world coming undone.
When I open the last door and enter the hallway where the cells are, Orán immediately comes to the bars and peers through.
I go to Lila first. Even from several cells away, I feel his attention settle on me.
His gaze follows my every movement as I let Lila out and tell her to go ahead and head into the house.
She doesn’t leave right away. Instead, she drifts down the corridor toward Orán’s bars.
They speak softly, too quietly for me to hear from where I stand. Whatever passes between them is brief but weighted. At the end of it, Orán gives a single, solemn nod and watches as she finally turns and walks away.
Curiosity tugs at me.
But I’m also comforted by the knowledge that Lila will likely tell me most of what was said. Or at least, I believe she will.
I stop in front of Orán’s cell and pass him the covered plate.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell him. “And we can finally have that talk.”
Something shifts in his expression—hope, maybe, threaded with worry. His mouth pulls into something that resembles a half smile, half frown, as if he can’t quite decide which emotion deserves more space.
I leave him and spend the next hour moving between tasks—cleaning equipment, sorting new supplies, resetting the workshop for tomorrow.
Despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones, sleep doesn’t come easily because I take my next dose of the elixir before bed, and as it often does now, it stirs up fevered dreams I can’t escape. This time, it carries me backward—to the memory that still haunts me.
The day that may be absent from my skin, but has been branded into my memory with utter clarity.