Chapter 2 We’re Born With Nothing and Are Better Off That Way
We’re Born With Nothing and
Are Better Off That Way
Desdemona
T
here’s a hint of blue light out the window. It’s just enough to keep me from losing my mind, but not enough to count the days I’ve been here.
This universe wasn’t forged like the one I come from.
It was forged as punishment, and I am here, reaping mine.
The moment I entered The Void, everyone back home forgot I existed.
Now, when I close my eyes, I see the people I love who will never remember me.
I don’t know which will do me in first: the loneliness, or the certainty that I’m unloved and forgotten in a way more absolute than I ever imagined.
Mial opens the door to my cage. He’s always kind and gentle when he comes to feed me—but today he carries nothing. Has he decided I’m no longer worth feeding?
Since the day the Arcanes brought me here, his is the only face I’ve seen. Mial doesn’t look like an Arcane. He has tanned skin and strawberry-blond hair. No burns or boils. Maybe that’s why he’s the only one I know—the rest don’t want to be seen.
“They’re ready.” Mial bows his head.
The simple gesture brings me to my feet, but my legs are weak. I haven’t walked since I arrived, and I cling to the grimy walls, knees shaking.
“My mom?” I whisper.
“No.” Mial offers me his hand. “Your new family.”
But I’m not done with my old one yet. No matter how angry I am at my mom for all the memories she stole, I have to understand why. I have to talk to her. It doesn’t matter what she did or why. She’s my family.
I glare at Mial’s outstretched hand, weighing my options. But I’m so tired. That’s why I haven’t put up a fight, staying in this room and eating the food he brought me. If I just do what Mial wants, maybe he’ll let me see her. Then I can figure out what to do.
Once more, I take the easy way out and grab his hand.
He hovers over me, multiple heads taller, guiding me out of the dark room and into the hall. We turn to a stairwell and start climbing, every window as dim as my prison’s.
This palace—at least, I think it’s a palace—is in every way Ilyria’s opposite. Where Ilyria is blue and silver, this palace has red curtains and golden window sills, with checkered floors underfoot. Almost as if the two castles stood side by side at one point.
We stop in front of tall double doors—taller than they need to be. Mial rests his palms on the doors, pushing them open. I don’t think I’d be able to do the same right now. He twists to me, his hand gesturing into the room.
I stand still, my muscles locked, waiting for instruction. It feels safer than choosing wrong. If I walk in front of him and it isn’t what he wants, I don’t know what will happen.
I don’t know what happens to people who disappoint him.
When he says, “After you,” my shoulders release slightly. They shouldn’t. I’m not safe yet.
My legs feel boneless as I step forward. It’s the smallest, most tentative step I’ve taken since I was a child. I clench my jaw, hating that I’m at his mercy. I could cry, and I’m not sure if it’s from confusion or exhaustion.
I enter the room slowly, my stomach groaning. It smells like a mix of savory and sweet foods. I wonder if it’s for me or if they plan to eat while I watch.
At the center of the room is a long table, and six people sit along it—all Arcanes.
I take a tight breath. Where my legs had felt boneless earlier, they now feel like steel.
Every step is weighted, difficult to take.
Then Mial rests a hand on my low back. I jump, twisting in his direction, but his hand remains soft—I don’t think he means to harm me. Yet.
I turn back, forcing myself to the table. The closer I get, the less monstrous the Arcanes look. Large patches of their skin are burnt, but none of them have the cysts and boils they had in Visnatus. Now, they look like humans with burns.
I glance at my palm. On Visnatus, the burn was ugly—just like the Arcanes. But here it’s patchy skin, just like them.
“Please, Desdemona”—Mial pulls out the chair at the end of the table—“have a seat.”
I meet his gaze, and he nods. I grip the arm of the chair, my fingers turning white as I sit. Mial pushes the seat closer to the table, then moves away, sitting at the opposite end. He offers me a smile. Without showing teeth, I smile back. I don’t want to appear like a threat to him.
Mial tips his head toward me, both hands resting atop the table. He taps his fingers, a light sound over the red cloth. Then, he raises a hand, fingers still.
I sit taller. Was the smile a mistake?
“Everyone,” Mial announces, “this is Desdemona.” I exhale as he gestures to each Arcane down the table, introducing them one by one. “Desdemona, that’s Icarthus, Aisling, Cillian, Bacstair, Maeve, and Cadhla.”
All seven of them stare at me. Tears prick my eyes, and my chest shakes. What am I here for? A million things come to mind—none end well for me. Are they waiting for me to say something?
I open my mouth. Snot drips from my nose, and I wipe it away, trying to speak. My voice is weak and trembling. “Hi.”
I glance at Mial, watching his face—waiting for a flinch—when something slams against the table. Utensils rattle. I shove back in my chair and look down, checking for a knife sticking out of my chest. There isn’t one. I’m safe.
Until an Arcane stands, shouting, “She deserves punishment for killing Ciella!”
Is that why I’m here?
“And Niam,” one from the left adds.
Ciella and Niam—the smoke-forms that fell from the Folk in the Welding Village, and later from Eleanora when she attacked me. They had names. But I didn’t want to know them. I can’t show remorse for fighting for my life.
For the millionth time this evening, I look at Mial. He doesn’t look back, his gaze fixed on the Arcanes. My hand reaches into my pocket, clutching the little wolf. Lucian’s wolf.
It’s the only thing I have, and it’s not even mine.
The steel pricks at my palm. I do my best not to think about him—another thing that isn’t mine, another person who’s forgotten me.
The silence in the room stretches on. I turn to the one who had an outburst. I don’t know if I’m imagining the slight tremor in his hand as he clutches the fork on the table.
“Aisling.” Mial’s voice is severe. “She is our guest.”
Guest? Not prisoner?
“Can our guest not apologize for killing our friends?” Aisling says, turning to me.
I try to speak. “I—” The words catch, and I imagine them snickering—these all-powerful mythical beings watching me fumble out of fear. Maybe if there were just one of them, I wouldn’t be so scared. But I don’t know what one can do, let alone seven. “Please,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“Aisling is sorry,” Mial says, pressing his palms against the table as he rises to his feet. No one argues. I killed their friends, yet they all remain silent. Including me.
Is he protecting me—or trying to get me to let my guard down? And what happens if I do?
Softly, he says, “You were defending yourself.”
I nod, pressing back in my chair. But there’s no getting away.
Without looking in his direction, Mial lowers himself back in his seat. “Aisling, you may be excused.”
I avoid Aisling’s eyes as he stands and walks out of the dining area.
Mial lifts a fork, saying, “Now where were we?”
The dinner begins.