6. Seren
SEREN
The silence holds until it hurts.
This isn’t real.
I can’t breathe, can’t think. The world is a hollow drum; my heart the only sound.
Sylas washes out of focus as my eyes glisten. The edges of the room swim as a pressure builds inside my skull.
I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches, hoping the simple act will prevent the grief that teeters on the edge of a landslide. My lower lip begins to tremble, and I bite down—hard—until the sharp, metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
My chest seizes. The iron within turns bitter as a heavy weight presses down on my lungs, constricting my ribs until my breath hitches—a sudden, choked gasp that leaves me reeling.
I don’t know how long I kneel here, trembling hands hovering over Sylas, afraid to touch what will never be warm again.
I draw a hand back, pressing an unsteady palm to my temple. It all happened so fast.
The crisp images turn to a blur in my mind: One minute I’m running for my life; the next, blackness, a sharp inhale of breath, and then silence.
The image of his gaze solidifying, turning to glass replays on a loop. I could have stopped it, couldn’t I? Nausea crashes over me. Yes. I could have. Should have. But I didn’t.
And now he’s gone.
I can’t bear the sight of his still body, the warmth already retreating from his skin. I’ve got to get out of here, before the guilt becomes a corrosive tide, burning my very soul.
The shadows wrap around my waist, heaving me to my feet—an act they’ve never done before, their grip sharper than it was yesterday. My legs tremble under the crushing weight of my actions. If I don’t move now, the grief will turn me to stone.
I stop at the threshold, my breath catching as I force myself to take in the scene. He looks so peaceful—as if he’s finally found Da and left this rot behind. But when I look down, my palms are stained, the phantom drip of his life between my fingers.
I did this.
The truth kills the peace.
A snigger—too close to be my own—slices up my spine. The sound ignites a cold fire across my skin. I jolt back, heart slamming against my ribs as its invading, cold presence doesn’t just touch my skin—it burrows into my bones.
The shadows lay draped over my shoulders, a tendril of smoke caressing my cheek, as if apologising, or accepting blame. I can’t focus enough to tell.
I cast one last look at Sylas. The quiet is absolute. Without the familiar rattle of his breath, the silence presses in on me, accusing and heavy. I can’t breathe in this stillness. My skin crawls with the need to move.
My chest heaves, each breath a shard of glass splintering my lungs instead of filling them. I can’t stay here; these walls are hemming me in, shrinking the room until I’m being crushed against the evidence of what I’ve done.
The door creaks shut, the latch clicking into place, sealing the silence within. I’ve left him there. Alone in the dark. My mind goes hollow, but my feet move anyway, carrying me toward the only sanctuary I have left.
The only other place I can call home.
My feet are light as I step into the void of the Hollow, becoming at one with my shadow as my steps become mere whispers against the slick, stone steps.
I track every sight and sound that moves around me, eyes bouncing through the sea of homes that stack towards the starless sky. There’s no flashes of white, or gold, only the soft glow from hanging lanterns and candles, each light a little beacon of belonging and shared warmth within.
The constant, raw wound inside of me splits, tearing itself into an even bigger hole that refuses to heal.
I press a hand to my sternum, futilely trying to hold the pieces of myself together.
This ache isn’t just pain; it's the empty space where my family should be, and I’m falling, and falling. But there’s no bottom.
A cold, feather-light touch spreads down my neck, snapping me back to reality: I have to move.
Stumbling down steps, I run through the lanes that lean in like they want to hear my secrets, houses blur as tears pool my vision, streaking endlessly down my cheeks.
Tattered wooden shutters come into view, as I wipe the tears on the back of my hand. Green flecks of paint fall from the impact as I beat my fist against Yara’s door. The pounding in my ears grows louder, as my heartbeat struggles to keep up.
I stumble forward into Yara’s arms as she opens the door. She catches me effortlessly, her strength unyielding as I collapse against her. The scent of dried herbs and lavender vinegar envelops me, and I finally melt into the comforting warmth.
“Seren,” she breathes. “Child—what is it?”
I struggle to find the words, as speaking them aloud will only make them real. As if noticing my hesitation through her milky gaze, she pulls me inside, the bell chiming as the door clicks shut.
My legs wobble from the strain of getting here, but I force them to stand, alleviating the weight I forced on Yara. Her calloused hands find my cheeks, her gaze shifting as she tries to focus on my own.
“Child—what’s happened?” she whispers softly, a shadow of concern passes over her expression, making the lines on her face deepen.
“He’s—” I don’t want to finish the sentence, but I know that I must. This is all my fault, the least I can do is accept it and give him the respect he deserves. I swallow hard, the admission a bitter, metallic taste in my throat. “He’s gone.” The sound of it slices like a fresh cut.
She pulls me further in, her heel scuffs against the floorboards as she diverts me into the back where her living quarters are.
Trinkets in all manner of containers crowd the shelves, while a multitude of concoctions swarm the worktops.
Herbs hang in bundles from the ceiling, draping like bunting on the night of the Great Pale Mother.
Scattered candles flicker, sending shadows into a frantic dance across the walls.
My lungs drink in the scent, finally remembering how to expand.
Mismatched upholstered chairs enclose the hearth, their fabric moth-eaten over the years. A well-trodden path has been ground into the timber, the wood pale and bleached compared to the rest of the floor.
An assortment of aromas fill my senses; camomile, nettle, lemon balm and peppermint, with a lingering scent of lavender.
It’s not much, but somehow Yara has made it a home.
She eases me into the chair by the hearth and presses a cup into my hands. “Sip,” she instructs.
The steam smells just like the aroma in the room, but with a hint of something sharp and clean. I take a tentative sip as it’s warm, gentle heat smooths the raw edges of my throat.
It tastes light, subtly grassy, with a sudden, invigorating kick of ginger that blooms on my tongue, the spicy warmth a stark contrast to the cold void in my chest.
It’s a strange, comforting sensation: an internal warmth that starts at my core and spreads outward, chasing the unease from my extremities and leaving a deep sense of calm in its wake.
I melt into the chair, my head leaning against the backrest, as I stare up toward the littered ceiling.
She doesn’t speak, but stands and waits for me to begin—like she always does.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen…” I say, voice raw, choked with regret. “I told them not to, I tried to stop it.” My hand raises, palm flat, hovering in front of my face as if I expect to see blood there, as if I can still feel the weight of his life I just ended.
Her hands trace the furniture as she guides herself toward me, her feet skimming the floor boards. With surprising ease, she sinks to one knee until we are eye-to-eye. Her cloudy, searching gaze flickers across my face before slowing, finally honing in on me.
A warm, rough hand lands on my knee, settling the tremor that I didn’t know began.
“Tell me.”
“The shadows have been with me since I can remember, small wisps of black smoke that have grown in time with my own.” Yara leans in slightly, her eyes attempting to track every movement of my lips.
“When I was little, I used to talk to them. Play with them. They were my only friends—are my only friends.”
My thumb traces idly over the rim of the cup, focusing on a sharp edge of the chip in the ceramic. I can still feel their tendrils under my arms, forcing me to stand. My brow furrows as I try to think back to a time when they’ve ever been so tangible.
“Lately,” I begin, clearing my throat. “They’ve changed.”
Silence hangs heavy between us, the words laced with uncertainty.
Yara stands, rubbing her knee as she makes her way over to the chair opposite. “How so?” she says, landing with a thump, as a plume of dust motes rise into the air.
“They seem hungrier, angrier—as if they’re waiting for something. Or someone.” I stare into the cup, watching the oils spiral through the water. “They’ve never been able to touch me like this before. They turned so…solid. That’s what they did to him. To Sylas.”
Bile rises in my throat, a bitter protest against the words, but I force them out anyway.
“They did it so easily. A whirlwind of smoke that solidified at the touch. Coiling and squeezing until the rattle in his chest simply…stopped.”
Yara’s thumbs twiddle restlessly in her lap as she listens, the lines on her forehead deepening as she stares at them, deep in thought. “Perhaps—” she begins, clearing her throat, “—perhaps they’ve seen how much caring for him weighs on you, and so…wanted to end his suffering?”
“They should know me better to know that’s the last thing I would want,” I bite back. “He was my only family, and now he’s gone. Because of me. Because of whatever I am.”
Tension begins to coil tighter in my chest, it’s fingers squeezing around my heart.
Gritting my teeth, I take another deep pull from the cup, commanding the warmth to ease the internal grip.
Yara falls silent, her head tilting to one side as she considers my words. A thoughtful quiet settles on her face, a subtle movement in her jaw the only sign she’s mulling over what I said.