Chapter 4
FOUR
Eirabella
I sit up slowly a few minutes after dawn, the sky spilling greys and soft pinks through the trees. Everything aches—my legs, my back, my arms. From across the camp, he notices I’m awake and strides over, his gaze still guarded but lacking the edge it had yesterday. “We’ll ride soon,” he says, his voice even. “How long do you need to get ready?”
“Does it matter?” I uncharacteristically snap. Apparently, grumpy is contagious.
His eyes freeze, but the tick in his jaw is obvious. “You should get up. I’ll accompany you down to the river so you can get cleaned up,” he says finally.
“Don’t trust me to go alone?”
“Not as far as you could throw me,” he says, his voice light, as if as an offering.
But his words do nothing to ease the tight knot of anxiety coiled in my chest. I want to scream at him, to demand answers, but I know it won’t get me anywhere. He’s like a stone wall—immovable, impenetrable.
Pushing myself to my feet, I fight the urge to lift my arms out in front of me, to stretch like a cat. My muscles ache from the day before, and I feel the pull of exhaustion deep in my bones, but I won’t let him see that. I won’t let him think I’m weak. I threw my little tantrum last night, but now it’s time to get back on track and find a way to escape him.
So instead, I change tactics. “When we get to wherever it is that we’re going, may I send a letter home?”
Lord Grumpypuss pauses, his expression unreadable. “To your family?”
I nod. It’s not a complete lie. Janus is the closest thing to family I have left. I hope.
He seems to consider this, his gaze flicking back to me. “Yes. You’ll be able to send word,” he says after a moment. “I’ll make sure it happens.”
“You have five minutes to freshen up,” he says flatly when we reach the stream.
I raise an eyebrow. “Five whole minutes? Such generosity. Are you planning to just stand there watching me, or did you bring snacks?”
His eyes narrow a little, a flicker of amusement buried under the annoyance. “I’d hardly find watching you bathe entertaining, it’s more like a chore.”
I let out an exaggerated sigh, giving him an over-the-shoulder look as I crouch by the water. “Oh, just turn around.”
He just stands there, arms crossed. “So you can try to run off again?”
I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest in mock offence. “Where’s the fun in trying if you’re expecting it?”
He huffs, looking equal parts irritated and faintly amused, like he’s wondering how he got saddled with me in the first place. “This is fun for you?”
I grin, bending down to cup water in my hands. “I try to make everything fun. Just to annoy you, Lord Grumpypants.” I’m not quite ready to call him by his name just yet. Somehow that makes him seem a little too…human.
He mutters something under his breath but he turns around, crossing his arms as he waits.
Smirking, I quickly strip and lower myself into the water, trying to wash the last day off me, the almost freezing water jolting away any sleepiness I left in me. Glancing around, I take stock of my surroundings. It all just looks like brush on more brush. I wouldn’t even know what direction to run in. Not that I have any grand escape planned right this moment, but it never hurts to scope things out. Just in case.
“What I wouldn’t give for a towel right now,” I murmur as I finish washing. Without a word, Rylan whips off his shirt and throws it over his shoulder, still facing pointedly away. I laugh as I emerge from the water, picking up the shirt and quickly use it to dry off as well as I can. It feels deliciously warm against my skin from his body and his earthy scent lingers on it, which is surprisingly… nice. I glance at his turned back, and quickly bury my face in the shirt, taking a deep breath. Damn. I…should not have done that.
Pulling my wrinkled dress back on, with my wrung out still damp underwear in my hands, I say “All right, I’m decent.”
Rylan turns around, his eyes catching on my wet hair as I dry it with his shirt. His gaze slides over me in a way that’s maybe a little more intense than necessary. For a second, I swear I see something—just a tiny something—in his eyes before he catches himself and reverts back to his usual stony expression .
I throw his now drenched shirt back at him, trying to the sight of his wide, toned chest in just an undershirt, and run back to the camp shouting over my shoulder. “See how fun that was?”
The guards are busying themselves around the camp when we return, tidying up and preparing breakfast. I find myself wandering over to them to put some distance between Rylan and me. Picking up a spoon, I plunge it into the pot over the fire and stir the porridge as it cooks to stop it from burning. “Thank you for dinner last night; it was delicious,” I say.
The three guards stop and share a curious look. Two nod silently in response and return to packing up the camp, while the third squats down next to me, handing me a small bag of brown sugar.
“I’m Mathis,” he says, his voice friendly, and he offers me a warm smile. He moves around the camp with an easy grace, his tall, muscular frame somehow light on his feet despite his size. His broad shoulders stretch against his tunic as he bends to adjust the fire, his movements fluid and efficient. His general manner is warm, open, one that instantly reminds me of Janus. There’s something comforting in it, an effortless kindness that feels like a rare, steady light amidst the chaos. I can’t help but watch him, that sense of familiarity tugging at my heart.
“That’s Grellor over there,” he says, pointing to the guard who looks like a bear in armour, who grunts at the mention of his name. “And the ugly one is Yosef.” The third and youngest guard turns and rolls his piercing green eyes before tying his bedroll onto his pack.
“You snore like a drunken elephant with a head cold,” I tease Mathis, feeling instantly at ease with him .
“It keeps the beasts away. And by beasts”—he leans in and lowers his voice—“I mean Grellor.”
Despite the situation, I giggle at his joke. It feels good to. “What other tips do you have for keeping the beasts away?”
“Well, Grellor swears by not showering, and Yosef just has to look at an animal, and it goes running. Works on women and small children as well.”
That wins him a full-blown laugh. “Oh shush, he looks like a prince,” I say honestly. Yosef has the kind of chiselled face that probably has him walking through life leaving behind a trail of broken hearts.
Mathis raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you think? You often have fantasies about dreamy handsome princes?”
My laugh turns into a guffaw. “Only the ones from our folklore. I don’t think I’d like to meet a real prince, nor would one want to meet me. I’m not good with bowing and scraping.”
Mathis chuckles. “No? Colour me surprised. You seem just like the type to curtsy and follow every sentence with ‘Your Highness.’”
The snort I let out is anything but ladylike. “Only if it’s preceded with ‘let me remove that royal sceptre you seem to have lodged up your behind.’”
Mathis stares at me, stunned, and then lets out a roar, slapping his hand over his knee, practically choking. I grin, delighted that at least someone was enjoying my humour. I give the pot another stir before pouring half the bag of sugar into the porridge.
“Holy fuck! Are you trying to kill us all? That’s almost a week’s worth of sugar!” he bellows.
“I like it sweet.” I shrug. “And look”—it’s my turn to lean and whisper to him—“a certain someone could use a little sweetness to help get that sour look off his face.”
I expect Mathis to laugh at that comment too, but the sound of boots crunching on the snow next to me has him tilting his head up, and his mouth clamps shut.
Speaking of the sour puss himself.
“Mathis, take the horses for another drink before we leave,” Rylan practically barks at the guard sitting next to me.
Mathis gives me a sly wink before he gets up with a murmur of agreement.
“You don’t have to do that,” Rylan says, watching me stir the pot, which does seem to appear to be more sugar than oats at this point.
“I needed to do something since you ordered away the only person who’s willing to talk to me,” I reply with a shrug.
I feel his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t add anything, just jabs another branch into the fire.
Over the quick breakfast, the three guards relax a little, ribbing me over how they’ve known seasoned warriors who would be taken down by how sweet my porridge is. We exchange small pleasantries and stories, and I learn that Grellor is from the northeastern mountainous border, where the winters are harsh, and Yosef hails from a coastal village that’s always warm. Not surprising, as their demeanours seem to reflect their hometown climates. Mathis has been a city boy his whole life, second-generation King’s Guard. Lord Grumpypuss doesn’t contribute to the conversation, finishing his breakfast quickly before getting up to finish preparing his horse.
“He always looks like that?” I ask the guards, keeping my voice low.
“Like what?” Yosef asks with a glint in his eye, knowing perfectly well what I’m talking about.
“Like his arsehole is challenging his mouth to a puckering contest. And losing. ”
All three guards stop what they’re doing and stare at me, porridge spoons hovering in mid-air, inches from their mouths. Then Mathis and Yosef burst into laughter, and I earn an outright guffaw from Grellor, who tries to hide it with a gruff cough.
“He’s just… focused,” Mathis offers, still gasping from laughter. “Don’t take it personally.”
“Too late,” I mutter under my breath.
Once breakfast is done and everything is packed away, Rylan approaches me, his gaze flicking between the other men and me. “Ready?” he asks.
Meeting his gaze head-on, I reach for the saddle and lift my leg, trying to tuck my foot into the stirrups to pull myself up.
I’m… unsuccessful.
I try again.
Still no luck.
“Need help?” comes the low voice.
Yes. “Does it look like it?” I say instead.
The third attempt is no more successful.
Impatient, he huffs, his large hands squeezing me around the waist before dumping me onto the horse’s back. A second later, he slides into the saddle behind me, his body taut and warm against my back.
“Show off,” I grumble. “Just watch, by the end of this trip, I’ll be the one lifting you onto the horse.”
All I get is a rumble in his chest as a reply.
“What do you know about magic?” I ask after we’ve been riding in silence for a few hours. Deep in thought over my memories of what happened in the village, I’ve spared him my chatter. But now I’m ready to ask all the questions. “I mean, truly know. I’ve never been taught much. Most people in my village have magic, but only of the basic kind. My neighbour’s Strength was Earth”—I swallow; it hurts to think about him and Kahlia without knowing how they are—“and he used his to help with his farm labour. Some others could start fires, or conjure a nice breeze on a hot day. But nothing like… like… what I… did.” It’s still impossible to think that the ice shield had come from me.
His expression shifts as something flickers behind his eyes, but he quickly tamps it down. “I know enough,” he says, his voice steady but noncommittal.
“That’s not an answer,” I press.
“It’s the answer you’re getting,” he replies, his tone brooking no argument. “When we reach our destination, you will learn everything you need to know.”
I scowl, frustrated. “You’re really good at being mysterious, you know that?”
“It’s my job,” he says, deadpan, and I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. Was that really just a day ago? It feels like everything that happened was a lifetime ago.
“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see what other secrets you’re hiding.”
He doesn’t respond, and I can’t help but feel a strange mixture of anticipation and dread. Lord Grumpypants is hiding something—something big—and whatever it is, I have a feeling it’s going to turn my world upside down.
“So—” I start.
And he sighs. “Gods. Not again with the questions.”
“Just one? Please.”
He glances at me, and I swear there’s a flicker of something like amusement in his eyes. “Fine. One. Question. Then you’ll stay quiet until we stop for lunch. ”
I think for a moment, weighing my options. It’s actually the best offer he’s given me. “Deal.” The question topples out of my mouth without even having to think. “Do you think I’ll be able to use that magic again?”
“Yes,” he answers without hesitation, his tone definitive.
I snort at his short answer. “That’s it? Just yes?”
“Yes,” he repeats, with a hint of a smirk. “And that’s technically two questions.”
I roll my eyes, exasperated. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re insufferable,” he retorts, the barest hint of humour in his voice. “But at least now, you’ll be quiet until lunch.”
With a huff, I settle back into silence, but I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. Despite everything, despite the fear and confusion, there’s something oddly reassuring about the confidence with which he’d answered my question.
Suddenly, the horizon looks limitless.
“What happens to the Offerings that the king’s Collectors take during Collection Day?” I ask as soon as we’re back on the horse after our lunch break. “Where does all that magic go?”
“That’s two questions.”
“We didn’t make a deal for after lunch. I can ask as many questions as I like now.”
He doesn’t respond right away and shifts in the saddle, his chest pressing harder against my back, a waft of his scent washing over me. “The magic is distributed to strengthen our army, earth magic is used to fertilise the ground, water magic creates wells in areas of drought, that kind of thing. Depending on what Strength offerings are made. Whatever the king deems the most important.”
That’s pretty much what we’ve always been told. “It’s not right.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
“What’s not right?” It’s the first time he’s expressed any interest in my answer.
“The Collections. Of people’s magic. It’s not something that should be bought and sold,” I say under my breath. “The gods blessed the person with their Strength. It’s theirs.”
He mulls it over and then asks, “Then shouldn’t they be allowed to do with it as they want?”
I shrug. “I can’t explain it. It seems too… sacred for that. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe you don’t really appreciate the value of something until you no longer have it.” He doesn’t say anything, but I watch as his hands tighten on the reins. He disagrees. And that’s fine by me. But I move on while he’s feeling chatty. “And the Collectors who were with you at the village? Where are they now?”
“They went on to the next village where another unit of guards will meet up with them.”
“You didn’t want to go with them?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I… had a different mission to complete.”
Me. I’m the mission. I almost laugh that little Eirabella Kaye, nobody from Larilea, could be worth a unit of four guards. It almost makes me want to stay with him just to find out what this is all about.
I wake to the sensation of something rough and cold wrapping around my ankle. My heart jumps into my throat, and I jerk awake, instinctively trying to pull away. It takes me a moment to even remember where I am.
In the woods .
Somewhere, who knows.
Surrounded by King’s Guards. And we’d stopped sometime after twilight for the night.
And now, someone… or something, is dragging me through those same woods, my stomach grazing against dirty snow, jagged rocks, and breaking twigs.
Panic surges through me, and I thrash wildly, kicking and clawing at whatever has a hold of me. “Let go!” I scream, my voice hoarse with fear. The dwindling campfire is disappearing fast from view as I’m taken deeper into the woods, casting only faint shadows across the clearing. In my fear, I glance down my body to make out a dark figure with its hand around my foot, face hooded in darkness.
“Stop!” I scream, desperation edging my voice. But he doesn’t stop. He only pulls harder, the muscles in his arm tensing as he drags me across the rough ground. I scramble for something—anything—to hold onto, my fingers scraping against rocks and roots, but nothing slows him down.
I’m about to scream again when I hear the sound of steel clashing, the unmistakable ring of swords meeting in the dark.
Thank the gods.
The guards are awake.
Relief floods me, but it’s quickly tempered by fear as the grip on my foot tightens, pulling me away with even greater speed. No one will even find me if the guards don’t.
“Hold on, Eirabella!” a deep voice yells. Rylan. Through the brush, I see him rush toward me, sword flashing in the moonlight. But before he can reach me, another hooded figure steps in his path, and they collide in a flurry of steel.
The world around me is chaos, shadows clashing in the dark, the sounds of metal on metal, grunts of effort, and screams of pain.
There’s another tug at my foot, so rough that it almost feels like my leg is being yanked off my torso, but then suddenly, I’m free. I flip over and struggle to my knees, but adrenaline is streaking through my body, making me shake too hard for steadiness. My vision blurs, and for a moment, I think I’ve been hit in the head again. But no, someone is standing over me, blocking out the pale light of the fire.
“Are you hurt?” The voice is low, commanding, and it takes me a moment to realise it’s Rylan. He’s covered in dirt and blood, hopefully most of it not his own, his eyes scanning me quickly, looking for injuries.
“I—no, I’m fine,” I stammer, pushing myself up onto my elbows. My heart is still pounding, and I can’t seem to catch my breath. “What—what’s happening?”
“Bandits,” he whispers, his gaze flicking toward the remaining fight. “Stay here. Do not move.” He steps away but then leans back, his voice hot against my ear. “For once, listen to me.”
He doesn’t wait for my response. In the blink of an eye, he’s gone, leaving me with a flush coursing up my body from the remnants of his breath against my skin. Am I really reacting to him like this? Right now? I shake my head. It must just be the adrenaline.
The trees make way as he charges back into the fray with the fluidity of a seasoned warrior. I can only watch as he slashes his way through the shadows, his sword flashing in the dim light, cutting down anyone who dares come near him.
Within moments, the bandits are cornered, surrounded by the guards. Desperate, the hooded figures fight with a wild ferocity, but they are clearly no match for the precision and deadly skill of Rylan and the others. Each swing of Rylan’s sword is lethal, cutting through the bandits with a ruthless efficiency that sends shivers down my spine. One bandit, crazed with fear, charges at Mathis with a knife, but Rylan’s sword meets him first, slicing through the man’s chest and sending him crumpling to the ground.
The air thickens with the copper scent of blood, practically making me gag.
But it’s forgotten as I watch in wonder as Mathis flicks his wrist; a wave of water rises from the nearby stream and crashes into two of the bandits, sending them sprawling onto the forest floor. The water swirls around Mathis and the guards, forming a protective barrier that he manipulates with practised ease.
Yosef isn’t far behind, his own sword ablaze with fire that dances along the blade. He moves with equal precision, his fire-infused strikes burning through the air, searing the flesh of those who dare approach. The combination of fire and water, of heat and cold, is devastating.
A rustling nearby betrays a bandit foolishly trying to sneak up on the group, and I hear my own voice shouting, “Rylan! On your right!” He spins around, and with a single swing of his sword, liberates the bandit’s head from his body, a slash of fresh blood splattering on the white snow.
One by one they fall, their screams echoing through the forest before being abruptly silenced. My heart pounds in my chest as I witness the brutal efficiency with which Rylan and his men dispatch their enemies, each death a stark reminder of the danger I’ve been in this whole time.
And I realise something with stark clarity. Now. Now is my chance to get away. While the guards are busy fighting for their lives, they’re not going to notice me making a run for it. I look around, searching for the best direction. I have no idea where we are, which direction we came from. I have nothing with me but the clothes on my back and the few coins still shoved into Janus’s jacket. But it’s now or never.
I bite down a strange flash of misplaced guilt and scramble to my feet.
As quietly as possible, I step out of my hiding spot and start to make a run for it when a face pops out from behind the bushes. Before I can react, a hand grabs at my hair and starts to drag me away from the fighting. “You’re a pretty one. I’d think about actually keeping you for myself if he wasn’t paying such a pretty penny for you,” he snarls, and my veins turn ice cold. The voice sounds like something out of my worst nightmares. Gravelly and full of all things dark and evil.
“No!” I shout, the adrenaline dumping into my bloodstream lending me power I normally don’t have. I kick out, and it doesn’t stop him, but it slows him down.
That is, until there’s a flash of silver, and the hand attached to my hair is no longer attached to a body.
I scream as the hand falls from me, and Rylan appears, lunging forward and with another slash, cuts the bandit straight down the middle from head to stomach. The squelching sound of him gurgling to his death almost makes me retch.
“I told you not to move. This time listen , for fuck’s sake!” Rylan growls before throwing himself back into the thick of the fight, a flurry of bloody steel and death.
And I do.
Just as the battle seems to be winding down, I see Mathis struggling with a particularly large attacker, his sword locked in a desperate clash with the man’s dagger. His water shield has long dissolved into mist in the night air. The bandit’s face twists with rage, and he snarls as he pushes Mathis down, the sheer force of his sword forcing the guard to his knees. Panic surges through me as I see the bandit pressing his sword perilously close to Mathis’s straining throat. But before the blade can draw blood, Rylan appears behind him, his sword flashing in the dim light. With one swift, merciless move, Rylan spears the bandit’s body through the heart. There’s a moment of complete stillness, and then he crumples to the ground in front of Mathis .
The danger is over as quickly as it began, the final bandit lying dead at Rylan’s feet.
The forest falls silent again, save for the heavy breathing of the guards and the crackling of the dying fire. I find myself trembling as the reality of what just happened settles in. The bandits are dead, every last one of them. And though I know they were a threat, the sight of their lifeless bodies leaves me shaken, a cold knot of fear and unease twisting in my gut.
Rylan appears by my side, and I have to fight the urge to throw my arms around his neck in relief. He kneels beside me, his expression inscrutable behind the mask. “We need to leave,” he says, his tone more urgent than I’ve heard it before. “Before any reinforcements come looking for them.” He nudges the dead bandit at my feet. “And us.”
I nod, my throat too tight to speak, and I gratefully take the hand he offers to help me to my feet. He makes sure my legs can hold me and then extracts his hand. But not before he… no. I must have imagined it; he didn’t actually squeeze my hand. It’s not until we’re closer to the campfire that I notice him slightly tilting to the side and holding his waist. Blood seeps through his fingers and onto the ground, but his face is set in determination.
"Rylan! You’re hurt!” I gasp, my voice trembling as I rush toward him.
“It’s nothing,” he grunts, pulling his hand from my side, trying to dismiss my concern. “Just a scratch.”
“Just a scratch?” I echo, horrified. “You’re bleeding—a lot.”
“I said, I’m fine,” he insists, though the flicker of pain on his face betrays him. “We need to move. It’s my job to protect you, not the other way around.”
But I’m not listening. “You’re not going anywhere until I wrap that wound.” I glance at the other guards. “Does anyone have a wound kit? I’m a healer. Of sorts. ”
None of them move.
Frustrated, I hiss and stomp over to the horses. “We are not leaving until his injury is bandaged. The faster one of you gets me a wound kit, the sooner we can get on the road before more bandits show up and I have to bandage up all four of you.”
Rylan growls softly, throwing a warning glance at the other guards.
Mathis looks at me, clearly torn between his duty and my insistence, but then he pulls a small pouch from his pack and hands it to me, avoiding Rylan’s glare.
“Sit down, you obstinate ass,” I mutter, pointing at the closest log. “You can’t protect anyone if you pass out from blood loss.”
Surprisingly, he obeys.
And watches me silently as I work, cutting away the blood drenched fabric clinging to his wound, and cleaning it as well as I can. I turn to the guards who are standing around, looks of concern on their faces. “I know at least one of you has a flask with some liquor in it. I need it to sterilise the needle and the wound.” No one moves. “Hand it over, Grellor,” I pin the surly guard with my most withering glare. He lets out a string of curses that would make the most hardened soldier blush, and pulls out a silver flask from his pocket to hand to me but not before taking one last swig from it.
“This is going to need a few stitches,” I say, pouring the alcohol over the needle before pressing a whiskey drenched rag against the wound, “and it’s going to hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
I lock eyes with him. Flecks of fiery amber orange surrounded by sparkling black diamond irises stare back at me. I’ve never seen eyes like his before. Without warning, I pierce his skin with the first stitch. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Impressive,” I grant him the rare nice word as I try to work fast. He might not be showing it, but having a dull needle threading through a flesh wound without any numbing agent can’t be fun for him.
“I’ve had worse. And, uh, you’re very gentle.”
I let out a snort. “I could knee you between the legs if you’d like to show off to me just how much pain you could tolerate.”
“Maybe later. Bandits, remember?” he says, voice lower, leaning in slightly, as if he’s imparting a secret to me and me alone. The slightest curve of his lips accompanies his words.
And for a second it’s like we’re behind the brush again, hiding from the bandits, just the two of us, his voice in my ear.
I tie off the end of the last stitch, and bandage it off. “How does that feel?” I stare at him as I ask, trusting his eyes more than his words.
He clears his throat. “Fine. Thank you.”
Finally, I pull my eyes from his and gently tug at the bandage, making sure it’s secure. “That should hold for now, but you need proper treatment. When we get… wherever we’re going.”
He nods, his face tight with pain now that he’s trying not to hide it. “We need to leave now,” he repeats, his tone firm. “Can you ride?”
“I’m not the one with a strip of gauze holding my guts inside my body.” He pushes up from the log and tries to help me onto the horse, but I swat his hands away. “You’ll pull a stitch, and I’m not putting either of us through that again.” I turn to Mathis, and he jumps down from his horse to lift me into the saddle, to Rylan’s obvious displeasure.
Mathis returns to his horse, the other two guards are already mounted, their faces grim. Rylan pulls himself up with a grunt only I can hear and settles into his saddle behind me. No one speaks as we set off into the night, the horses’ hooves thudding softly against the forest floor .
Rylan’s presence behind me looms, protective and vigilant, and if he’s leaning a little closer to me than usual, I’m sure it’s because of his injury. If it helps him, then I can only wish he would move closer. The silence between us, though, is heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts and relived memories. I wait for him to scold me for trying to escape, but he doesn’t. There’s a stillness to him as he sits pressed against me, a sense of control that’s unnerving after the violence I just witnessed. He doesn’t seem affected by what he’s done, by the bodies that we left littered on our abandoned campsite.
The memory of his lethal blade cutting down the bandits still lingers, a stark reminder of the deadly force of which he’s capable. My mind races, trying to process everything that’s happened. I’ve never seen anybody killed before, let alone a whole band of bandits. The flashbacks leave me feeling drained and vulnerable.
I’m wondering if those bodies will ever be claimed or if someone will forever be wondering where some of them have gone when Rylan’s voice finally cuts through the darkness, breaking the silence.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is deep and velvety in the night.
I blink, so surprised by the unexpected apology I almost fall off the horse. “For what?”
“For letting them get to you,” he says, his tone gruff but genuine. “I should have been more vigilant. You shouldn’t have had to go through that. We should’ve guarded you better.”
Despite everything—the fear, the shock—I can’t help the wry smile that tugs at my lips. “I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me.”
He’s silent for a moment, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and even. “That’s not actually what I want. And definitely not like that.”
“But did you… did you have to kill them all?” I ask quietly, my voice barely more than a whisper in the darkness.
Rylan is silent for a moment, and I wonder if he’s going to answer me at all. Then his voice comes, low and steady. “Sometimes, you have to do what you don’t want to,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he isn’t talking to me about life and death. “Making those decisions… it separates people.”
“Into good and bad?” I ask, trying to understand, though my heart already feels heavy with the implications.
“No,” he replies, and there’s something in his voice that makes me turn my head slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of his expression in the dim light. “Into those who can live with themselves after and those who can’t.”
I hesitate, the question almost too heavy to ask, but I need to know. “And what happens to those who can’t live with themselves?”
Rylan is quiet for a long moment, the silence stretching between us. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, tinged with something I can’t quite place—regret, maybe, or something deeper. “They become ghosts,” he says, his words carrying a weight that chills me to my core. “Haunted by the choices they made... or didn’t make. At some point, you learn which type of person you are. And you’re not always going to like the answer.”
His answer lingers in the air, heavy with the weight of a confession I hadn’t expected. It’s more than just a response—it’s a truth, one that’s clearly shaped him, one that he carries with him every day. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m standing on the edge of something dangerous, something that could change me just as it’s changed him.
As the sky begins to lighten with the first hints of dawn, I realise that I’m no longer just a prisoner. I’m something more to him—something worth protecting. And that thought, more than anything else, both terrifies and comforts me.