9. Chapter 9
Arwen
I’m shoved back into my cell hard enough that my shoulder clips the wall, scraping my newly bandaged arm.
Atticus is already on his feet. His face drains of color the second he sees me. His breath catches as if someone punched him.
“What the fuck have they done to you?” he demands, voice raw.
He lunges for the bars separating our cells, shoving his arms through.
He does this every time they bring me back, and I should be used to it by now. It’s still a punch in the gut to see his face. Horror. Bare and unfiltered. The fiery grey storm in his eyes has been all wiped out.
I straighten, even though everything in me screams to collapse. I lift my chin, force my shoulders back and blink through the throbbing pain.
“It’s okay,” I say, light and dismissive. “It looks worse than it is.”
I know he won’t buy it. Not even for a second.
His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring as his gaze tracks the fresh bandages, the dried blood that didn’t quite wash away, the limp I try to hide. He knows I’m lying. He always does.
I close the distance anyway.
I step into his reach and let him pull me in, his hands cupping my arms. His touch is feather-light, but it anchors me all the same. I won’t ever admit it out loud, but this is usually the best part of my day.
He breathes me in, forehead pressing against my temple, and I let myself melt into it, even if it’s only for a moment.
“I’m here,” I murmur, more for him than for me. “I’m okay.”
The hard truth is I don’t know how much more of these experiments I can take. My body is reaching its breaking point.
His fingers tremble as they trace over my skin, avoiding the worst of it. I avoid reading into it. I know he needs this, needs to know I’m solid, breathing, real.
When his breathing evens out, I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
“It worked,” I whisper. “Sort of. Barely. But it worked.”
His head snaps up. “You used your power?” Alarm slices through his voice.
“Yeah.” I huff a weak laugh. “Would’ve been great if the void showed up before all the cutting, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”
He swears under his breath, hands curling into fists against the bars. Pride and terror war across his face. “Arwen—”
“I know,” I cut in. “I know.”
He knows this means the experiments will continue… proof that the pain is working.
I slip out of his reach before he can argue, before he can see how badly my legs are shaking. I move toward the corner of my cell, to the loose stone hiding my stolen Sloth relics.
This is where I spend what little energy I have left.
I pull the three relics free, their weight familiar in my palm. Familiar, but cold and unresponsive.
I sink down against the wall, knees pulled to my chest, and turn them over one by one, searching for anything. Any sign that they’re more than dead weight.
It’s probably futile. I’ve been examining them every day before I succumb to exhaustion.
But I need something to work on. Something that takes my focus away from the pain.
“I saw nothing new today either,” I say, more to myself than to him. “Outside the lift and the lab. There’s nowhere else they’ve taken me. No windows. No doors.”
I glance up at him. “I’ve tried talking to the scientists. Not the ones who run the experiments, but the low-level ones. The ones who clean me up. Not even insults get a reaction. They won’t say a word to me.”
Atticus exhales, anger simmering beneath the surface. “They’re keeping you blind on purpose.”
“I know.”
I roll one stone between my fingers, jaw tightening. “Which means if we’re getting out of here, it won’t be because they slip up.”
Atticus lets out a rough breath, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“We’ll figure something out. There’s always a weak link.
A disgruntled guard, someone who realizes Councilor Blaise’s information is worth more than their loyalty.
They’d have to know my father would pay.
” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “We are in Greed, right?”
I snort at his attempt at humor.
He gives the faintest twitch of a smile, but it dies fast. Sinking back against the wall of his cell, his shoulders slump. “All I can do is sit here. I’ve just never felt so useless.”
The word lands heavy. Useless. Tilting my head, I study him through the bars.
“I know the feeling. No one knows feeling useless quite like I do.”
He winces. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I shrug. “I survived it. Out of spite.”
I drop my gaze back to the stones in my lap, rolling them between my fingers. One clinks against the concrete. I set it aside and pick up the gray one again. It’s rough.
I shift my weight against the wall, and the movement drags my bandaged arm across the concrete and stone. White-hot pain lances up my side.
“Fuck,” I hiss, going rigid.
The word echoes off the concrete, and my breath stutters as I look down at my arm.
Blood has already soaked through the bandage, blooming dark and wet.
Fantastic.
I squeeze my eyes shut, riding out the throb. Healing powers would be really nice right about now. Or painkillers. I’m not picky.
The stone in my hand warms, drawing my attention.
Atticus insists they’re inert without activation, just glorified paperweights.
But this one feels… awake. My eyes snap open.
“Atticus,” I say, heart pounding, “I think the stone is doing something.”
I push myself to my feet despite the protests screaming from every nerve and limp toward the bars. I press the stone into his waiting hand.
He sucks in a sharp breath the second his fingers close around it. “I feel it,” he says, voice going tight. “It’s… reacting. Like it’s waking up. This is how the relics I’ve handled have felt.” His brow furrows. “But how?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me,” I mutter.
He turns the stone over, studying it like it might bite him. “I don’t know what it does.”
He hands it back. The second it’s in my palm again, a tingling sensation crawls up my arm. Not painful. Almost… soothing.
I freeze.
“Uh,” I whisper.
My gaze drops to my arm. The bandage feels warm now, damp but not with blood. Heat seeps into my skin, spreading outward in slow waves. I peel the fabric back inch by inch to find my skin’s edges kitting back together.
The cut is closing. Not instantly. But it’s undeniable. It’s healing—red fading to pink, pain dulling into a distant ache.
“What the—”
Atticus is already there, fingers wrapping around my wrist as he carefully twists my arms to see. “Arwen,” he breathes. “The stone,” he says, eyes locked on my arm. “It’s healing you.”
I huff a breath, half hysterical. “I’m confused. Sloths are supposed to be the only ones who can activate these, right?”
“That’s true,” he says. Then he falters. “Or at least that’s what every history book has said.”
I lift my gaze to his, “Then how did this one activate?”
“I don’t know,” he admits.