10. Open Sky #2
With a quiet sigh, I slip off my shoes, letting the cool earth press into my bare feet. The sensation is grounding, as if the soil beneath me can somehow pull away the weight of everything I’ve been carrying: fear, uncertainty, loneliness.
I close my eyes for a moment just to feel it. The grass between my toes, the steady hum of the earth beneath me. It brings back a fleeting memory of me running through a field, laughing with my brother, the grass brushing against my legs as the sun warms my skin.
I shake my head, forcing the memory away, focusing on the present.
The breeze whispers through the trees, a soft caress against my skin, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel entirely trapped.
“Don’t take too long, Lyra,” he murmurs, his voice low. “I have something you should see . . . and I’m not usually one for patience.”
I freeze, the words lingering in the cool night air. My chest tightens as he turns. I slip my shoes back on and follow him toward the treeline.
I fall in step beside him as he leads me to the edge of the forest. A narrow, overgrown dirt path snakes through the trees.
The hike is harder than I expect, the uneven ground slowing me down. The forest itself feels . . . eerie. It is silent, unnaturally so, no birds, no rustling leaves, not even the faint hum of insects.
I want to speak, to break the stillness, but nothing comes. My mind is blank. Earlier, I had a thousand questions for him, but now, standing here outside, they all seem to have evaporated. It is almost a relief when he finally says something.
“Tell me, Lyra, do you ever regret running?” His smile is barely there, but the question lingers between us like a challenge and an invitation.
My jaw tightens at his question, as I fight to hold back the wave of emotions. His words cut deep, stirring the old pain of being caught after I’d almost tasted freedom.
“Regret running?” I scoff, but it comes out more strained than mocking. “No. But I sure as hell regret being caught again,” I mutter, the bitterness in my voice rich.
I take another step forward, closing the distance between us.
“You—” I start, but the words fall short as I try to steady my breath before speaking again.
“You are the one who put me back in a cage.” The words come out slowly, but even despite the emotion in them.
“That’s my only regret.” I meet his stare, unflinching, defiance now simmering beneath the surface.
“So, tell me, Oberon,” I say, my voice comes low and tight with something far darker than anger, “why are you so interested in my regret?”
Oberon’s gaze never wavers, the calm in his eyes an unsettling contrast to the anger laced in my tone. He studies me for a heartbeat before his lips start to barely curve into a knowing smirk, but his expression is still unreadable.
"Regret," he echoes, rolling the word on his tongue as though he is testing its weight. "I don’t buy into it. Not really.” He pauses as if gathering his thoughts.
“Regret is for things you can’t change, for stories already told," he states, his eyes glinting with something cryptic.
"I’ve had my share of darkness, made mistakes I wouldn’t mind rewriting . . . but—" he cuts himself off, sighing deeply.
His eyes flicker to the necklace still around my throat. His focus hovers over it for a moment before meeting my stare again.
“Freedom, Lyra," Oberon says, his voice lowering, cutting through the tension, "is a tricky thing.” His voice is soft now, but there is an edge to it, something sharp beneath the smooth cadence.
I brush my fingers over the necklace, a small, defiant gesture. Concentrating on the small, beautiful stone in the center. "Freedom, huh?" I scuff bitterly, my voice steady. "Funny because I’m still trapped. All I see is another prison, different walls, different chains."
Oberon glances at the necklace again, noticing my fiddling with the pendant, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “Freedom isn’t always that cut and dry. Sometimes, it’s just a matter of knowing which cage you can live with.”
I let out a dry laugh as my eyes narrow. “Ok, then why the cabin as my prison?”
Oberon’s eyes darken, intensity flickering as he takes a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the space between us. The energy becomes oppressive. His voice drops, soft but unwavering. “I brought you here to save you, Lyra. Not to imprison you."
I hold my ground, shoulders squared. He notices, of course, he does. His gaze traces the tension in my posture, as if looking for cracks. A humorless laugh escapes my lips. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“Out there, beyond these walls, you’d be dead.”
My eyes widen in disbelief at his words.
His voice softens further, almost like a whisper shared between two people who are still learning to trust each other, despite the walls they've built around themselves. “You may not understand it now, but keeping you here, giving you the space to breathe, to heal . . . It’s the only way to keep you alive.”
I hate the way his words slip under my skin. His eyes hold mine, steady and unflinching, the truth of his words sinking in with the weight of his focus. “I’m not asking you to like it, but it is the only choice I have. It was the only choice you had.”
“Alive?” I scoff, forcing a bitter laugh. “But not living.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Instead, that damn smirk creeps back.
“I’ll take you living,” he says, a soft chuckle escaping his soft lips.
I glare, ready to snap something back, but he cuts me off, voice dipping low, carrying a dangerous edge.
“You wouldn’t have made it, Lyra,” he repeats, emphasizing the words as if they didn’t carry enough weight the first time.
The words hang there for a heartbeat.