Chapter 8
Elira
I woke on something soft—but not comforting.
The blanket scratched at my skin. The pillow was thin, and the air had the faint, sterile chill of a place that was never meant to be warm.
My body ached. My mouth was dry. For a moment I thought I was still in the ruins, Finn curled into me, his skin fever-hot against mine. But when I opened my eyes, reality set in.
Stone walls. A narrow slit of a window. A heavy door of dark ironwood reinforced with metal bars.
I was in a cell. A very clean, very deliberate cell.
I pushed myself up slowly, every muscle protesting. The cot creaked beneath me. My boots had been removed, but my clothes—dirtied from days of running—remained. A folded blanket sat neatly on the end of the bed, like they expected me to be grateful for it.
I tried to stand and nearly collapsed. My limbs felt half-carved from wax.
“Hello?” I called hoarsely. My voice echoed back at me, swallowed by the stone.
Nothing.
I shuffled to the door, pressed my palms to the solid wood and peered out the small window at the top. The corridor beyond was empty, shadowed and silent. No guards. No torches. Just a flickering magical light pulsing along the ceiling.
“Finn?” I whispered, louder now. “Finn!”
Nothing.
Panic surged. Where was he? What had they done?
“Let me see him!” I shouted, pounding my fists against the door. “He’s sick! He needs me!”
No answer. I hadn't expected one.
Minutes dragged by — maybe longer.
Then, at last, footsteps.
I stumbled back as the door creaked open. Phoenix stepped through, his jacket neat, his expression a careful mask. In his hands, a plate laden with stew and bread steamed invitingly, but I barely looked at it. I glared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Where is he?” My voice shook, more with exhaustion than fear.
Phoenix shut the door behind him, slow and deliberate. “He’s alive. Resting. That’s all I can say.”
“That’s not enough.” My voice cracked. “Phoenix... please... take me to him.”
He offered a small, wry smile. “Didn’t know you had that word in your vocabulary.”
“This isn’t a joke!” I snapped.
He sighed, setting the food down on the battered side table.
“You said he’d be okay,” I whispered.
Phoenix’s mask didn’t slip, but something behind his eyes shifted. “And he is. They’re taking care of him. They’ll keep him a few days, test him, then release him back to the city.”
“Test him?” I shook my head, a sick feeling churning in my gut. “He’s just a man. Please don’t hurt him.”
“This isn’t personal, Elira. The king—”
“Screw the king.” The words seared from my lips before I could stop them, and my power prickled against my skin like frostbite.
Phoenix moved fast, clamping a hand over my mouth.
“Don’t ever say that out loud again.” His voice was low, urgent. “These walls have ears. They’ll kill you for it.”
I froze, heart hammering against his warm palm. Shoving him away, I staggered back.
“Keep your hands off me,” I snapped.
Phoenix only sighed and backed toward the door.
I slumped onto the narrow cot, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to hold in all the broken, shivering pieces.
Phoenix hesitated, his hand on the doorframe. “Eat. Rest. Someone will come for you soon.”
Then he was gone, the door sealing shut behind him with a cold, final click.
I stared blankly at the cracked wall.
The silence pressed in.
Finn was alive.
But for the first time since that night in the alley,
I couldn’t reach him.
And that terrified me more than anything.
It took me five seconds to explore the room.
Five seconds to let the stark, sterile walls and the hum of artificial light settle around me.
The room was too neat, too perfect, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.
It felt like a place meant for keeping people inside, not for them to live in.
There was no soul here. No trace of anyone who cared.
But it was safe. It was dry. It was... better than the streets.
Except for the fact I was a prisoner.
I moved toward the small bathroom attached to the cell.
The door opened with an automatic click, revealing a small, pristine space.
The walls were white, the floor a clean tile, and there was a toilet and a shower in the corner, a gleaming silver fixture that looked as if it had never been used.
I stood in front of it for what felt like an eternity, my mind racing.
It had no knobs. No familiar buttons or levers. Just a smooth, cold surface. How was I supposed to make it work? Was there some trick I was missing? I’d never used a shower before—not like this.
I reached out tentatively, but it was useless. I didn’t know how to work this thing.
But that wasn’t the worst part. There no windows to the outside world. I could have been underground, for all I knew. It was suffocating.
I moved away from the shower, my feet dragging, and sat on the cold floor of the bathroom, the plate of food in my hands.
The meal was simple, but it looked far better than anything I’d eaten in years.
A warm stew, meat, vegetables, bread—everything that had been lacking in my life for far too long.
My body had learned to make do with scraps and raw food, to survive without the comfort of a proper meal.
Now, the plate in my hands felt too much like luxury. The food looked too perfect. Like it didn’t belong to someone like me. I wasn’t sure how to deal with it. My stomach churned in protest, but hunger gnawed at me relentlessly. Slowly, I brought the spoon to my mouth.
The warmth spread through me almost immediately. The meat, soft and tender, melted on my tongue. The flavours were rich, comforting in a way I couldn’t quite comprehend. I hadn’t had a meal like this in... years. Maybe longer.
I don’t know how long I sat there. It didn’t take long for boredom to settle in like a fog. The silence was oppressive, the sameness of the walls maddening. I paced. Sat. Paced again. Every second seemed to stretch, each minute dragging like it had nowhere else to be.
I was starting to lose track of time, my thoughts fraying at the edges, when a sudden hiss cut through the stillness. The shower burst to life on its own, a powerful spray of steam and water filling the room.
I blinked at it in surprise.
A timer? Some kind of motion sensor?
It didn’t matter.
I moved quickly, stripping off the last of my worn clothes, save for the necklace that I never removed.
I stepped under the stream quickly, before it decided to turn off again.
The heat hit me like a wave—startling at first, then achingly good.
I let out a quiet breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
Water rushed over me, hot and steady, and the grime of the last few days—or maybe weeks—began to melt away. Dirt pooled at my feet, swirling with old blood in thin red and black ribbons. It felt wrong, watching it go. It was like pieces of who I was were being carried down the drain.
There were bottles neatly lined on a small shelf—clear liquids that smelled like flowers and honey. I hesitated, then picked one up. The scent made my head spin.
Vanilla? And honey?
It was overpowering, but delicious and light.
I inhaled it like it was a drug. I lathered the soap over my arms, my legs, scrubbing away the filth until my skin burned.
I washed my hair twice, the strands catching between my fingers, tangled and rough.
I stayed there longer than I needed to, letting the warmth seep into my bones, into the parts of me that had been cold for far too long.
When they finally shut the water off, I stood for a moment, water dripping from my hair, unsure what came next. I had been given everything I’d needed—warmth, food, shelter. It should’ve made me feel safe.
But it didn’t.
It made me feel watched.
As I stepped out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a towel so soft it felt like it had never known dirt. The warm fabric cocooned me, almost startling in its comfort. I moved toward the small mirror above the sink, wiping away the steam with the edge of my hand.
I look like shit.
The thought came automatically, familiar and dry. But the image staring back at me didn’t quite match the words.
Gone was the grime, the streaks of dried blood and soot. My skin—pale, almost luminous in the artificial light—looked impossibly clean and unmarked. My long black hair hung in loose waves down my back instead of the usual matted tangles. And my eyes… they were too bright. Too blue. Too haunted.
I looked fragile. Ghost-like. And still—there was something sharp beneath the surface, something I didn’t recognize.
I lifted a hand to my face. My fingers, scarred and rough, traced the clean curve of my cheek. I turned slightly, and the light caught the long, deep scars along my back—some of them carved into my flesh by a history I couldn’t quite remember.
No shower in the world could wash those away.
They were part of me now, as much as the blood in my veins.
Fresh clothes had been left folded neatly at the foot of the bed—a plain white shift and matching loose pants. Stark, sterile, but clean. I slipped them on over the generic underwear that had been tucked beneath them, the fabric soft against my skin in a way that felt almost alien.
Then I crawled beneath the thin blanket, curling up on the stiff mattress like I was trying to disappear into it.
And finally—finally—I let myself break.
The tears came silently at first, slipping down my cheeks without warning. I pressed my face into the blanket to muffle the sound, but it didn’t matter. No one was coming. No one cared.
It wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn’t just fear.
It was everything. It was being caught. Of losing. Of being ripped from the only person who mattered. Of being alone in a place that felt too clean, too quiet, too strange.
So, I cried. For the first time in years, I cried like the girl I used to be—before the shadows. Before the streets. Before all of this.