Chapter 34 Thou Shalt Not Speak of What You Cannot See
Thou Shalt Not Speak of What You Cannot See
Arwen
Iwake to hushed voices, angry and close. My lashes stay low, but I risk a sliver of sight. The three figures who attacked me in the forest are standing in the same room. Their backs are to me. It looks like a woman and two men.
My wrists chafe against something rough.
I look down to see my hands are bound. My ankles also burn as the ropes bite deep, and there’s a gag strapped across my mouth.
My heart races, and everything in me wants to scream, but I force myself still.
Observe. Being frantic won’t help me right now.
Universe, what have I gotten myself into?
I’m not at the Academy. I can tell from the drab surroundings. Coffee cups litter the floor, takeout boxes stacked. The air is heavy, musty with mold and old food. Everything looks dirty, like no one has lived here for very long. I’m lying on a thin mattress, the springs digging into my spine.
Two other mattresses are laying in the room, blankets tossed on them like careless afterthoughts. Maps cover the walls, pinned with scraps of paper, lines drawn in messy ink. Whoever these people are, it looks like they’re camping here, hiding out. But why?
The woman, who looks and sounds like she’s in charge, stands with her hands planted on her hips. She’s tall and broad, with frizzy brown hair exploding in all directions. “No, Jack. We’re not going to do that.” Her voice is firm, final.
Her words snap at the shorter man beside her- balding, middle-aged, his gut pressing against his belt. Jack, apparently. He mutters something I can’t hear, shifting from foot to foot like a restless child.
But it’s the third one that my eyes freeze on.
He doesn’t speak, just nods at the woman.
He’s older than them both, judging by his greying hair.
Scars cover his face, cutting through a greying beard, eyes so cold they seem carved from stone.
I have learned to be cautious around battle-scarred survivors.
The ones who have seen, and survived, too many battles.
He looks dangerous.
And then those eyes turn. Right to meet mine. Too fast for me to squeeze mine shut.
“She’s awake,” he says, his voice like gravel.
I thrash, but my ropes hold. The woman steps closer, eyes scanning my face like she’s looking for something. She smells of smoke and cheap perfume, which makes my skin itch. But she walks with the confidence of a person in power.
“Tsk, tsk,” she says, amusement cold as iron.
“Don’t hurt yourself. You’ll only make it worse.
” She drops beside me on the mattress, the fabric whispering against my arm.
“We’re going to have a little chat. But before we remove your gag, I want your promise that you’ll behave. Nod if you understand.”
Her voice leaves no room for argument. Not that I could if I tried. I nod. What choice do I have? It doesn’t look like screaming would help my situation much, anyway.
She pulls the gag away, and I cough. My throat is desert-dry, every swallow scraping like sand. “How long have I been out?” I rasp.
“Not long,” she says, eyes assessing. “An hour, maybe two.”
“Why didn’t you take me back to the Academy?” I ask, confusion odd and sharp under the adrenaline.
She laughs, a rich sound that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, little sinless? To be cozy behind your safe wards?” She sneers the last word. For a heartbeat I feel grateful- I’d rather not wake up back where I started- but then the word sinless registers. She knows what I am.
“Which councilor do you work for?” I snap. Better to try for practical answers than beg.
“Councilor?” She laughs again, louder, and it curdles in the room.
“I serve no councilor, girl,” she spits.
Like she’s disgusted she even had to clarify.
“May the universe take those power-hungry bigots to hell.” Her voice is dangerous in a way that I can’t place—more venom than madness.
The threat of speaking such treason doesn’t scare her one bit.
“So you’re not taking me into exile?” I ask. She shakes her head, and I try to piece together what they might want with me.
“If you’re not working for the Council or the Academy, then…
let me go.” Desperation scrapes down my throat.
“There’s nothing you can get from keeping me.
No family waiting to pay a ransom. No power.
No value. You could walk away right now, and I’d never breathe a word about seeing you—hell, I don’t even know who you are. Just… let me disappear.”
She tilts her head, studying me the way someone might inspect a trapped insect. “Oh no, we can’t do that, little sinless. You’re far too valuable.” Her voice is syrup-sweet, like the answer should be obvious.
“Valuable?” A laugh cracks out of me, sharp and ugly. “You said it yourself—I’m sinless. No power. Nothing worth your effort. Keeping me is more trouble than profit.”
She goes quiet, standing and observing me. Then she mutters, mostly to herself, “You really don’t know what you are, do you?”
I don’t know how to respond to that. She’s clearly crazy.
She moves back to the table, grabbing the scarred man’s shoulder—and there’s a new quickness in her voice.
“Briar, go meet the others at the usual spot. They should be here soon. We’ll need to regroup and plan our next move as soon as possible. ”
The scarred man nods, silent, and takes something from the table- it looks like a stone or a rock.
He murmurs into his hand as he lifts it.
A thin red shimmer slides over him from head to toe, a translucent blanket of power that clings to his skin and hums. A shield. My breath stops. Not a stone. A relic.
The memory snaps back—the pressure of a stone pressed to my forehead when they took me. Relics. These aren’t random kidnappers. These are rebels. Sloth rebels.
Cold spreads through me like ice water. What are the rebels doing so close to the academy? How did they even get this close? What do they want with me?
A new fear takes over.
Briar walks out, the door clicking shut behind him. The woman turns back to the desk papers with a hum. I guess I’ve already lost her attention.
What did she mean—I don’t know who I am?
A loud crash snaps through the building, and my jaw clenches. The sound apparently startles the rebels too. “What was that?!” the woman snaps, looking at the door.
“Jack, go see why Briar hasn’t left yet. He needs to hurry. And tell him to keep it down—we’re trying not to draw attention to us,” she orders, rolling her eyes and going back to the documents.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jack says, and he hurries out.
She mutters to herself and flips papers with a concentration that makes my skin crawl.
While she’s distracted, I work my hands- slow, tiny movements — shimmying the rope around my wrists, feeling for slack.
The fibers bite into my skin, but maybe, just maybe, if I keep at it…
Jack slides back through the door holding two coffee cups, breathless. “He’s gone now. Brought us iced coffee. Figured it’s going to be a long night,” he says, thrusting a cup towards her.
“Right you are,” she replies, taking it and slurping it down. The smell of coffee prickles my nose — rich and warm and suddenly awful.
I force my mind to the ropes. Working to get loose and watching the pair for any sign they might turn around.
Suddenly, the woman faints like a marionette with its strings cut. One second she’s upright- eyes on the page- and the next she just collapses with a loud thud.
Jack immediately panics. “Matilda!” he yells, lunging to her side.
Before my brain can unscramble what’s happening, the door slams open and the room explodes into motion. Boots hit the floor, a shadowing blur—someone is in the doorway—and my chest goes cold with recognition.
I don’t believe what I am seeing. It’s… “Atticus?” I scrape out.
He’s a storm in the doorway, calm and furious as he glances my way.
He moves like a blade: quick, precise, lethal.
Jack runs towards the relics on the table, and Atticus is on him immediately.
His arm wraps around Jack’s throat, cutting off the air with a practiced chokehold.
For a second, Jack gurgles and flails; then he goes limp.
“I should have told you to drink the coffee,” Atticus grits out, and the words fall like gravel. I blink, the room tilting. Maybe I’m still dreaming. Maybe I’m still asleep.
Atticus is already on his knees in front of me, flinging ropes, hands moving too fast to follow. “Arwen,” he says, my name a hiss, and a prayer tangled together. “Are you hurt? Talk to me. Are you—”
I stammer, words tripping over each other. “What are you doing here? How—oh my universe—are they dead?”
“They’re not dead, and I don’t know how long they will be out.
Get up,” he orders, breath sharp. He drags me up off the mattress, holding me while I regain my balance, scanning the room the whole time.
“We have to go. Now. I don’t know where the third man went or when he’ll be back.
Take this.” He hands me a strange crystal that hums lightly in my hand.
It feels familiar. Friendly but dangerous at the same time.
I look down to where my feet should be and immediately drop the Crystal.
It hits the ground as my body becomes visible again.
“What is this? Where did you get it?” I hiss at him, picking it back up.
“I’ll explain later.” He picks up my bag, which I didn’t even notice was in the corner, and hands it to me. “Ready?”
“Hold on.” I say, heading to the table.
“Arwen…”
“It’ll take just a sec.” I grab at the papers, but they are all suddenly blank.
“Curse the rebels and their stupidly convenient mystical secrets.” I mumble.
Grabbing the leftover stones instead, I shove them deep into my bag. I’m not sure how Sloth relics work, but I know they are better in my hands than theirs.