Chapter 9
Nine
Elora
Roman hasn’t been back since our last encounter nearly a week ago and to my surprise, neither has Galen. The food, however, hasn’t stopped coming.
I run my fingers along the tip of the knife’s blade one more time before shoving it under my pillow. I have no idea if Roman left it wrapped in the loaf of bread intentionally, or if it was a mishap. Either way, I hold it close every night. Waiting for the right moment to use it.
I swallow down the rest of my meal before I begin my exercise. I know they’re only feeding me to keep me alive until they can find a way to harvest my magick, but I don’t care. The food has given me a false sense of hope and now that I’ve gone so long without, I leave nothing to waste.
With the dizziness of starvation gone, I begin to use my endless amount of time alone to think of a way to get out of this cell. I work on stretching and moving my body. Rebuilding strength in my knee where it was injured and making sure my bones aren’t too stiff.
Little by little pieces of my broken self start to come together. I don’t have any way of looking at myself, but for the first time in a long time I know I’d be proud of my reflection. I have been burned to bits, and instead of remaining as rubble, I have taken the opportunity to grow. They say the Phoenix rises from the ashes…but they make no mention of how badly it burns along the way. Is this my moment to rise? To fight through the pain of the flames in the hopes I’ll sprout wings? But what if the fire hasn’t gifted me wings. What if, instead, I have grown claws and teeth.
So sharpen my teeth, I will.
After how long it’s been, trying to reach out to Alaric seems futile. But seeing as how I’ve nothing better to do while I wait to be dragged back to that room, I try anyway.
Breathless from my exercise, I slide down until I’m sitting on the stone floor with my back pressed against the wall. The lantern flickers as I close my eyes and reach out for Alaric. The iron rubs against my wrists, a reminder that this won’t work.
And yet, I try anyway.
Can you hear me?
Alaric?
After a few more unsuccessful attempts, my shoulders sag as my eyes pop open.
“Curse these damn shackles.”
Be patient.
“No!” I scream and despite the soreness in my legs I stand and begin to pace. The vision of the knife under my pillow flashes in my mind.
No.
What I thought was left as a weapon to defend myself, I now realize is perhaps more of a test of will. I shake my head to rid it from the thought. Of the sharp point of the knife meeting the softest flesh of my wrist. I think of Roman and the satisfaction it would give.
“I need out of here!”
My voice echoes back to me, making me cringe as it hits my ears.
“I need air.” I claw at the shackles around my wrists, desperate for a reprieve but all it does is sting the areas that have already been ripped open.
My breaths come and go so quickly it’s hardly as if I’m breathing at all. A sharp pain in my chest forms and with it, the darkness I’ve held off for so long creeps into the edges of my vision. My throat tightens and hands tremble.
I rip the knife from under my pillow and throw it across the cell. It hits the bars with a loud clang .
Shoving the pillow over my head, I welcome the darkness this time. I embrace the sweep of shadows as I close my eyes and lose myself to sleep.
“Can you see it, love?” Sorin’s voice pulls my attention, and when I turn to him, he smiles, his white teeth flashing against his dark stubble.“Right there.” He points just past my shoulder. I follow his finger until I see it.
A tiny yellow bird is perched on a low branch of a nearby pine.
A smile spreads over my face. “What is it?”
The bird sings, high chirps drifting through the woods. Its bright yellow and dark feathers are prominent in the otherwise gray and green surroundings.
“It’s beautiful.” I take a step closer, but heavy raindrops hit the branch. The bird flies away.
“A goldfinch.” Sorin wraps his arms around my middle and kisses the side of my neck. “They are meant to bring good fortune.”
I cast him a smile over my shoulder. “You believe that superstition?”
“Of course.” He smiles, cheek dimpling just as the rain increases, soaking our hair and clothes. Laughing, he grabs my hand as we sprint through the forest.
“Some good fortune!” I yell over the rising storm.
“I never said good weather !” He laughs, his hand still clasped in mine.
Dark clouds roll in, blocking any light from beyond the pines. A gall of wind splits between us, breaking our hands apart.
“Sorin!” I stumble, tripping over an exposed root. “Sorin!”
The wind whips around me again, pulling at my hair, sending twigs and branches through the air. They bite and cut against my skin. I scream Sorin’s name again, but through the storm and the darkness, he never answers.