Chapter 4
Alora
The tips of my fingers have turned angry and sore. The skin has even ripped in some places as I’ve thoroughly scoured every rough granite stone that makes up these walls. If it was possible to wear the stone into a smooth surface by touch alone, they would be polished by my desperation already.
My eyes have adjusted to the bleak lighting, thank the gods, but the shadows still linger in the far corners of the room. Their presence makes me feel more enclosed than I am. I inhale deeply, trying to ease the discomfort that constricts like a vine tightening around my chest.
Though the room is easily large enough to host a small gathering, with the looming darkness, it feels too close. Too dark.
I shake my tangled hair out of my face, the brown curls matted with sweat and grime, and throw them behind my shoulders.
If only I had a piece of leather strip or a clip to get the heavy length off my neck, perhaps then I could breathe better.
I wouldn’t feel so overwhelmed by the sensation and the darkness might not feel as thick.
Focusing on the plaster that’s slowly begun to chip away, I take a wooden shard I’d broken off of the table, leg and scrape it back and forth furiously.
My fingers ache and sting in protest as I continue the motion. I know it’s pointless. I know I can’t escape from here, but I’m not ready to succumb to that reality. I’d rather float in my delusions.
Little bits of the sand and clay begin to crumble to the floor as I press harder on the homemade shiv. The sharpened point digs into the plaster and eats away at the filling with each swipe.
With a puff of breath, I blow off the rubble and assess the hole I’ve chiseled into the plasterwork.
I step back to look at the wall again and my heart sinks. It’s small. Really small. Too insignificant for how long I’ve stood here digging at it.
Frustration tugs at my heart and I slam my hand against the wall.
A yell tears from my throat and I hit the wall again and again.
Hopelessness wiggles an ember of my magic, tapping it awake. The fibers of their essence strain under my skin, eager to unleash.
It’s uncomfortable as my flesh screams against the culling bands nullifying my magic. The manacles have been crafted by ancient spells to inhibit one’s ability to use their gifts. They’re perverse and painstakingly effective.
The irony isn’t lost on me as glare at the cuffs. The magic they cancel isn’t even able to be effectively used. Gods know I’ve tried.
In a fit of desperation I lift the wooden shiv and thrust it against the stones as hard as I can.
Blinding pain seizes my palm as the shiv slices through my grasp, my flesh tearing open as jagged slivers mar the meat of my hand.
“Fucking depths of Haldir!” The profanity huffs out of my mouth and I quickly bring my injured hand to my chest.
Cradling my fist as blood trickles down, painting my wrist in crimson, I cross the room until I find the washbowl filled with water.
Warmth begins to chase down my sleeve and the blood begins to stain. I reach for the somewhat clean linen and dip it into the bowl before bringing it to the rivulet of ichor. The gray brown rag muddies with the crimson and I dunk the cloth again in the water.
I suck in a sharp breath as I gently dip my palm in the cool basin. The sting causes my face to contort with a grimace as I swipe the rag over my wound.
With my free hand I pick out the little slivers of wood, wincing with each little tug as the slivers are pulled out.
It’s not terribly deep thank the gods, but it’s enough to make my stomach queasy looking at the unknitted flesh.
Once clean, I wrap it tightly with the spare dry linen as I silently chide myself for the recklessness.
I begin to knot the makeshift bandage but I’m unable to pull it tight with my free hand.
Just as I place the fabric in my mouth to garner more leverage, I shift towards the lantern in hopes for better light to see if the bandage has begun to stop the bleeding.
To my surprise, the door to my prison has opened. Standing in the doorframe is a forbidding shadowy figure. The flicker of the lantern reflects in his eyes, illuminating his green iris with gold flecks.
My body stills, steeped in uncertainty. I’m not sure why The Devourer has graced me with his presence. The hairs on my arm lift with his predernatural stare. He mirrors my own stillness as the quiet between us ebbs.
His form fitting shirt, tucked in and neat, adds a conflicting stance of his persona. He’s a beast wearing a mask of elegance. It’s perplexing, gazing at this man who is handsome but terrifying and knowing he’s committed atrocities many couldn’t fathom.
I dare not speak first. Instead I study how the shadows seem to peel off of him—how they seem to linger for no other reason than they’re entranced by his being.
Much as I am right now.
Damnit.
“I heard you scream,” he says cooly. The roughness from his voice earlier is replaced with indifference tinged with velvet.
“Hmm.” The noncommittal noise slips from my lips.
He continues, slowly easing his way closer to me, “It was my turn to guard you.”
It sounds as if he’s explaining his purpose here, as if I could truly care.
His gaze catches on the poorly wrapped cloth that is coiled around my throbbing palm. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was holding his breath by the way his chest seems to turn to stone.
“What has happened?” The same coolness floats in the air but something changes in his eyes. The pale green sharpens into a brighter mossy emerald.
Curious.
And it is curious considering the rest of his body language reveals nothing.
Excuses flip through my brain before I give in and land on the truth. “I slammed my first against the wall as I held a makeshift spear.”
I shift on the backs of my feet uncomfortably. The throb in my palm has now begun to seep into a steady ache. It’s enough where I do wish Leeson was here to heal it with her magic.
Usually I’m one to sit with the pain, welcome it even and the momentary reprieve of chaotic thoughts it grants.
This time though, it was caused by foolishness and desperation rather than the times I’ve carved into my skin out of the need for control when I’m spiraling for much different reasons.
The Devourer moves fast. In a matter of seconds he’s standing before me, his feline gaze focused on my hand.
“May I?” He slowly reaches, gesturing towards the wrapped extremity.
Before he can speak again, I gruff out, “It’s nothing. I’ve dealt with far worse.”
He shifts his eyes up and they dance between each of mine.
He begins again a few moments later, velvet lacing his words, “Such an untrusting creature you are.”
I stifle a snicker and swallow down any retort. He’s being too respectful for a man of his making. It causes my suspicion to grow. My brain begins to turn over what he could possibly want with me, and if he truly just came in to check on me.
“What do you want, Devourer?” Exhaustion eats at my patience.
He pulls his outstretched hand back as if it had been slapped. His eyes return to their dull pale green and any emotion on his face is wiped clean.
He clears his throat and begins, “You’re my responsibility as long as you’re here. I care about the duty in which I’ve been entrusted with. Keeping you safe until my king would otherwise command it.”
I look past The Devourer and wrestle thoughts of escaping and running past him. He’s bigger than I, and even though I’ve trained with Caym extensively, I know I’m no match for him when he is easily three heads taller than I and built like an ox.
I turn on my heel away from the unwelcomed guest and let my words slip freely, not caring enough to check my tone with the man even though I should.
“Do you enjoy it? The killing?” Perhaps I’ve spoken too boldly.
He doesn’t respond. At least not right away.
“I’m good at it. It’s my nature.” He says this matter of factly, the words threaded with warning.
I scoff, apparently emboldened by my looming death. “Ahh. There it is. The duty bound monster who is nothing more than a soldier with his head down.” Now that is too bold I chide myself.
His voice lowers, filling with gravel. The tone sends shivers down my spine as he replies, “We all have a monstrous nature at our core, but it doesn’t mean we enjoy it.”
I turn to face him—to garner the meaning I can’t decipher in his words. They’re strange coming from someone in his position.
His eyes seem to have gotten deeper, no longer the lifeless green but a rich emerald.
“I don’t enjoy it, and I don’t loathe it. But it’s what my king asks of me so I am indifferent to it.”
His confession stops me in my tracks.
Indifference is perhaps the biggest scourge on this land.
It’s one of the reasons we’re in this state of ruin; people simply stopped caring when their neighbors were seized and taken.
It quickly turned into something far more sinister when our brethren closed their eyes because the lie was easier to believe than the truth right in front of them.
I raise my chin until my nose points upwards. I can’t hide my accusatory tone when I ask, “So you’re detached from it then. From the cries and screams?”
Swallowing down my growing annoyance, unsure if I want to hear, I’m met by the sound of shuffling fabric. It’s my only answer.
A snicker escapes as I return my gaze to him. He’s begun to recede back towards the doorframe.
“Well?” I hiss and he stops just short of the door.
His brow furrows and his finger begins tapping against his leg rhythmically. Slowly his lips unlock and he answers, “I’ve grown accustomed to it and accept it for what it is, the will of King Euron whom I serve, and will serve for my entire life.”
My tone hardens, “What devotion you have.” Venom drips from my lips.
“Something like that I guess. And what of you, Alora Viren?”
Unsure of how to answer, I look to the small hole I’ve chiseled, as if I can escape this question.
“What of me?” I spit my question back, ready to end our conversation.
The gravel in his voice returns as he raises it. He retorts, “What do you do?”
I don’t owe him anything, much less something so intimate. Even so, he’s provoking. I want to prove to him that there’s more to us than duty and servitude.
I begin, “I enjoy riding in the night air on my horse Dahla. I used to enjoy reading but it no longer suits me,” clearing my throat, I continue, “I enjoy having opinions, and I love to sit beneath the moons and watch them rise and fall in the sky along with a crisp breeze and a blanket.”
I continue to bore my gaze into the plaster, willing myself to not look at The Devourer.
My breaths come too fast and I feel the warmth in my cheeks rise.
I whisper, “That is the time I feel at peace and alive. Free from the duties and constraints of the rebellion. So that is what I do.”
Speaking freely like this with a stranger isn’t something I’ve done since Hanin was stolen from this life. I haven’t dared to reveal these intimacies to anyone other than my inner circle, Leeson and Caym and sometimes even Merinda.
Thinking of them makes my heart slap in my chest as if a bird had flung its body into a glass pane. I quickly quench the rising emotion, drowning it in the deep trenches of my mind where I shove the discomfort and hurt.
“That’s unconventional,” the pause between the words has my gaze drifting up to meet his once again before he adds, “but I admire you for that.”
His lip is turned in a small sad smile, hopeless even.
I watch him for any glimpse of emotion that would betray his true reasons for speaking to me in the way he has, in a way that feels too intimate for the horrors and atrocities he’s committed.
“I should be retiring now, Alora.”
I hate the way my body leans towards him when he says my name. Especially now.
I offer a nod and turn away from him, focusing again on the little hole that seems oddly similar to the now chiseled crack in my own resolve.
The bastard.