#siennawrites

Parents went to bed hungry. Children learned not to ask about it. And it was especially hard to feed a stray child, no matter how beloved she was.

Still, she was fed. Not nearly enough, but fed. Castor and Alexandra always saved something for her, even when they pretended it was nothing—scraps, leftovers, “too much broth.” Alexandra had fed her as a baby, she couldn’t stop now. Chloe’s parents passed her bread she’d stretch through the week, breaking it into careful pieces and pretending not to notice how slowly she ate it.

She was growing fast. Too fast. Her trousers barely reached her calves now, tunics hanging like borrowed shirts. Shoes were easier to come by–hand-me-downs–but mending them took time and thread she didn’t always have. At least she still had her father’s jacket. She wore it constantly, the sleeves far too long, the weight of it grounding. At night, she slept wrapped in it, as though it might trick her mind into believing his warmth was still there beside her.

Today, she’d been lucky.

Alexandra had given her enough for a proper broth–and meat. Real meat. Castor had butchered a goat that morning. Eliana hugged the basket to her chest as she walked, breathing in the cold air and focusing on the crunch of snow beneath her boots. She used to love that sound. It reminded her of something–of laughter, maybe–but she couldn’t quite remember what anymore.

The impact came without warning.

A blunt force slammed into her side, knocking the breath from her lungs as she was thrown into the snow. Pain flared through her body. She heard snarling before she even opened her eyes. When she did, her heart dropped.

The basket was on the ground, food scattered across the snow.

She shoved at the dog with all her strength before it could claim everything. It was huge–far larger than the lean village dogs she knew–and it didn’t retreat. Its focus wasn’t the food. It was her.

Teeth sank into her father’s jacket.

“No—!” She screamed as she wrestled with it, snow and blood mixing beneath them. She managed to roll, her nose bursting with pain as it struck the ground. The dog lunged again, pinning her, its breath hot and foul, saliva gathering at its jaws.

Her fingers brushed something solid.

A stone.

She grabbed it and brought it down, sharp and clumsy. Once. Twice. Tears streamed down her face as the dog yelped, thrashed–until it didn’t. She kept striking long after the sound stopped, until her arms gave out and the world tilted sideways.

When she finally stood, dizziness washed over her. Her stomach hollowed as her eyes slid, unwillingly, to the mangled body in the snow.

She didn’t want to look.

The dog was well-fed. Its coat glossy. Nothing like the scraggly animals in Finngarth–the ones that slept by hearths and never harmed children. Relief and horror tangled painfully in her chest. At least it wasn’t one she knew. At least it wasn’t one that had ever licked her face.

She gathered the food with shaking hands, pressing it back into the basket, and turned to run.

She didn’t get far.

A palanquin blocked her path. Heavy. Ornate. Completely out of place against the snow and stone. The curtain parted, and a bejeweled hand emerged.

“Oh, you poor child…”

The voice was warm, smooth. A man leaned forward–human, with long dark brown hair and an equally long beard. He wore a deep red robe embroidered with beads that caught the light, a fur-lined cape draped over his shoulders. Eliana stared, frozen. She had never seen such wealth gathered into one person.

In Finngarth, they mined silver. Bracelets and necklaces were fashioned from what miners could sneak out. They looked like home. This man’s gold, his lapis lazuli, his rubies—they looked like stories. Fairytales.

He smiled patiently, as though he knew she needed time to understand what she was seeing.

“I am Lord Merevan,” he said gently. “But you may call me Paris.”

Her throat tightened. His eyes were kind. Too kind. Still, unease crept up her spine, like a shadow stretching toward her from behind.

“You’re covered in blood,” he continued softly. “Are you hurt?”

She broke.

“I—I was going home,” she sobbed. “With food. And a dog—” The words tangled and fell apart. Tears poured freely now.

Paris stepped down from the palanquin, kneeling in the snow so they were eye to eye. He brushed the tears from her face with warm fingers.

“You poor thing. You were very brave. Very strong.” His voice never rose. “You’re safe now. My guards won’t let anyone hurt you.”

She leaned into the touch before she realized she was doing it.

“Where are your parents?”

She shook her head, the truth too heavy to lift into words.

“Oh.” His expression softened further. “I’m so sorry. Then who feeds you?”

“Friends,” she whispered.

“They must be very good people,” Paris said. “Very noble, to share in a year like this.”

She nodded, letting her forehead rest briefly against his hand. Gods, she missed her father.

“Where I live,” Paris continued, “winters aren’t so harsh. Sharing doesn’t hurt as much. There’s enough food for every stomach.” He smiled again. “I have no children of my own. My work keeps me terribly busy. But I couldn’t leave an orphan to fend for herself.”

Her brow furrowed. Leave Finngarth? Leave Chloe? Everyone she knew?

“But… I like it here…”

“Oh, it is beautiful,” he agreed warmly. “I’d like it here too.” His voice lowered. “But your friends–don’t they go a little hungrier so you can eat?”

The thought struck her like a blow. She’d never considered it that way. Everyone always smiled when they fed her. But Paris was right. Everyone was hungry. If she weren’t there…

She nodded, slow and uncertain.

“You’re such a brave girl,” Paris said. “Such a strong girl. Not like those born with silver spoons. You understand what the little people endure.” His eyes gleamed. “That’s exactly the kind of child I want in my household. What's your name?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. She smiled, small and fragile. “Eliana.”

“Eliana, do you think,” he asked gently, “you could lend me some of that strength someday? When you’re all grown?”

“I can,” she said, determined.

Paris removed his cape and wrapped it around her shoulders, its warmth immediate. He helped her into the palanquin as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Then show me your home,” he said kindly. “You’ll want to bring your things.”

She broke into a grin before she could stop herself, as he swam towards her and rested his chin on her knees.

She grinned. “There you are.”

“Miss me?”

“Terribly.”

He hummed, pleased, fingers drifting in his nervous habit to the piercing beneath his lip. The coral at his throat knocked softly against her leg.

She looked him over, slow. He was wearing something completely different from any clothes she had ever seen. A loose net draped around his shoulders like a poncho, cords made out of seaweed embroidered with shark teeth, pearls, and bits of coral, all woven together in messy, organic patterns that refused to be orderly. Much like him. Beneath it hung a simple tunic, a long strip of fabric slung over one shoulder and tied at the waist, shifting with the water.

Her gaze lingered longer than she meant it to.

He noticed. His smile faltered just a bit, nervous energy creeping in as he fiddled with his piercing again.

She softened immediately, reaching down to run her fingers gently over his scalp, along the base of the fin. These were the clothes he grew up with, and they were beautiful. But so were her old dresses that she'd wear to Paris' parties. Her hand carressing him made him still.

With one hand bracing against the dock, the other searched through the cords and fabric draped across his body.

He found what he was looking for.

“Happy birthday, Eliana.”

She leaned down to kiss him, more teeth than lips as she felt him smile against her mouth. When she pulled back, he pressed something into her hand.

A coral necklace.

Her breath caught. It was nearly identical to the one he always wore. She nearly launched herself into the water to hug him, but he caught her wrist gently.

“Wait,” he said. “Put it on.”

She did. The magic stirred almost at once, looking for a hook to sink into.

“This is magic?” she asked, head tilting.

“Yeah,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth. “It was a pain in the ass to steal.”

She laughed. “From Messina?”

He shrugged. “Nobody needs to use it. Figured it’d look better on you.”

"Oh, absolutely!" She settled the enchantment with magic of her own, feeling it lock into place. “And what does it do?”

He swam backward, still holding her gaze, that familiar mischievous smirk curling across his face. “Come and see.”

Then he dove.

She didn’t hesitate. Eliana jumped into the sea after him, opening her eyes as she swam deeper to him. He took her hands in his.

“Breathe,” he told her. His voice came from all around her, carried almost eagerly by the water.

She cocked her head, skeptical, and he laughed—bubbles escaping his mouth.

“Breathe.”

Against her better judgment, she did. And the water didn’t burn her lungs. It didn’t fight her at all. She inhaled again, astonished, the magic humming gently against her chest. She laughed, the sound swallowed by the sea.

“Oh,” she ventured speaking. “Oh, that’s amazing."

“Told you.” Ceton continued, softly now, still holding her hands, “I guess I wanted you to see my world too. As shitty as it is.”

She looked around—at the way the light fractured through the water, at the slow sway of sea plants, at him, glowing faintly in the blue.

“Well,” she said, smiling at him, “it’s very pretty.”

They hovered there for a moment, close enough that she could feel the movement of the water between them. He leaned in and kissed her, slow and soft, before pulling back with a grin.

“Come on,” he said, tugging her hand. “I want to show you something.”

They swam deeper, light thinning into soft blue ribbons. Fish scattered as they passed, quick flashes of silver and yellow. He guided her around a rocky outcrop and into a narrow channel where the current slowed.

“This way,” he said. "Don’t kick too hard.”

“Why?”

“You’ll scare them.”

Her head snapped toward him. “Scare who?”

He smiled wide, she could see all his youth in that smile, she could almost see hers too.

They slipped out of the channel and into open water. Below them, the sea floor sloped into a broad, sandy stretch broken by stone shelves. He slowed, drawing her in close.

“Stay here,” he murmured. “And don’t flail.”

“I never flail.”

“You'll absolutely want to flail.”

She swatted at him, and he laughed, bubbles streaming up as he pointed downward.

At first she saw nothing.

Then movement.

A shadow passed beneath the sand shelf. Then another. Long, smooth bodies gliding just above the sea floor.

Eliana’s breath caught.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Ceton.”

Three sharks cruised lazily through the basin, unhurried, graceful, gentle. One turned, revealing a pale underside before disappearing into the blue again.

“I used to sneak out to come here,” he said, quieter now. “When I was a kid. Now I only visit sometimes."

She looked at him, then back at the sharks.

“They’re not scared of you,” she said.

“No,” he replied. “They know me.”

He reached into a pouch tied at his waist and let pieces of fish drift from his hand.

The sharks turned almost immediately.

They circled closer this time, curious rather than cautious. One passed close enough that Eliana could see the faint scars along its side.

“You fed them,” she said.

“I still do,” he replied. “When I can.”

She pressed closer to him as one shark swept past, close enough that she could feel the water shift.

“They’re beautiful,” she said.

“They are,” he agreed. “Everyone back home said they were monsters.”

He shrugged, eyes following their movement. “I never believed that.”

She turned toward him and cupped his face, pressing her forehead to his. She enjoyed being taller than him, but here, floating eye to eye felt oddly nice too.

“I’m glad you showed me,” she said.

He swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

They stayed there until the sharks drifted away, disappearing back into the blue. When they finally surfaced later, farther down the coast, the sun was still high.

Eliana sprawled on the warm rocks as the water dried on her skin. Ceton lingered in the shallows, then joined her, lying on his side.

She bumped his shoulder with hers. “So. What else do you have hidden down there?”

He smirked. “That depends.”

“On what?”

Surely. She’d been doing this for–what–eight years now? Somewhere along the way, the appropriate age must have caught up with her.

She shook the thought away.

Ceton was waiting by the stairwell, leaning against the wall. Curiosity and weariness both clear in his expression. He was a terrible actor. Always too honest, even when that honesty landed him in trouble. But that honesty made her feel safe. And if things turned ugly, he was good in a fight. And if he wasn’t good enough, she was more than capable of dragging him out herself.

She gave him a strained smile, still honest. Then she touched his elbow and nudged him toward the stairs.

She didn’t talk as they climbed. Her teeth bit her lower lip, and her fingers kept tugging at her braid. She was trying to put her memories in order. They refused. They came at her foggy, but somehow still solid enough to bruise when she ran into them. They made her feel small. Too small. She knew she had grown in that decade. But she still couldn’t picture herself older than the girl Paris had found. She stopped biting her lips.

She forced herself to glance into the dim corners of the stairwell, scanning without wanting to be obvious. Trying to make sure.

There was only Ceton. It was too late for the other guests. And Paris was far, far away.

She let herself chew her lip again.

It wasn’t sexy. It was only worrying.

She opened the attic door–her room–and stepped inside. Ceton closed it behind them. He didn’t sit on the bed. Instead, he grabbed a few pillows and dropped them onto the floor.

She wondered if it was deliberate. He read her frighteningly well. He’d seen the scars. He’d seen the way her body went rigid sometimes, maybe he’d figured the bed wasn’t the right place for this conversation.

The thought made the tension on her chest loosen a fraction.

She sat opposite to him on the floor, turning the bottle slowly in her hands.

Where the fuck do you even start?

“Eliana.”

She wasn’t sure if it was his voice or the gentle nudge of his foot that pulled her out of her spiral.

“You don’t have to do this–”

“I want to.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I just–say it however you need to. You don’t have to make it into… I don’t know. A story.”

She sighed. A small, pained smile tugged at her mouth. He always knew what to say. Maybe he even knew what she needed to say, this once.

“…Where would you start?” she asked.

He didn’t tear his eyes off of her. His brow furrowed, worry settling deep, but he blinked, thinking deep.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. A dry, helpless little laugh. “I don’t know anything. But… maybe where it all started?”

She nodded. Right.

She considered handing him the bottle to open–while she organised her thoughts–but decided against it. It felt like implicating him on something a bit uglier than what she remembered. These past three years she had gotten drunk, sure. But it was only ever following the crowd, without much thought put into it, laughing and dancing with the world.

Tonight, she was getting drunk on purpose. To pry the words out from her throat without drowning in them.

She twisted the cap herself, and took a swig.

“A few things started it,” she said. “I guess it’s always like that. But… everything would’ve been fine, in the end, if my father hadn’t died.”

She paused.

“My mother wasn’t in the picture. She left me as a baby for my father to find me. Whatever.” That familiar irritation crept in immediately. She was not what this was about. Whoever she was. This was about her and her dad.

She swallowed.

“He was a miner. There was an accident. At least it wasn’t a disease like black lung–I think it was quick.” Her fingers tightened on the bottle. “We were already poor. Everyone in that village was. People helped me, but… feeding another kid was hard. Especially that year.”

She’d had thirteen years to think about it now. The gaunt faces of the adults. The careful portions. It hadn’t quite been a famine–dogs still had rats to hunt, chickens still laid eggs–but the possibility still hovered like a beast ready to pounce.

Her braid had turned into a mess under her hands. She let it fall loose, using the motion to try and ground herself, the weight of her hair familiar against her shoulders. She still didn’t look at him yet.

“One day…” Her voice wavered, the air leaving her lungs all at once, like it was trying to keep any more words from escaping and solidifying, making it all more real. She stared at her hands. Grabbed the bottle again, drank and hid behind the curtain of her hair.

“One day a dog attacked me. I killed it. And he was there. Waiting.”

Her fingers dug into her thighs.

“I think he set it on me.”

She braced herself for a comforting touch, a hand on her shoulder, maybe her leg.

It didn’t come.

Relief washed through her so sharply it almost hurt. He’d put the pillows there on purpose. He knew. He knew she couldn’t handle being touched yet. And couldn’t carry his pity on top of her own.

She wanted it, of course. She wanted him to pull her close, coo at her, to murmur how awful all of it was, how much she’d suffered.

But first she needed to get it out. Pity would break her open into loud, ugly sobs, lasting the whole night through. It was already a miracle she’d found the nerve to start. She couldn’t risk losing it now.

He deserved to know.

And maybe she wanted someone knowing. Someone caring.

“Paris,” she said. The name made bile rise in her throat. “He took me to his estate. Promised I wouldn’t be hungry. That no one else would have to be hungry for me to eat. I just had to lend him my strength. I didn't know what that meant."

She took a deep breath.

“As I got older, I understood it better. He turned me into a bard. My father taught me music–Paris tainted that.” Her voice cracked, rough with a sob. But her eyes were still dry. “He was a noble. Chief of Justice of Stronghelm. He threw parties to keep an eye on things. I sat at his feet. Something between a–”

Her fists clenched. She looked up.

Ceton was tense, shoulders to his ears, braced for impact. His nose twisted in disgust and his hands were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone pale.

He was always angrier than she was.

The corners of her mouth lifted up. He was so angry for her. And his anger warmed her, settled something frantic in her chest. She could feel herself flushing.

“…something between a slave and a bride.”

The words landed hard. She kept herself focused on his fury and kept going.

“He paraded me. Made me flirt with guests he picked. Rivals. Allies. I never knew what he gained from it, exactly. They…” Bile rose up her throat again. She washed it down with the whiskey. Ceton took a swig of his own.

“They touched me–my hair, my shoulders, my hips.” She swallowed hard. “It never went too far. At first, because they knew I was his property. Later…”

“How old were you?” Ceton asked.

She almost flinched. She didn’t blame him. That same hungry morbid curiosity that had made her look at the mangled dog she had killed, and many more other bodies.

But as she kept looking at him, she started to understand. It wasn’t curiosity. He needed the answer.

His jaw was clenched so hard she was scared he’d chip a tooth. He didn’t look away either. He was staring at her waiting for the blow, like he wanted it to hurt.

He needed the answer because she had lived with it. He needed to see the whole wound, opened, bloody and ugly, with pus and larvae, because it was hers.

“Eleven when he found me. Fourteen or fifteen when the parties started.”

He nodded, taking another swig. She could see him getting sick.

“But… well. There was a reason he trained me as a bard. Or–“ she swallowed her irritation down. He was so proud of his little army, but why? What had he done, exactly, that granted him so much reason to boast? “–found me mentors to do it. It’d be stupid if he’d done it for no reason. I could have just killed him. I should’ve–“

The words came out in a sharp crescendo, and immediately, her stomach turned to ice.

She should have. She knew that. She had been strong enough back then. With the training he forced on her, killing him would’ve been easy–laughably so.

But thinking it didn’t make it come true. Paris never felt like a man. He felt like a hand around her throat.

Even now–years later, a continent away, with Ceton’s presence anchoring her–just saying it out loud made her feel so small again. Like her strength didn’t matter and the air she breathed belonged to him. With a flick of his fingers, she’d be choking on his poison.

And even if she had done it… even if she’d managed to run him through her blades, she would’ve been sea before the body hit the floor.

Paris had guards. Paris had others like her. She couldn’t have fought them all.

She sighed hard, as if she was trying to disperse those thoughts like smoke. “I don’t know how much this is known,” she forced herself on, “but in Harvescresh there’s an arena. For gladiators. It was only finished when I was seventeen, but I was trained for it long before. It was for the nobility–and whoever else was rich enough to buy tickets. They’d take bets on us. And whichever noble house the survivor belonged to, they’d take a cut of the bets. Mine was Paris’. House Merevan.”

She licked her cheeks. Explaining it so casually made her mouth taste rotten. How many people had died there? How many had she killed?

“Paris had other gladiators, they all lived in the estate,” her voice thinned as she went on. “All the shiniest, most exotic species he could find for his collection”

Her voice came out choked, “and there was Aster. And Silas. If it wasn’t for them I would’ve…”

She reached for the bottle mostly out of instinct, as her eyes glossed over and guilt emptied her out. Along with the memory of something dark. That old urge to stop fighting, to stop being. She had left that behind after she died. After she understood what that truly meant.

“I would have…”

She didn’t want to remember that.

“I left them. I didn’t even think of them when I…”

She looked at Ceton. There was nothing he could say. He seemed to know it too. He stayed quiet, thumb worrying the bead beneath his lip.

“So I fought in the arena. I went to the parties.” Her jaw tightened. “Paris… I don’t know what changed. He was always the hoarding type. Maybe sharing me too much made him jealous. He knew he was turning me into a killing machine, but he started coming into my room. When I bathed. When I tried to sleep. Always closer. Never far enough that I would kill him.”

She took the bottle to her lips, Ceton followed.

“It started before the arena. It just kept getting worse. Aster and Silas made it all feel survivable. They were the only ones my age. We’d sneak out… do what we needed to do to make it feel… worth it.”

She smiled despite herself, thinking of them. Even now, years later, when she woke from a nightmare with her heart clawing at her ribs, she still reached for them before she remembered. She still tried listening for their breathing in the dark, expecting, in that first confused second, to find them there.

Even as Ceton held her–as warm and steady as he was, his comfort already so familiar–they still crept on her mind, in that burrow they’d made their home.

Her eyes were red and stinging now. Guilt pooled heavy on her belly, the way it always did when she let herself remember them too clearly. Because she had left them behind. Because she had escaped and they hadn’t. Because she had survived and she prayed each day they had too.

And no matter how much she wanted to believe she deserved softness now, there was still a part of her that felt she didn’t. Not after that. There was nothing she could do that would ever make her worthy of the comfort they used to give her again.

“I got out,” she said, then faltered. “I–”

She looked at him again. How the fuck was she supposed to say this out loud? How was he supposed to believe her?

No–she didn’t need him to believe it yet. She just needed to get the words out. She could explain later. He would ask her questions, help her carry this once it was finally in the open.

“I don’t know why the King did it,” she said, voice rough. “Maybe he didn’t like that people liked me. That Paris had something the nobles cheered so much for. I don’t know. But he challenged him.”

She swallowed, throat tight. The words were starting to tumble out.

“And Paris accepted. Of course he did. He–“ ‘knows he’s untouchable’, she almost said. “He was overconfident. He thought I’d win. He thought I was this perfect weapon.”

Her laugh came out all wrong, sharp and choked out. “I mean… I wouldn’t even be able to take out even one. But he still threw me into it like it was nothing, like they–“

Her lungs tightened, like something was being poured into them. The air in the attic thickened and curdled, and suddenly it wasn’t air at all. It was earth, packed down, shovelful after shovelful, the way it must have filled her father’s chest when the mine collapsed. The thought hit like a fist. She couldn’t get enough in. She couldn’t get enough out.

Breathing felt like fire, too–heat crawling up her throat, burning from the inside.

She had to open her mouth. Had to. But it only made it worse.

She was gasping–ugly gulps that didn’t do anything, like her body had forgotten how breathing was supposed to work like. Her vision shimmered at the edges, the room bending in a slow, sick sway.

She could vaguely remember a horse in Harvescresh, once. In the street. Screaming without sound, eyes rolling white, froth bubbling at its mouth, legs kicking at nothing like it was drowning on the dry sandstone. A snake had spooked it. Or something had. She couldn’t even remember if anyone had helped it.

She just remembered the look in its eyes.

The frantic, helpless terror.

That’s me, some distant part of her observed, cold and detached.

Ceton was on her before she even realized she’d started to fold in on herself.

A hand cupped her cheek, gently. The other caught her shoulder, firmly, not letting her slip away.

“Baby, baby–hey.” His voice cut through the roar between her ears. “I’m right here.”

He pressed his thumb lightly at her jaw, coaxing her mouth shut.

“Breathe through your nose,” he murmured, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin. “Try and follow me.”

She tried. Gods, she tried.

But she could feel the scars on her chest opening. It was as if claws were dragging through her again, tearing her apart, wet warmth spilling down her ribs, sticky, impossible to staunch.

She looked down, frantic, because she had to check.

There was no blood. No torn skin.

But she could feel it anyway. She could feel it running, she could feel it soaking through her clothes.

Her back burned. Blistering, raw, too hot to touch–fire heat bursting under her skin.

If she’d had enough air in her lungs, she would’ve screamed.

Instead she made this thin, broken sound, and her nails dug into him without meaning to. Ceton only took her hand, careful, and pressed it flat against his chest.

“Look at me,” he said, voice shaking just a little, like he was holding himself together for her. “Please, baby.”

She forced her eyes up.

His face was close, his expression wrecked with worry, but steady–so steady, like he’d decided she wasn’t allowed to drown in this.

“I’m here, you’re here with me. You’re safe. You’re so far away from them.”

She collapsed into him, the whiskey bottle clattering uselessly to the floor. It felt like diving into cold ocean water, safe.

Time blurred until her breathing matched his. He kept rocking her long after she’d steadied, murmuring low, constant reassurances.

He didn’t rush her. Even once her breathing had steadied, even once the shaking had eased, he stayed with his arms firm around her.

After a while, once quiet had settled down in the room, he asked quietly, “Are you sure you want to keep going?”

She nodded against him, cheek still pressed against his shoulder, her voice barely there. “Yeah.”

He hesitated before the next question. “Is this about the scars?” He had never sounded so careful.

The question grounded her. She swallowed, then nodded again. “The bigger ones…”

She stayed tucked into him as she spoke, bracing herself, his arms wrapped around her so completely it felt like being folded into a cocoon. She knew she was taller than him–she did–but right now she felt so small, so young, held together only by his presence in a way she hadn’t let herself need in a long time.

“They were dragons,” she said. “Two of them.”

She felt it immediately. The way his body went still, the sharp intake of breath he tried and failed to hide. His surprise pressed against her through the embrace. He didn’t want the words to slip out, she could tell–but they did anyway, rough like him.

“How the fuck did you survive–”

She pulled back then. Slowly, reluctantly, peeling herself out of his arms even though every part of her wanted to stay there. She needed to see his face. Needed him to see hers

“I didn’t.”

For a moment, he didn’t react at all. The words seemed to echo in his head, looping in there until he was certain he’d heard her right.

“What do you mean you didn’t?”

She caught his hands in hers, holding them tight.

“They killed me,” she said.

Her breathing started to pick up again at the memory. She fought it, forced herself to stay present and not let the memory swallow her whole.

“I don’t know how long it lasted,” she went on, the words coming faster now. “I don’t know how much they burned me, how deep they clawed. I just know I bled through my funeral shroud. I saw the Raven Queen, Ceton.”

His eyes were wide, searching her face desperately–looking for a crack, a twitch, anything that would tell him this was some kind of a cruel joke.

There was nothing. She was telling the truth.

“I begged Her to send me back,” Eliana whispered. “But I didn’t even need to. She sent me back anyway. She needs me–for something I don’t understand yet. She wiped my tears away. She took my wounds. She must have hidden me while I ran from his house.”

Her grip tightened on his hands.

“But Paris,” she said. “And Alekto–the king–they killed me.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

Then he closed the distance between them. He pulled her into him again. One arm around her shoulders, and the other on her back, his fingers caressing her.

“Oh, Eli,” he murmured.

She buried herself into the embrace.

He held her like she was breakable, like she was something so precious, that had been broken and put back together one too many times. He rocked her slightly, slow and steady, the way one would soothe a child after a nightmare.

“You shouldn’t have had to live through any of that,” he said quietly. “None of it. Not the hunger. Not him. Not the fighting. Not dying.” His voice caught on the last word, anger threading through the gentleness. “It was wrong. All of it was so fucking wrong.”

Her chest tightened. This time she didn’t fight it. She curled further into him, forehead pressing against his collarbone, fingers fisting into his shirt like she might lose him if she let go. The tears came then, the heavy and messy ones she had been fighting against all night. And he just held her tighter, one hand running up and down her back, again and again.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry they did this to you.”

She let herself cry, let her breath hitch and her shoulders shake. The pity she’d been bracing herself against finally washed over her. It was so warm.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against her hair. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

She believed him.

Her fingers danced over the strings of the oud. Sweat formed between her shoulder blades, sliding over the raised lines of burn scars that tightened when she twisted in a tight spin. The room was full of life–bodies swaying, conversations halting just to catch a refrain, feet tapping even from those too tired or drunk to move. Her voice carried through it all, fed by every smile and every cheer.

Whatever she had been born for, surely this was part of it. Hours passed and her voice still steady and vibrant, she could keep playing until dawn.

Her attention then shifted to the sudden creak of the inn’s door. At this hour, newcomers were rare—and her old habits of paranoia always made her look.

But paranoia wasn’t what caught her breath.

A triton stepped inside.

She’d glimpsed some by the docks—silhouettes through her window on an early morning she hadn’t slept through—but never one this close. She heard the townsfolk talk of a settlement of them beneath the waves near town, often trading with locals.

The regulars reacted immediately: some greeting him warmly, others looking away with curled lips. Polarizing, then. Deliciously so. She felt a sly smile tug at her mouth.

He knew exactly the effect he had—swagger rolling off him. His head and eyebrows were shaved clean, black piercings punctuating his nose bridge, beneath his lip, glinting on his finned ears. His skin was mint-green, his eyes stark: black sclera with pale, nearly yellow irises that almost seemed to glow.

Her mouth practically watered.

She tore her gaze away and launched into another song. Then another. And another. Eventually she let her eyes drift toward him again.

He was already looking at her.

Unblinking. Steady. Drinking her in with the same attention he gave his drink.

Her eyes met his– solid sunset orange, impossible to read. Impossible to know what she truly looked at. He held the stare anyway, cocksure, and his mouth curved into a slow, slow smile.

The crowd thinned, drifting out into the quiet streets or up to their rented beds. But he stayed. Patient. Waiting.

Someone passed her water; she drained it dry, slung the oud on her back, and stepped off the stage. Heat coiled low in her belly as she approached him, each step tightening the dizziness that had been building since he’d walked in.

“Heard people talking about the singer playing here,” he said as she reached him. His voice was low and rough, a mumble like the rumble of a sea storm. “Had to check it out.”

“The people doing me justice?” she asked, leaning her elbows onto his table.

“They try damn hard.” His eyes roamed—slow, deliberate, hungry. He was teasing, savoring, letting anticipation do its work.

She laughed. Up close, she towered over his seated frame, but the confidence he radiated erased any difference.

“I’ll take it,” she said. “But are these compliments from your friends or the other group?”

“You’ve charmed just about everyone.”

“That doesn’t sound right to me.” A dangerous, lovely smile curved his mouth at her words, “You’ll have to show me how you push those buttons.”

“It’s dangerous stuff.”

He didn’t even pretend seriousness. She laughed again, and the way he watched her—starving—nearly made her grab him by the jaw right there.

She let her hand slide to his thigh, her thumb brushing perilously close to the center. He shivered.

“Want to come upstairs?” she murmured.

He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

She took his hand and led him out of the bar. The door to inn's quarters shut behind them, and the narrow staircase to the upper floors rose directly ahead.

She didn’t make it past the first turn.

Halfway up the stairs, he tugged lightly at her hip, stopping her. She barely had time to glance down before his mouth slammed into hers.

The kiss hit like a spark to dry tinder.

It was rough—bitten lips, scraping teeth, his nails dragging lightly along the scars on her sides, her fingers threading into the back of his neck. His mouth tasted like ale and ocean salt, something cool beneath the heat of him. She crowded him back into the wall, her height pressing him firmly in place, his breath hitching against her lips.

Her eyes opened just a sliver, and he couldn’t know whether she was looking at his mouth or his throat or his soul, and the uncertainty made him shiver against her.

She smiled against his mouth.

He exhaled sharply, and she swallowed the sound with another kiss, deeper and hungrier. His hands roamed—over her waist, over the raised lines of her burns. He paused only long enough to trace one gently, reverently, before gripping her again, firmer now, desire outweighing hesitation.

“Careful,” he murmured against her jaw, voice low and ragged. “You keep doing that and I might start thinking you like me.”

“Who says I don’t?” she breathed, nipping his lower lip.

His fingers tightened on her hips.

They moved again—barely breaking the kiss—climbing the rest of the stairs in a messy, breathless path to the top floor. The old wood creaked under their feet, lanterns casting long shadows against the walls. By the time they reached the third floor landing, he was panting softly, and she felt thunder under her skin.

She unlocked her door, pushed it open, and the moment they were inside, he caught her again—this time pulling her down to meet his height, pressing his mouth to hers with a kind of hungry relief.

She kissed him back, guiding him toward her narrow attic bed. When the back of his legs hit the frame, he dropped onto it with a soft grunt, looking up at her like she was something holy and dangerous.

She stood over him, tall and shadowed in the faint lantern light. Her braid slid over her shoulder and down her hip as she stepped forward.

His gaze traveled up her body, slow and reverent. When it landed on her eyes his breath caught.

“…You’re incredible,” he murmured.

She tilted her head. “I know.”

He laughed—breathy, undone—as she climbed onto the bed and over him, kissing him until he melted beneath her touch and pulled her down against him.

The room was full of color, even if everything blurred together through the haze of the water-pipe smoke. Music echoed softly through the walls, some kind of spell woven into it. People filled the cushions scattered across the floor–reclining, half-lying, fully sprawled. Most of the patrons were already somewhere else, bodies loose and heavy, faces slack with relief. Chairs would’ve been a hazard.

Waiters moved easily between tables, knowing exactly where to go and what to bring. They were all regulars. Eliana always admired them, their calm, their focus. They reminded her of Aster.

“I swear,” she murmured, “you could throw them into the Arena and they’d still manage not to spill a drop.”

Aster snorted. “Paris would find a way to monetize it.”

She squeezed Aster’s hand just before the three of them dropped into their usual spot.

Drinks appeared almost immediately.

First came the tiny cups of flaming teal alcohol. Then a soft blue shot, clouds of gray slowly swirling inside it. And finally a green drink dusted with sugar flakes.

A dragon.

A storm.

A crane.

After drinking the three rounds, Silas let himself collapse, resting his head on Aster’s shoulder with a long sigh. He wrapped his arms around the two girls.

“Oh gods,” he muttered. “That’s better.”

Eliana chuckled. She understood. The heat in her chest loosened the stiffness in her back. Someone slid a jug of wine onto the table and as they passed the hose of the water-pipe between them, words came tumbling out–gossip, half-remembered dreams, everything they hadn't had the time and privacy to talk about since last they came here.

As the buzz from the shots faded, wine took its place. Smoke softened the edges of everything. Colors started to pop behind their eyelids. Time stopped making sense. Space warped into something playful.

At some point, fingers brushing fingers became a game–”is that yours or mine?”–until limbs tangled and the three of them dissolved into a heap of warmth and giggles, breathing each other in.

The waiter came back, already laughing, carrying a small platter. He set it down in front of them.

“Careful,” he said. “These bite back.”

Three bite-sized cakes. Perfect. Made exactly how each of them liked them. They picked their doses, tried to toast with the cakes, nearly dropped them, and laughed again before eating.

Twenty minutes later, Eliana burst into laughter, victorious.

Around her, the old monastery melodies from Finngarth filled the air, clear as day. She could feel mountain wind on her skin. She could hear her father’s lute beneath the hymns, his voice humming along. She smelled pine and olive trees, earth, heard goats bleating and dogs running between houses looking for scraps and attention, children running around poor, weary chickens.

She smelled the sea too–not Harvescresh’s sea, but the one from long hikes with Rhea and her grandchildren, where mountain air mixed with salt.

With that bite of cake, everything else went quiet. Her scars. Her fear. The Arena. Paris. Everything except the weight of Aster and Silas pressed against her.

She held them tighter, like if she squeezed hard enough she could drag them all the way back to Finngarth.

Aster was already gone, floating somewhere beyond her skin, safe in the distance. Silas sank deeper into himself, wrapped in warmth, his body finally at rest.

She didn’t quite notice when she started humming, fingers tracing absent-minded patterns along familiar arms and shoulders, matching her tune to melodies only she could hear.

The cakes faded. The wine and smoke returned with a vengeance. Morning crept in eventually, pale and unwelcome.

Atropos paused and untucked the veil from her turban. Her skin was damp, her body still aching from birth and travel, but she barely noticed. Her gaze dropped to the bundle in her arms.

The baby slept, wrapped in a warm, intricately woven blanket. Her breathing was soft, faint little snores escaping her nose.

Atropos smiled despite herself.

She pressed her nose gently to the baby’s teal skin, to fill her lungs with that soft smell of date oil and milk, and kissed her brow.

Her steps faltered.

“Fuck…” she breathed, the word breaking as it left her. She squeezed her eyes shut, as though that might hold everything in place.

A few paces behind her stood another figure, robed like herself. His garments weren't black as hers, but the iron disc armor on his chest matched hers, dulled by age and use. Alexander carried a basket lined with wool, his expression carefully calm.

“There’s still time,” he said softly. “Take yours with the goodbye.”

“Yes. I know.” Atropos swallowed, “I know.”

She drew a slow breath in through her nose, then let it out. The door was close now–plain wood, worn by hands and years, unremarkable in every way, except for who lived on the other side. Standing before it made the hollow in her chest open wide.

She rocked the baby gently, humming under her breath in Celestial, a lullaby learned from her own mother. The baby shifted, made a small sound, and Atropos tightened her hold.

Everyone said the child was large for a newborn. In Atropos’s arms, she felt impossibly small.

The baby could not yet hold her own head. Only a day or two ago she had learned to smile, to coo in response to voices. Atropos still bled from the birth, her body slow to mend. Training was forbidden. She had not been allowed to lift anything other than the baby itself, and even that came with wary looks and murmured protests. Tonight, she had been permitted this only because her brothers and sisters had been merciful, and she had to travel with their healer.

The baby stirred again, fussing. Relief washed through Atropos as instinct took over–her breasts were heavy, aching, and the baby latched quickly, without crying. Alexander murmured a silencing charm anyway, his fingers already tracing the familiar pattern.

Atropos watched her feed.

Hector had promised there would be a wet nurse, if Atropos couldn't stay, at least for the start. He had sounded so certain when she told him she was pregnant. But what if the woman had lost her own child? What if she didn’t have enough milk? What if–

A tear slid down Atropos’s cheek. She did not wipe it away. Her hands were full.

Her black eyes locked onto the baby’s bright orange ones as they met her gaze mid-feeding, unblinking. Such a bright child. Too bright.

It was only right that she did not raise her.

Atropos’s path was made of blood and shadow. So was that of her brothers and sisters. There was no room for this kind of light there.

A sob tore from her as she patted the baby’s back, helping her settle. She should never have allowed this. Should never have carried the child to term.

But that burst of joy when she realized what was growing inside her. Hector’s face when she told him.

She never truly had a choice.

Atropos gently placed the baby into the basket Alexander held ready. The child sighed softly and curled her fingers into the blanket. Atropos tucked it closer around her, her hands trembling.

She slid the first letter beneath the baby’s head, sealed in pale wax.

For Eliana.

The second letter she folded carefully and placed atop it.

For Hector.

Her fingers lingered, then stilled.

Alexander was the one leaving the basket at the doorstep.

She straightened.

One step back.

Then another.

Then she turned away.

They had gone only a short distance down the narrow path when the door behind them opened.

Hector had risen early, drawn from his bed by habit more than need. He opened the door expecting quiet, a smoke pipe ready on his hand–and instead found a basket.

It shifted.

A sound, impossibly small.

He dropped to his knees.

The baby blinked up at him, eyes bright as embers in the lantern light. She did not cry. She only watched him, calm and unafraid, as though she already knew him.

“Oh,” Hector whispered, something in his chest breaking open. “Oh, little one…”

He lifted her carefully, cradling her against him. Only then did he notice the letters–his name in one, the writing familiar. The other, tucked beneath the baby, bore the name he and Atropos had chosen.

He pressed his forehead briefly to the child’s.

The door closed behind him, sealing in the warmth of the night.

She took a deep breath in, but before she could get back to it, a sound pushed the air out of her lungs. A footstep, too soft for her untrained servants. She hadn't called for anyone.

In a blink of an eye she was standing up, spinning, with an hand reaching for the pistol laying on the bench now behind her, to meet the intruder. It was him, of course.

Heinrix. The Interrogator the Inquisition insisted on keeping around her. Always there, watching, weighing. Icy black eyes burning her nape.

Her face twisted into something she couldn't quite recognize, as her stomach dropped and her heart quickened. Get the fucking gun. Shoot him. Shoot him until there’s nothing left of that smug face.

But Lavinia realized she was frozen — a fear woven into all her fibers making her stuck in place, instead of rushing for the gun, or at least something to cover herself, her crawling skin. Protect it from that sharp gaze.

The Interrogator's expression was the same as always, a slate mask, impossibly stony — an effort to read, even more now, when she was so focused on trying to breath properly. But his impossibly black eyes lingered on her naked skin and she knew he could see all of it.

He could see it in her hands, the mechanical digits that replaced once soft flesh, the edges between half cut fingers and metal, the fingertips that couldn't grow nails anymore. The scars running up her arms and shoulders, the ragged lashing scars on her back, peeking through her tanktop. Tracks of the Inquisiton's brutality that she had no option but to carry.

Please, not this. Not now, dammit.

She was frozen in place, but her whole body was shaking so terribly it felt like she was convulsing. Whatever measures she took to be careful, to not let anything slip, to play his game so perfectly, it was all in vain. He had all the cards now. With no heavy coat on her shoulders, no high collared tunic, no thick gloves, she was as good as naked, shackled, and bleeding under an Inquisitor once more.

Did he know that with the right words, the right tone, all this time, he could have brought her to her knees, begging for it to stop before anything ever started? Did he know now how with his heavy stare, she felt knives digging into her throat and wires underneath her nails?

He was still looking at her, gaze torturingly steady, burning into her as it lingered on each scar.

How much does he know?

The silence stretched like an eternity before he broke it.

"Forgive me for the intrusion, Lavinia." His voice was uncharacteristically soft, she almost wanted to say uncertain, and his eyes weren't on her scars anymore, they where fixed on a random point on the floor. As if trying to perserve some of her privacy. But she knew better, even as her heart skipped a beat. Every single word that came out of that mouth was chosen carefully, curated into the perfect trap.

"I saw the time and thought to seek you out myself," he continued.

She swallowed in dry, trying to steady herself. Her eyes flitted over to the nearest clock. Lavinia clenched her teeth — Dammit. She lost track of time. The game — they were supposed to play their daily round of regicide an hour ago.

"It is better if I leave."

"No!" she stumbled forward as the word burst from her mouth. She wanted him to dissappear from here and her memory more than anything, but that wouldn't be possible, so she needed to know what she was dealing with — what he was thinking, what he would do with what he saw. "The damage is done and... we do have a round to play."

He nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing just barely. She couldn’t hide it. Couldn’t cover the marks of her past, not now. Couldn't hide anything. Not in front of him.

"I won't suppose you weren't aware of it," She said, smoothing her tanktop, tucked into her wollen slacks. Her voice was still trembling. No, she shouldn't suppose. Because he was a spy, here for her — she wasn't blind, much less dim. Having him see her, though, was very different from him having been made aware of her past dealings with the Inquisition.

He didn't answer for a beat — it felt like an eternity to her, as he decided what to respond. He had the same look on his face as when he thought through a difficult move in regicide.

"Reading about it on a file is very different from seeing it," Heinrix said, his voice tight, almost... strained? He hesitated, opening his mouth just a sliver before closing it again.

Lavinia stiffened at his tone, pity? She had heard warriors, brave people, admonishing pity. Like it was an attack, like it weakened them. She was strong, she was brave — she starved for it, so badly she could hear it in the voice of someone who would never feel it. But still, a hint of warmth surged underneath the icy fear, because of it.

"I'm surprised I wasn't dealt with already, then." The words slipped out her mouth, too much on her mind to realize how self accusatory that sounded, before it was already said. At least to the Inquisition it would sound.

His eyes flitted back to hers, narrowed and cold again.

"You were already dealt with. What matters to the Inquisition is the future, and the current threats to the Imperium."

She nodded, but couldn’t bring herself to believe his words. Not when he stood there, looking at her like a beast considering whether or not to devour its prey.

As long as he was around, she knew she was seen as a threat. And she knew exactly what was at stake for her. It’s never over.

Stiffling a sigh, she walked over to the tea table. She started rearranging the pieces to their starting positions, concentrating as much as she could in that familiar robotic action.

After this game, she'd vox Abelard, tell him she wasn't to be disturbed the rest of the day. She'd bathe, dress in her high colared pajamas, a heavy velvet robe and soft gloves. She'd dine here in her quarters. She'd try to sleep, at least rest.

Heinrix sat across from her, joining her in rearranging the pieces. A sigh coming from him made her lift her eyes. He put down the piece he held, before looking back at her.

"It looks excessive," he murmured.

She was paralyzed again, hand holding a piece, hovering over the board. With all her strength, she pursed her lips, willing away the stinging in her eyes.

"I seem to recall you were boiling someone, when we met."

"They were undoubtedly a cultist," he replied evenly. "And it wasn't dragged for months."

She nodded, conceding his point. But he kept his eyes on her, in a stare she started to recognize. Like he was trying to puzzle something, something outside his job, so he needn't obscure it.

They finished setting the board.

She looked at him, and he at her, and for a breath, that cold war between them fell silent.