Sleep has become a blade of melting ice, slippery in my feeble grip, oozing between my fingers and spreading in an impossibly wide pool at the bottom of a pit. When I attempt to grasp it too harshly, it shatters, and I'm left with frozen shards that pierce my veins in sharpened bolts.

Aimless terror is wrenched along with them. What I fear exactly must have been carried along with that melting stream, disappearing into bottomless darkness.

My eyes snap open as I roll onto my back for what feels like the thousandth time, staring blankly at the ceiling. The creak of the bed beside me prickles at my senses, Fiesi's endless twitching not aiding my attempt at calm. He must be struggling to sleep as well. Not that I can blame him; he has plenty to be anxious about.

For a brief moment, I debate turning over and closing my eyes again, then discard the notion. I've proved by now that it's hopeless. Stiffly, I push myself upright, braced with both hands against the chipped floorboards. Fiesi did attempt to insist I take the bed in his stead, but I doubt it would have made a great deal of difference. If anything, the soft material beneath me would be more of a hindrance; after years of sleeping in a cell carved of stone, and then camping on frosted earth ever since, the hard floor is far more familiar. He did toss me down a blanket, although as I raise my head I realise that I've kicked it almost to the other end of the room. No wonder the cold clings to my skin so fiercely.

The room is flooded with warm light, cascading from the lamp perched at Fiesi's bedside. I itch to turn it off and cocoon myself in the resulting dark -- false as it might be, with the silvery moonbeams leaking from the uncovered window -- but I don't want to go against his wishes. My need for darkness must be as unusual as everything else about me.

A shiver unfurls, forcing me to curl my arms over my chest. Holding in a breath, I take a step forward, casting a nervous glance at Fiesi. He doesn't move from where he lies, wrapped in blankets. My eyes flick to his cloak, discarded in the far corner of the room.

Before I can convince myself otherwise, I creep over to it, snatch it up, and slip out of the door.

The halls are silent at this late hour, not even a whisper drifting from the lower floor. The only sound is the muffled scrape of metal as I slot the cloak's clasp into place. As I let it fall over my shoulders, I release a sigh, tilting my head back as my step slows. The quiet and the dark. To find both together is rare nowadays, but beautiful to discover nonetheless.

A few wrong turns don't seem so problematic when I'm alone to deal with their repercussions. After pacing back and forth for several easy minutes, I locate the door cocked ajar that leads to the communal washroom, and dart into it.

It's blissfully empty. I wander over to the nearest basin and twist the tap, almost absentminded, letting it fill the stretching quiet with its faint splash and soak through the fingers of my gloves. It's cold, so frigid that it seems to sear the skin beneath, blistering with a thousand icy needles that pierce deeper the longer I hold my hands there. Basic human instinct urges me to yank my hands away and preserve what little warmth is left in them. Another, stronger force pins them in place.

So cold it burns. I sigh despite the wince that hitches it. Pain, but the right kind, close enough to what I long for that I can't help but relish it.

It's still not enough. My hands are frozen to the bone, and yet the satisfaction teeters on the edge of perfection, that inch too far away that twists it all wrong. But I don't turn off the tap. I tilt my wrists into the thin stream, letting the water gush further down the gloves. The waterlogged leather is growing heavy. I don't care. My ribs press up against the basin's edge as wet beads glint silver on my right bind's rim, overflowing from where they pour into the minute gap between it and my glove's trapped cuff.

My other hand quickly collects its fair share of damp as the two interlock. Nails curling into the back of my hand, distant need spiralling quickly into desperation, I yank at the glove.

Slickened by water, my grip slides inconsequentially, not budging in the slightest.

The cold's fire isn't a pleasure anymore. It's a raging blaze, bursting up in sudden tension in my muscles. Something akin to a snarl grates between my teeth as I pull again, at the palm, the fingers, the bind itself, anything. Anything that will make it go away.

"Go away," I growl in accordance with my thoughts. I need to be free. I need it.

Frustration spilling out, I shake my hand in wild motions, again and again until my heart pounds and my wrist aches and still I keep going. Go away. Let that cursed metal fly off into the abyss. Let me finally clutch at that flame so near to my reach.

My knuckles knock hard into the basin. Fiery agony spears across the joints. Another wordless snarl tears from my throat, and I throw all my strength into a punch aimed at the basin's bottom.

I hope to hear it crack. All I receive is another grating wave of pain.

With a gasp, I withdraw, trembling as I cradle the hand loosely against my chest. Sense floods back in all at once. The encasing chills that sink fangs under my skin, twined with the blossoming throb, spring immediate tears to my eyes. I blink them back without success.

The incessant drum of water drills into my skull. Snatching for the tap, I wrench it shut, handle digging into my palm until the silence is mine again. I clog it with ragged pants, sucking in air I didn't realise I needed. Gripping the basin's side, I lean heavily against it, afraid my legs will fold beneath me if I let go. I bite down on my tongue to smother a whimper.

It's stupid. Weak. I'm hurting enough without causing myself unnecessary pain. And yet there's a large part of me that wants to do it again. Perhaps I'll break something this time.

I close my eyes, but not before the warm trail of a tear slips down my cheek. My bitter laugh trails into a sob. "Stupid. The only thing you're breaking is yourself."

"Oh. I... didn't realise there'd be anyone else about this time of night."

Shock cuts through me, a burning rope that wraps around my arm and yanks me to face the window, still braced against the basin. I drag a hand over my eyes, partly to swipe away their lingering tears and partly to shield them from the sudden intrusion of light. The soaked glove drips a further waterfall down my face as if it's chosen to weep instead.

After the few moments it takes for my eyes to adjust, I make out the figure that clutches the offending lantern in the doorway. The realisation carries with it an additional chill. It's Reuben, tousled hair a yellow akin to straw in the pale light, expression wound taut as if it crumples all plausible varieties of concern into one tight crease. He retreats into the threshold to the hall. "Don't worry. I'll leave you to finish."

"No," I say quickly, hoping my voice doesn't sound as brittle as it feels in my jaw. "No, I'm sorry. I'll go." I should try to snatch a little rest. All I'll do awake is tear myself apart.

I've barely managed a step before he holds out a hand to stop me. I flinch, then curse the action. Exhaustion is eating away my control.

"Hold on." Gently, he sets his lantern down on a ledge by the door. "Sarielle called you Nathan, yes?"

Edging back into the basin, I nod.

"Did she give you that name?"

I clasp my hands before me, trying unsuccessfully to wring a little water from my gloves. "No. That was Fiesi. He..." I attempt a weak smile. "He gave me a lot of names, but that seems to be the one that stuck."

Unreadable thought patterns his eyes, endless in their whir. "Well, you needn't fear me, Nathan. And I..." He lowers his head, something like shame constricting his inhale. "I know there's little I can say to excuse your treatment over the years, but I'm sorry nonetheless."

"Don't." It comes out harsher than I mean it. I return to gripping the basin behind. "I... I understand. It's okay."

His lips twitch downwards, caught in a frown. "It isn't okay. I could pretend that with more time and resources, if the war hadn't snared our focus, I would have searched for a better way to keep you, but it would be wrong of me to attempt to excuse my actions." He sighs. "In truth, fear drove me to leave you down there, and guilt kept me away. I acted selfishly."

My skin crawls. I don't want him to apologise. If anything, it should be me asking for forgiveness, given all the trouble I've caused since I escaped. Yet his voice rings with sincerity despite the calculation in his stare. I squirm. "You did what was best for your kingdom."

He hums under his breath. "The best for the kingdom would have been using you to end the war, not denying your existence."

My breath catches. "I'm glad you didn't do that."

"As am I." A distant glimmer lights in his eyes, faraway tints of colour breaking through a fog. "I could never bring myself to weaponize you, no matter how desperate we got. Magic doesn't win wars. It simply destroys."

A shiver darts through my veins, spiking in my fingertips enough to make me wince. Magic such as mine, certainly. Destruction is all I am capable of.

Was. Not anymore. The hand I threw against the basin aches.

"Cyneric wavered, but he never gave in. Thank the stars he listens to me." Reuben offers a strained smile. "I always hoped you were a good kid at heart. I'm grateful to be proven right. Although I suppose you must have always been, given your relationship with my daughter."

It sets in wrong to hear him speak of it, a fragment of a secret torn out and laid bare for a man I barely know. Sarielle is not mine, not a possession for me to hide away and cloak in the depths of my soul, but still that feeling of her being ripped from me and dwelling in the minds of others twists my stomach. It stems from the same urge that lifts my stance and sets my jaw every time I look Dalton in the eyes. Whatever it is, it's a petty instinct.

"Sarielle's kindness wasn't my doing." I chew at my tongue. "I... exploited it, though. I shouldn't have been so insistent that she keep coming. I'm sorry."

Much to my surprise, Reuben releases a sound akin to an amused snort. "Do you think I'm angry with you?"

Perhaps not angry exactly, but certainly unhappy with our shared secret. I offer a hesitant nod.

His smile, curved with genuine comfort, leaves me stunned. "I can assure you that's not the case. I'd rather she hadn't lied to me for so long, but it's certainly not your fault. I'm actually relieved you weren't entirely alone all that time."

"Oh." My gaze drops to the floor. "Thank you."

Sadness taints his expression. "Thank Sarielle, not me." The tiles clink as he takes a backward step. "Apologies. I'll leave you be. There's another washroom further down the hall, so don't worry about me waiting."

Another thanks lingers on my tongue, although what I'm grateful for, I'm not certain. By the time I've swallowed it, it's too late to search for other words; he's already in the doorway. He taps the lantern. "I'll leave this here for you. You might enjoy being able to see."

"No, it's really--" My protest fades into sudden silence. He's already gone.

Exhaling heavily, I sag against the basin. Pain lances between my knuckles in a fresh reminder of my broken state. A good kid. A quiet laugh drifts out. If only Reuben had seen what I was doing before he walked in.

The lantern's light reflects in the tiles, once white but now chipped and dirtied to a dusty grey. The basin's smooth curves match it. Turning, I close my eyes, pressing my ribs into the marble as a shudder envelopes me. I won't start crying again. It's a pointless action. Yet still I'm conscious of my throat closing up, of that tangled ball of emotion flooding in to overtake my senses. All I want is to crush it to dust.

I don't deserve Reuben's apology, not in the slightest. Even freed, all I can do is whine about my lack of power, my lost ability to destroy. The outside world has done little but break me down. Perhaps the true reason I stayed in that cell so long was because I wasn't strong enough to endure what lay beyond.

Wrenching open my eyes, I stare straight ahead, teeth gritted to hold back the threat of a sob. They meet another gaze identical to my own.

The swift sting of fearful shock fades quickly. It's a mirror, rounded at the edges, the lantern's dancing flame distorting its reflection, its surface harsh and murky. I can still make out my own face with ease. Skin paled to almost white, eyes black hollows. It's a familiar sight by now; it doesn't bring the same chill it did at first, much as I despise that empty shade to my eyes. Familiar enough that I notice the dark line raised above my cheek, starkly visible in contrast.

A scar. It steals my breath. Shakily, I lift a finger to trace over it, finding the breaks in the line, the roughness of its surface. It's only thin, faint, but it's a knife that wrestles in amongst my ribs regardless. I'm not supposed to have scars.

Before I can give it any thought, I'm darting across the room, snatching up the lantern and holding it aloft as I return to the mirror. Its light illuminates the scar in fresh clarity. Its colour isn't entirely black, more a dulled grey, yet it speeds up my heart regardless. I run a finger along it with less care as if it is a temporary mark I can scrub away.

Of course it scarred. This is the wound caused by the Neyaibet soldier who guarded my carriage the night I woke up with these binds, flame imprisoned. He dared to cut me. I stole his life in return.

The knife twists. The lantern swings in my grip, in time with my increased trembles.

Swallowing hard, I pass it from one hand to the other and turn my attention downwards, shoving aside Fiesi's cloak and peeling back the bottom of my tunic. A deeper scar digs into my side. This one is a genuine black, as if ink has pooled in place of blood and risen to the surface of my skin. The dagger wedged into my belt gains a new weight.

Scars. Black scars. Scars bleeding dark as my flame.

That same icy water clinging to my gloves now swells in my lungs, pain rolling in waves through my chest. Dropping my tunic, I slam into the basin to prevent myself from keeling over, gripping the lantern with both hands in my desperation not to let it slip out. The fiery brush of heat it leaks only tunnels that ache in further.

Outside. I need to get outside before anyone sees me like this. I need the night air to freeze me before the frost searing my insides does it first.

Abandoning the lantern on the washroom's floor, I stagger out into the hall, trying to wrestle some control over my breathing. The hall spins with every step, the walls shrinking from me as I clutch vaguely at them for support. Agony rips through me in the form of a dulled blade, rusted, its metallic taste surging at the back of my throat.

It hurts. It hasn't hurt this much since I first awoke with my chest hollowed.

All my energy goes into keeping me upright, into yanking me out of every stumble as I descend the staircase in a series of uneven thuds. I'm simply grateful that the tavern at their bottom is empty. It provides an open path to flee along and escape into the night.

The moment the door swings closed behind me, I fall to my knees, jaw clenched and eyes screwed shut as I beg for the pain to subside. Tears well up again, stinging as they claw their way out in hot streaks. In the dark's quiet, my pitiful whimper echoes in my ears.

"Stop it." My voice is cracked, drowned in my own sorrow. Pressing my teeth together, I try again, pushing out a hiss. "Get up."

Somehow, I manage to enact the command, shaking hands held out either side of me in a feeble attempt at balance. The ache pulses in time with my frantic heartbeat, scratching out a deeper pit. I suck in a breath, shocked by the cold air that pierces my lungs. It truly is freezing out here. Fiesi's cloak billows out in an icy gust.

Shivering, I spin to face the tavern. It reflects the darkness cloaking the rest of the town, only the faint glimmers of perhaps two lit windows leaking light into the street. One of those will be mine and Fiesi's room. I duck my head, hoping he's still curled up under the blankets.

I should go back in there. I should return to our room, huddle in its corner wrapped in this cloak, deny the pain's existence until it simply vanishes from my awareness altogether. But I can't. Even if it didn't tear too deeply to ignore, the close call I experienced with Reuben is enough. I can't let anyone see me this way. They can't know how much I mourn my cursed power, how little I'm able to cope without it.

Tugging the cloak's hood low enough to shadow my face, scrubbing at my eyes with one soaked hand as if the excess water will dilute the tears to nothing, I wander out into the streets.

It's dangerous. My own vulnerability crawls over my skin, darting my gaze to every figure I think I spot in the gloom. Fear sharpens my senses. I'm hideously recognisable. If anyone were to find me out here, there'd be no-one to protect me. It's foolish, and yet still I keep walking, cloak wrapped around my middle to shield the empty, throbbing place from the wind.

I don't even know where I'm going. My march is aimless, driven by a purpose I can't place and winding me through each dim alley until I've lost all sense of orientation.

It's only when my legs begin to give in that I finally come to a stop, staggering up against the rough-hewn stone of one of the larger dwellings. The ice is back in my veins, its panicked writhing without direction. Heavy chills drag at my limbs. Biting down on my tongue, I sink to the ground, knees pressed to my ribs.

"Stupid," I whisper, wincing as my voice cracks. So, so stupid. I shouldn't be here. I'm asking to be ambushed, for someone to leap from the shadows and wrap me in chains, for a rogue sword to dig into my heart.

My hand drifts to my side, grazes the hilt of my dagger. Perhaps that wouldn't be so awful.

My inhale shudders, turning bitter as it slides down my throat. I pull my knees closer as if that will dispel the spike of agony, as if the emptiness yearns to be filled with a blade. Wrenching my arm upwards, I pin it against my chest, gripping my wrist until it joins the tangle of aches settled in my bones.

"No." If only I could dig my nails in through the gloves. "No. Think about Sarielle."

She wouldn't want me out here. She certainly wouldn't want me to think such things. Hurting myself will cause her pain.

Still, the minutes drag on without movement. I tilt my head back, thrust it into the bricked stone behind, stare helplessly up at the stars. Tears blur my vision, blending their silver specs with the velvet swathes painting the sky. I've given up trying to blink them away. I simply let them roll down my cheeks, silent, all sound lodged in a fist that shoves its way into my lungs.

It's the thrashing of my heart that eventually drags me to my feet, fear that seeps in with the wind's chilling claws. The pain hasn't left. It never truly will.

But I can't hide here forever. Sarielle wouldn't want that.

Pulling my shoulders back, I grasp for what I hope is a decisive breath, adjust the cloak's clasp, and turn.

Serrated metal touches my neck.

In a frigid slice, the ice within me sweeps into my limbs, freezing me in place. Another sickening scrape peels open the pit in my chest. Only the blade keeps me standing, its presence warning against any sudden action.

The darkness has swept in, a mist clogged with cold terror. It takes longer than it should to make out the figure. She slips from the night's folds, shaded in the hues of a ghost, every new detail I latch onto another hook to pierce my skin and hold me still. Skin like that of a corpse, pale as mine but touched with faintest grey. Hair hung in ragged brown threads that tear at the ends, tied loosely by a scrap of white cloth. A navy tunic limp over her slim form. The silver stitching of the Neyaibet crest catching the moonlight.

Eyes pooled black as voids, leaking into the sclera, drowning any spark of light within.

My mouth opens, shaping her name, but I can't quite force it out. Only a choked gasp emerges. I've seen her face so many times in my sleep that I know it like few others. The death that inks out her features I know even better.

Edita.

The blade she holds to my throat is jagged for a reason. It's barely a sword, the metal severed to a shard smaller than a knife that juts from the hilt, its edge stained black. It's sharp enough to cut all the same.

She's come to finish the job. My thoughts whirl and clash together, a frenzied panic twisted with wrongness. She's dead. I felt the life leave her body. I felt her soul bleed empty.

Perhaps my vision is lying to me. The world has warped my fear into something physical, scratched out the cold mark of her shattered blade to snatch attention from the rest of my pain. This must be another nightmare. It has to be.

Yet there's no denying the smile that weaves up her face, slow, almost joyous.

Move. The word barrels through me, breaking apart a little of the numbness encasing my fingers. I reach for my dagger, fumble as it scrapes from its place at my belt.

"Noli."

It clatters to the ground.

Her voice. Edita's voice. The same, rough and grating and yet precise in the way it shapes my name. My real name. I never told her that name.

Her lips twitch downwards as they part again, something like sympathy pulling at her expression. Her teeth slip out. They're long, pointed, fangs like that of a serpent. "Did you prefer being the monster, Noli?"

Even if I had the ability to reply, I don't have the words to drag up. I'm stiff as rock as she pulls back the blade, gentle in the way she guides its point downwards, the motion oddly fluid. Her head cocks to the side, those black eyes squeezing at my heart. Is this how it feels for others to meet my gaze?

A light snaps on, a sudden glare that severs the gloom. We both whirl towards it. A candle lit in a window, a figure lowering into a desk. My heart thunders, beating so loud I'm sure it must break free from my chest.

If he looks outside, will he see Edita? Or will he only see a boy cowering from shapeless nightmares?

My gaze darts back to her, and further cold pools in my stomach.

She's gone.

The shadows have stolen her, whisked her away like the ghost she appeared. Perhaps she truly did never exist. I raise a hand to my neck, clutch at the spot her blade touched. It's coated in frost.

My mind is clouded with confusion, with fear. I let it flood the rest of me. Snatching up my dagger, I race away into the streets, no longer caring enough to hide beneath my hood. My eyes can't be as haunting as those of death itself.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

I literally punched a sink for research when writing this chapter. It was ouch. I don't recommend it.

Anyway uh. A lot going on here :iminnocent: Nathan may be going slightly crazy?? But that's okay, we still love him even when he's traumatised :/

Also he has cool scars now. Which makes everything okay.

- Pup