Amar Shayah. 

Shayah. 

Death.

She awoke suddenly, her heart racing as if she'd fallen off a cliff and only just remembered there was hard ground waiting at the end. It was always that way in the morning. But . . . she looked around. The stars were still shining - though faintly - and the calm whir of insects filled the cool night air. It wasn't morning, and wouldn't be for another couple of hours at least. Which brought up the question of how exactly she had woken.

The poison was strong stuff - she'd made it herself - and most times it gave her a solid twelve hours of rest. She needed to sleep that long, because it made up for the times she forgot to sleep, or simply didn't want to. Most nights it was the latter that made up her mind. 

The torivor still stood over the smoldering coals of the fire, its matte black skin darker than the place between the stars. The plane of its face was tilted towards her, and if it had eyes she would have said it watched her. She stifled a shudder. In a world of monsters, there were only three things she feared:

The Emperor,

the torivors

and herself.

She forced herself to stand, stretching out her sleep-stiffened limbs. As she pried her thin fingers apart crumbs of soft wood fell to the ground. A layer of sticky green covered her hand and went under her nails. It smelled like a corpse in a leafy wood. Green and rotting and dead. 

It reminded her of her childhood. 

Of the stone halls of Felrook and the macabre shows the displacers would put on to mock her. Of the way their heads would roll down the halls and laugh as she ran, crying, wishing she could be like them. Instead she was twisted. Broken so far beyond repair that nothing could help.

And then they gave her the green ribbon.

It was like silk, but not, because silk could tear and stain and this was perfect. The ribbon kept her from falling apart in the most literal of ways. It helped to stabilize the bonds that kept her limbs from dying when they broke away and gave her more control of what they did. She'd tied it around her neck, tight enough to nearly choke, and had never taken it off since. 

She inhaled deeply, the blade-sharp material cutting at the soft skin of her throat. It, like all of the Emperor's gifts, was crueler and more powerful than a moment's glance could ever reveal. Every year it tightened just a little bit. Every year it brought her closer to the death Maldor had promised. 

A cold touch on her forearm pulled her from the memories and she looked up, eyes meeting the flat plane of the torivor's face. She hadn't heard it move, but no one ever did.

For a moment its blackness seemed to swirl in her vision, twisting into the dark-haired dream figure from so long ago. She was a rabbit in a snare, black eyes wide as it - he? - extended one oddly delicate hand, reaching into the folds of her cloak to snatch out the unbroken Amar. When he withdrew his hand the image faded, darkness snapping into place. 

The world shifted, spinning like a leaf in a hurricane and her stomach rose rebelliously. She fell to her knees retching into the dead coals of the fire as the torivor ran onwards to Felrook.