How did it start?
Deafening. The lack of voices in my head leaves me questioning if I finally succeeded in escaping this living hell.
That eerie emptiness folds over me like a blanket, smothering nerves so fried, so accustomed to pain, that the absence feels sharp- biting.
Like plunging dead, icy hands into warm water. It burns.
The snarl of a rabid frayed cleaves through my painfully sweet moment of silence.
I'm still here- alive, imprisoned, insane.
Stuck under layer after fucking endless layer of ash. The remains of burned-up threads, to be exact.
Relationships broken, friendships fractured, lives taken- those threads burn up and fall over us here, in the In-between.
A disgusting mockery of the snow that falls in the Above.
Maybe I'm where I belong- buried deep beneath the mounds of pain I helped create.
I wonder if he's a part of this mound of decay, scattered next to all of those frayed remains.
We both belong here.
Raising my arm, I trace the one, and only, scar I cherish. The scar that marks me as his killer.
Souls can be changed, created a new, but if you take a life it will show on you too.
Thousands of thin, pale reminders litter my arms, crisscrossing and overlapping with each other where lives were once entangled. The once white, filth encrusted night gown I was imprisoned in crunches with each shift of my body. It hangs loosely, now too large for my hollow frame and displays many of those reminders. I regret them all, two heavier than the rest, yet this one- this one I cherish.
The damp chill in the air seeps down to my bones, raising my skin into little bumps. I turn on my side, longing for the massive bed in my room, piled high with quilts and pillows. Longing for any semblance of warmth. My toes curl- uncovered and forever numb in this dungeon.
I've been stuck on this rock-hard slab and surrounded by iron bars for ninety-three days now. Trapped in the underbelly of the castle while the king figures out what to do with the frayed, burnt-out murderer he once loved as a daughter.
I hope he sentences me to death. I know he won't.
My stomach lets out a grumble of complaints, reminding me that dinner will be served soon. It doesn't matter what it will be, everything is tasteless here, only shaped differently and in varying shades of muted colors. Seren would chastise me, saying I'm skin and bones and that the food tastes just fine. If only she could see me now. All shape I once worked so hard for in my thighs, hips, and chest- gone. My cheeks hollow, eyes sunken. She would cry if she saw the state of my hair, matted and possibly molding. I used to love when she combed and braided it.
I hope Seren is okay. I hope she got out.
Clicking teeth in my neighbor's cell tells me just how late dinner is. Strange. Thousands of hungry, rabid frayed is the last thing this kingdom needs. The clicking slowly starts to echo in other cells around us, the frayed desperate for their portion of ash. I wonder if they know that all that separates them from gorging endlessly is a few feet stone.
I wonder if they are strong enough to dig through those slabs of rock.
I wonder if they understand where the ash comes from, living souls made of flame and encased in flesh.
I wonder if the are smart enough to learn to make their own.
My neighboring cellmate just may be, judging by the way she slowly paces the wall of iron bars that separate us. By the way she sways, licking her dried, cracked lips. Her teeth clicking and clacking as her jaw moves in twitches of hunger. Her attention raises the hair on my neck, my body's attempt at signaling danger.
Her teeth click clack, clack click, click clack. If I closed my eyes, they could almost resemble the chirps of fat spring birds.
Her eyes are gone—like all the rabid frayed. In their place, dark, bottomless holes sit, leaving me to guess where she's truly looking, what she sees.
Her body is mere bones, draped in paper-thin, graying skin. Her hair, drained of life, shifts from light to dark grey in the lantern light. She must have frayed recently, then. Her life-giving thread burned, and with it, her memories, her relationships, her humanity.
Now she is one of the millions of frayed that live here, stuck in the In-between, never to be truly heard or seen. Enslavement is their best chance of surviving, working in the king's armies where they can feast on ash and wander in the city. Imprisonment is one of the worst endings for a rabid fray. Even I'm not sure what exactly happens to them, only that their broken, wordless screams fill this dungeon every night, leaking from under the door at the end of our cell blocks hall. Sometimes so loud, I could hear them as a girl, living twenty stories up in the castles royal wing. I didn't know they were cries. Father used to say it was the wind, whistling hello, and goodbye.
Silence, threads this silence is never ending. I don't miss the whispers, the snickers or cries. Or maybe I do. No, I don't, but the warnings that were hidden in those whispers, I'm vulnerable without them.
The frayed's cries of hunger and teeth clicking grow, filling a different kind of silence, one that's not in my head. They pace, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth in front of their cold, iron cell doors.
My stomach twists in anticipation of that silence. Father used to use it as a reward, only I haven't earned this reprieve.
The first streak of black catches in the corner of my eye, a shadow slipping past, unnaturally silent, intent on escape. I roll my head slowly, watching as more shadows join, flitting along the walls in ghostly, synchronized patterns. They dance and blur at the edge of my vision, slipping away into the dim recesses where the last lanterns, neglected by lazy guards, leave the hall steeped in darkness.
I've never seen them move so quickly, so silently. They tend to hover around me, twisting and twirling, brushing up against my skin like loose strands of hair. Maybe they're being called, summoned by their master.
The castle groans, thousands of years taking its tole with each greeting and farewell from the wind and rain. The lanterns sway, casting the shadows around the room in dancing yellow light.
It's about to storm, I tell myself, trying to calm the thrumming of my heart with deep evened breaths. None of this feels right.
Faster and faster, they fly, streaking through the cells of the frayed, whipping around their decaying bodies, searching for the shortest escape route.
Rasing to an elbow I peer down the hall, watching as the shadows surge forward, swallowing every inch of wall and floor in their path. There's no flicker, no soft brush against my ear—only a single, driving purpose. They're fleeing. Urgently. Desperately.
Little rocks fall from forgotten crevices as the mountain trembles, and the castle sways. The shadows race, blurring together and consuming almost every inch of light until one, larger shadow emerges at the end of the hall.
Frost sparks in the air as the shadow grows and materializes, mimicking one of us with the way it starts to walk. They do that sometimes, pretend to be alive. I think they remember what it used to be like, how it felt to have weight, what it meant to be a living fae.
A cloud forms with each shallow breath I take. My fingers now numb and useless in the plummeting temperature. Covering my mouth with my hands I try to conserve heat and hide the tell-tale signs of life. A frayed doesn't breathe, and something isn't right. My nerves are firing one after another, my heart following the rhythm they set. The shadows fall, almost bow to the larger one as it moves down the hall, seemingly with grace, it has not yet lost.
The shadow's form solidifies with each stride it makes, toward my cell. The lines of its body sharper, more defined than the others. He, I realize, towers, tall and lean yet powerfully built, with a natural elegance that holds the space around him. The other shadows, now hidden in the pockets of black the lanterns can't reach, remain silent. Ink-black hair falls in tousled strands across his forehead, nearly obscuring eyes that burn with a cold, predatory light—a gaze that pins and dissects. His face, striking and sharp, has a symmetry that borders on cruel perfection: high cheekbones that cast shadowed hollows, a jawline that could cut obsidian, and lips drawn with an elegance that holds no warmth.
Wings, my eyes land and are held hostage to the sight of those mighty, talon tipped, membranous wings that sprout from his back. Spanning so far, so wide, they nearly graze the iron bars that line the hall. My stomach drops at the sight of those formidable wings. At the heavy thumps each of his boots make as they land on the cold, unforgivable stone. He is no shadow.
The male fully materializes, dressed in dark, scaled armor, each piece layered and molded to his form, as if it were made of shadow itself. His arms and shoulders carry the strength of a warrior, each movement calculated, as if he could strike in an instant and then disappear back into the darkness. He wears weapons like females crave to adorn jewelry, daggers strapped to his thighs, a sword down his back, and power. Pure, pulsing power leaking form cobalt stones, placed strategically throughout his armor. They all sing the same song of violence and death.
It's not the weapons, but the stillness in him—the way he stands, cold and patient, like a weapon himself, waiting to be drawn—that pulls my attention as he stops in front of my cell. I remain frozen, still as the stone statues that decorate our lawn. Focus on halting my breathing, slowing my heart, however futile, we are one in the same, our hearing impeccable.
Cocking his head, his lips pull back in what almost looks like disgust. Not that I blame him, I haven't bathed in at least a month, my skin crusted with dirt, grime, and the sour scent of vomit.
He is darkness made flesh; a beautiful threat cloaked in whisps of darkness. The most handsome male I've ever seen. The Mother must be laughing herself hoarse with this little introduction she crafted, though I've lost the feeling of shame long, long ago.
"Lyra Morven." My name is spat from the handsome male's mouth as if it were laced with poison. He didn't find The Mothers joke as amusing, then.
"That is your name, is it not?" The males tone sharpens as he steps through the iron bars of my cage, annoyance lining his question. I refuse to give him ground, to show the anxiety and adrenaline that's pumping through my system.
Choosing ignorance as my weapon, I roll onto my back, staring at the map of lakes and streams carved into the damp stone ceiling as shivers rake their way down my spine. My hands shake as I force myself to stop picking at the skin that lines my broken, grime filled nails.
The male snarls, another attempt for my attention. Ignore him, ignore them, ignore him, I repeat over and over, filling my head with the reminders. The patience the male holds visibly slips away with each minute I remain lying on the stone.
Moving on silent steps, the male of nightmares towers over me, blocking my view of the hills and valleys. "Get. Up." he growls, baring bone white canines. Some primal part of my shredded soul quakes at the sight of them, crafted for downing prey and tearing out throats. I refuse to move an inch, either out of fear or the minute amount of pride I still cling too.
"I gave you an order, reaper, I'll bind and drag you if I have too." Hovering over me, our breaths mingle as he holds himself back, waiting to see my next move. He can't take me, I remind myself, this dungeon is filled to the brim with humming, thick wards.
Reaper, that's a new one. Laughter claws up my throat, hoarse and fractured, scraping past my lips unused to the sound as I turn to face him. The males jaw twitches as he holds my gaze, his eyes like endless wheat fields in late summer.
"I have only one master, bat, and you are not him." I reply, feigning boredom to cover the fear lacing my tone. Anger, pure and sharp flashes onto the males features as he crosses his broad arms. He didn't like the nickname, apparently.
My words hang in the air as shadows surge forward, swift as vipers striking, wrapping around my wrists. They're cold, biting, and unyielding—like ice coated iron. Shadowsinger
A gasp escapes me as the tendrils tighten, pressing into my skin, an unnatural chill sinking into my bones. The shadows coil and slither over my skin, each whisp obeying its master's silent command while remaining silent themselves. I pull against them instinctively, but they only tighten, pulsing to the same rhythm of The Shadowsingers ticking jaw. Sweat slicks my brow as realization crashes into me. Distracted by the deafening silence, the break from endless shadow chatter, I lost the thrum of the wards. My head had ached from the true, undiluted silence.
"The wards are down" I whisper, shrinking as far back toward the damp stone wall as the shadows will allow. I'm not afraid of dying; that would almost be a mercy. What I am afraid of is torture—a long, drawn-out death, something slow and excruciating. And that's exactly what Shadowsingers are known for, natural spy's and dealers of the dirtiest work.
"What do you want?" I whisper, my voice trembling. No amount of laziness or boredom could cover the fear ravishing my gut and racing along my bones.
"I want you to beg for forgiveness on your knees. I want you to burn, to feel the agony of every thread you've frayed. And most of all, I want you to suffer, to feel the emptiness those families endure every day." He growls, taking a deliberate step with each proclamation. Silent. Precise. Deadly. Promising.
His words hang in the air, cold and final, as shadows gather and pool at his feet, rippling like smoke. Before I can react, they surge forward, slipping around my throat like fingers made of ice, tightening with an unyielding grip. My bound hands fly to my neck, desperate to claw the tendrils of shadow away to get even a mouthful of air. They only press harder, stealing the oxygen from my lungs and filling them with glass instead.
Kicking and fighting with the small energy reserves my malnourished form has, I make it to the stone floor, clawing toward the Shadowsinger. I will not die without leaving a mark.
I am stronger than this.
I should be stronger than this.
Darkness blooms at the edges of my vision, and my arms buckle as his voice, calm and merciless, cuts through the haze. "You'll learn to kneel, one way or another."
The world blurs, shadows pulling me under, their cold tendrils coiling tighter until everything fades to black.
I used to be stronger than this.