Chapter 30 — POV: Lyra
Darkness came in pieces.Not the clean kind that falls like a curtain — the fractured kind, where you wake to the sound of your own heartbeat, unsure if you've been unconscious for minutes or hours.
My wrists ached first.Rope burn. Coarse, tight, unyielding.Then my mouth — dry, split at the corners, my tongue a strip of sandpaper.
Somewhere nearby, water dripped. Slow. Measured. Cruel.
I tried to move, but the chair I was in was bolted to the floor.The air was cold, metallic, with a faint sweetness underneath — the chemical tang I'd smelled before blacking out. My head throbbed, my thoughts stuttered.
And then — voices.Muffled at first, like they were on the other side of a wall.
"…she's awake."The words slid through the air like a knife through silk.
I opened my eyes.
They stood in a loose half-circle. All of them in white masks.Not theatrical, not grotesque — blank. Smooth. Empty of expression.The kind of mask that turns every tilt of the head into something alien.
There were three of them.One tall, shoulders squared like they'd been carved from stone. One shorter, moving like they couldn't quite decide whether to step forward or back. And one in the center — still, patient, radiating a kind of quiet authority that made the others seem like shadows.
The tall one stepped closer, crouching so we were eye level.The mask's featureless surface reflected my own face back at me in pale distortion."You're thirsty," he said. Not a question. A fact.
He uncapped a bottle of water in slow, deliberate movements. The sound alone was enough to make my throat contract.But instead of offering it, he poured it out. Onto the concrete.The puddle spread, glinting under the dim light. My jaw clenched.
"This," he said, "is how queens fall. Not with a blade. With thirst."
The shorter one shifted uncomfortably. The leader didn't move.
"Why am I here?" I asked, my voice a rasp.The mask tilted, as if amused. "Because you've been playing a game without knowing the board."
Something in the way he said it… I knew this wasn't random. This was connected to the Polaroids. To her. Maybe to more.
They didn't hit me. They didn't scream.They just let the water drip, slow and rhythmic, every drop a countdown I couldn't see.
Minutes — or hours — passed. My body felt heavier, my thoughts slower. They spoke among themselves sometimes, just low enough that I could only catch fragments.
"…not yet…""…he'll come…""…the deal—"
Then the leader gave a small signal, and the tall one wheeled in a cart. On it — a sleek black laptop, its lid reflecting the overhead light.
The shorter one set it on a metal table in front of me, angling the screen so I could see.With a few keystrokes, the camera feed flickered to life.
Kieller.
He was in motion when the image resolved — pacing, jaw locked, eyes sharper than I'd ever seen them. When he saw me, he stopped dead. The air in the room seemed to shift.
His voice, when it came, was low but edged in steel. "Where is she?"
The leader moved into frame beside me, white mask catching the light. "She's here," he said simply. "But not for long."
Kieller's eyes went from the mask to me.He took me in — the ropes, the tilt of my head, the dryness in my lips.Anger flared there, quick and violent, but there was something else too. Worry. The kind he didn't know how to hide.
"What do you want?" he asked, each word measured.
The leader didn't answer. Instead, he reached for the water bottle again, this time holding it close enough for me to smell. My whole body leaned toward it without permission.
The masked man looked at Kieller through the camera."Every queen," he said, "is only as strong as the king willing to burn for her. Let's see what you're willing to burn."
The feed cut to black.
The room felt colder after the screen died.The tall one carried the laptop away. The leader stayed where he was for a moment longer, watching me through that blank mask, before turning and walking out.
The shorter one lingered in the doorway, glancing back at me once. Then the heavy lock slid into place, and I was alone again.
Alone with the drip of water.And the taste of thirst like a blade in my mouth.
At first, I tried to count the drops.It was something to anchor myself with — a rhythm I could hold on to, a way to measure the passing of time in a place where time was deliberately stripped away.
One… two… three—I lost track by thirty-seven. My mind kept looping back to the image burned into me from seconds ago — that white mask staring from the screen. Not the blankness itself, but what it implied. That somewhere beyond these walls, someone was watching. Waiting.
I didn't know if the camera was still on. It didn't matter. The possibility was enough to keep my chin up, my face neutral. If they were watching for weakness, they wouldn't get it from me.
The chair beneath me was bolted to the floor, but the bindings on my wrists had just enough give for me to flex my fingers. The rope scraped the skin raw, leaving a tacky warmth behind. I rotated my wrists slowly, not to escape — yet — but to feel something I could control.
Somewhere in the distance, a faint hum started. At first I thought it was a machine — maybe ventilation — but it carried a pulse. A low, thrumming vibration that I could feel in my bones. It rose and fell, never loud enough to be distracting, never soft enough to ignore.
They were playing with my senses.I'd heard of this before — sound as a weapon. Not the kind that deafened you, but the kind that seeped under your skin until you couldn't tell what was inside your head and what was in the room.
The thirst was worse. Every swallow scraped like glass down my throat. My lips had cracked, the metallic tang of blood faint on my tongue.
I closed my eyes, but the darkness behind them wasn't any kinder.All I could see was that puddle of water spreading on the floor earlier. My mind replayed it again and again, cruel in its detail — the shimmer, the way it caught the light, the way it had disappeared into the cracks in the concrete.
A sound broke through.Not the drip. Not the hum.
A soft shuffle, like fabric brushing against a wall.
I opened my eyes.
The shorter one stood in the corner. I hadn't heard the door open. The mask tilted, almost curious. In their hands — another Polaroid.
They walked forward slowly, each step deliberate, and set the photo face-down in my lap before retreating two steps.
My fingers worked awkwardly against the rope, flipping it over.
It was me again. Not here, not now — but at the hotel balcony two nights ago. I was leaning on the railing, looking down at the streetlights. And in the reflection of the sliding glass door behind me, that same white mask.
A cold weight settled in my chest.They'd been closer than I'd realized.
The shorter one said nothing. Just stood there, watching, as if waiting for a reaction.
I gave them none.
After a long moment, they turned and left without a sound. The door shut, the lock slid, and the drip returned to being the loudest thing in the world.
I didn't know how long I sat there after that. The hum pressed against my skull, the thirst a living thing in my throat. My heartbeat had slowed into something sluggish, heavy.
And then — the sound of the lock again.
The door opened, but no one spoke.A figure stepped in. Not tall. Not short. Somewhere in between. They wore the same white mask, but unlike the others, this one had a thin, jagged crack running from the temple to the cheekbone.
They approached without hesitation, crouching in front of me.From a pocket, they pulled out a small cloth and pressed it hard over my mouth and nose.
The scent hit instantly — sweet, chemical, wrong.
I thrashed, but my limbs were lead, my body sluggish from thirst and exhaustion. The edges of my vision began to fray.
The last thing I saw before the dark took me again was that cracked mask leaning closer...as if it wanted to make sure I saw it.