It had been three days.
Three days since the note. Three days since the voice that didn't cut her.
He hadn't come back.
Good.
Seravyn didn't need him. Didn't want him. Didn't trust a stranger who wore their mask like the others but spoke like he saw her. Like he knew something she didn't.
Still, she caught herself listening. For boots softer than the rest. For a breath out of rhythm. For a whisper in the hall. But it was always the same steel, blood, stone, silence.
That morning, if it could be called morning began with the usual two. She didn't look. She never did.
They shackled her wrists and ankles. Unhooked her chains. Dragged her to the table.
The air was too cold. Her bones too brittle. One of them made a note on his chart.
"No reaction," the first one said. "Nothing."
Then came the needle.
She twitched. They liked that. She focused on the flickering crystal above her, letting its light burn her retinas.
The second needle slid in.
Pain bloomed down her spine.
She didn't scream. She didn't blink. Only dug her nails into her own skin where they could reach. Scraped new lines into her palm. Counted.
Her fingers were stained with blood before the first cut even came.
When the blade sliced open her back, she felt the familiar wave of heat, and she let it wash over her. Her body was nothing but a vessel for the pain now, and her mind had long since drifted away from the horror. She had no choice but to accept the endless ritual of the table. Every incision felt like part of a song, a song she knew too well.
The silence stretched between them as they worked. One of them muttered something about her resistance, but it barely registered. She was a ghost, an empty thing, just waiting for the next mark to be made.
The second cut burned deep. She twisted her wrist in the shackles, digging her nails further into her skin. They didn't speak to her, and she didn't speak back. She clenched her teeth, focusing only on the light above her, the crystal flickering like the last piece of something important being snuffed out.
When they were finished, the cleanup was swift, and then they dragged her back to her cell like a broken doll.
She was tossed back into the cell with the same impersonal gesture. The door slammed shut. The bolt clicked.
The silence was her only companion again. She was left alone with her thoughts, with the hum of the pipes, the drip of the leak above, and the constant ache in her body. The pain was familiar, but it still sliced at her, deeper with each passing day.
Her back still burned, but she couldn't tell if it was from the cuts or from something else. Something heavier. A reminder of the note. The boy. His eyes. She had spent the last three days trying to convince herself that the moment didn't matter. That he wasn't real. That he wouldn't return.
But her mind wasn't so easily silenced. She found herself listening again, every time she heard a sound in the hall, every time she heard footsteps, she'd hold her breath. But each time, it was the same cold silence. The sound of boots. The click of keys. No footsteps softer than the others. No whispering voice.
Three days. Nothing.
She scratched at the wall again. Another tally. She hadn't stopped counting the cuts, though the numbers meant less now. Everything meant less. Her name, her memories, those were the things she forgot. She didn't know who she was anymore, except for Seventy-Three.
The hours passed, stretched long and thin as she stared at the walls, her mind drifting again. The silence had settled in too thick, like a blanket she couldn't shake off. She hated it. But there was nothing else. Nothing to do but wait.
She glanced at the door. The air was still. It always was. She couldn't feel his presence, couldn't hear his steps. But there something she couldn't ignore.
And then, a sound.
A shift in the air. The softest echo of boots in the hall.
Her heart stopped. She froze. Her breath caught in her throat. She shook her head, forcing herself to breathe. Her mind was playing tricks. He wasn't real. He wasn't coming back.
The door rattled. The bolt slid.
Her heart beat faster.
Then it opened.
Not fully. Not wide enough for her to see beyond the threshold. But enough to feel the presence. The figure was there.
She didn't look up right away. She was frozen staring at the floor, holding her breath. She didn't trust herself to move. To believe it.
A soft chuckle broke the silence. "Still alive, I see."
Her lips cracked into a dry smile, "I thought you were gone."
The figure stepped closer, just inside the door. She could make out the outline of him, a hood, a mask, his posture.He wasn't wearing the same robes but he was the same.
"You really should stop making yourself bleed," he said, his voice softer this time
Her lips twitched, but she didn't respond. Her mind was a mess. There were too many questions, too many things she didn't understand.
The boy stepped into the cell fully.
It was the first time anyone had. No gloves. No tray on the floor. No watching from the edge of the door like she was some caged beast that might bite.
He moved slowly, deliberately, letting the heavy steel door click shut behind him. A worn canvas bag hung from his shoulder.
Her breath hitched, just once. "You're either stupid," she rasped, "or suicidal."
"Bold of you to assume I'm any," he said easily, crouching down across from her, the chains on her wrists rattling as she instinctively shifted back.
She stared at the bag. "What is that?"
"Peace offering."
"I don't want it."
He ignored her and pulled it open anyway. The scent hit her first. Not the rot of moldy cell food, but something warm. Spiced. Bread? Her stomach twisted violently at the memory of hunger.
He held up a crumpled napkin-wrapped loaf and a small cloth pouch. "Bread. Not poisoned. And herbs. Also not poisoned. But you'll have to trust me on that."
She didn't reach for it.
"Don't look so disappointed," he added, sitting cross-legged now.
She continued dryly, "You practice that in front of a mirror?"
He gave her a look, playful. "Only on Thursdays."
She hated that it almost pulled a smile from her. Almost.
"Why are you here?" she asked, voice flat. "Really."
He met her gaze, "Because someone needs to be. You're still alive."
"You said that before," she muttered.
"And it keeps being true. Which is impressive, honestly."
He slid the bread and pouch forward, within reach. "Eat. Then I'll clean you up."
Seravyn didn't move. Her wrists throbbed in their cuffs. Her back screamed. Her mouth filled with saliva she refused to swallow.
"Why?" she whispered.
"Because infection kills slower than the scalpel," he replied, his tone more matter-of-fact than kind. "And I hate wasting effort."
She barked a laugh, sharp and bitter. "So I'm effort now."
"I don't have all night Seravyn."
The sound of her name made her flinch. It wasn't like when he'd said it before; gently, reverently, almost in awe. This time, it was edged with something harder. Like it cost him to say it out loud.
He sighed. "Fine." He tore the bread in half and took a bite himself, chewing exaggeratedly. "See? Still breathing."
"You're an idiot."
"And you're starving," he said, mouth full.
She hated him. She hated how calm he was. How alive he seemed. How the cell didn't shrink when he entered.
Slowly, she leaned forward and took the bread. Her fingers brushed his. He didn't flinch. She did.
The crust cracked as she bit into it. Soft. Real. Spiced with something she couldn't name, but her body remembered it. Something warm. Safe.
Her vision blurred. She turned her face away so he wouldn't see.
"I'm not crying," she growled.
"I didn't say you were," Orion said gently. "But if you were, I wouldn't blame you."
She glared at him. "Don't get sentimental. You're still dressed like one of them."
He gestured to the faded scarf wrapped sloppily over his shoulder and mask. "I like to think I'm the discount version."
Seravyn tore off another bite, chewing slower now.
He opened the pouch next, revealing bundles of leaves, gauze, and a small tin vial. He scooted closer, reaching for her wrist.
She yanked back.
"Don't," she said coldly. "Touch me and I swear I'll bite your fingers off."
He didn't pull away.
"I believe you," he said. "But I don't have all night."
She stared at him, long and hard.
His mask didn't reveal much. Just the shape of his jaw and the glint of those strange eyes behind the slits.
"What's your name?" she asked suddenly.
"Orion."
She narrowed her eyes. "Real?"
He grinned beneath the mask. "Real enough."
"Tch. Liar."
"I prefer creative improviser."
He reached again, slower this time. "Let me clean it. I won't hurt you."
She hesitated. Then barely she nodded once.
Orion moved carefully, tugging one of the herb poultices from his pouch. He dipped it in the tin and pressed it against the torn skin on her palm. She hissed, but didn't pull away.
"I could scream and have you killed," she muttered.
"You could," he said, dabbing at her wounds with shocking gentleness. "But you won't."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't want me dead. Yet."
She hated that he was right.
He shifted behind her now. Her body stiffened, but he didn't touch her. "Your back," he said softly. "Can I…?"
Seravyn closed her eyes. Let out a long breath through her nose.
"Do it fast."
The chains clinked as she leaned forward, muscles trembling. Orion peeled back the blood-crusted strands of hair. The wounds were fresh, raw and angry.
The first touch made her jolt. The poultice hit raw flesh, and her vision exploded into white. Every nerve in her spine screamed. Tears blurred her eyes before she could stop them, hot and humiliating.
She clenched her jaw, refusing to sob. Not in front of him. Not again. But he noticed.
"Damn it…" Orion's voice was lower now, but rougher. Not cold, furious. Not at her.
"At what point," he muttered under his breath, "did carving into someone's spine become the standard procedure?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her whole body trembled.
His hands moved gently, slower now. But when his fingers brushed the deepest cut, a strangled sound escaped her throat.
"Breathe," he said, just above a whisper. "I know. I know it hurts."
"You don't," she hissed.
He didn't argue. He applied the rest of the salve with excruciating care, pressing clean gauze against her skin with movements so deliberate they almost felt like apology.
When he finished, he sat back on his heels, hands slick with tincture, eyes unreadable behind the mask.
Then, softly still facing the wall she asked, "How do you know my name?"
"I was told."
"By who?" Her voice was ragged. Tired.
"Someone who wants you alive."
She turned her head, meeting his eyes. "Your master?"
Orion let out a soft laugh. "I wouldn't call him my master. But he does love giving orders."
"You listen to him."
"Sometimes."
"Why?"
Orion tilted his head. "Because sometimes, he's right."
Her gaze didn't waver. "Pull down your hood."
"What?"
"I want to see your face. Or at least more of it."
He stared at her. Then after a breath, he reached up and tugged back the hood.
It fell around his neck, revealing tousled black hair, soft. His skin was olive-warm, and his eyes… her breath caught again.
Still that same unnatural red-gold. Like fire buried under smoke.
"Better?" he asked, softly now.
She blinked slowly. "You don't look like them."
"I'm not like them."
"Then why are you here?" she whispered.
"I told you," he said, voice low. "Someone wants you alive. So do I."
Her lips parted. But nothing came out.
He reached into the bag again and pulled out a small clay flask. Uncorked it. The scent was putrid. Sharp herbs and a faint sweetness beneath.
"For the pain," he said, holding it out.
She didn't take it right away.
"What's in it?"
"Willowbark, valerian, and a little frostroot," he replied. "It won't knock you out. But it'll dull the edges."
She hesitated again. Then slowly, she reached for it.
Their fingers brushed once more, and this time, neither flinched.
She drank. It burned, but less than the fire in her back. She swallowed it all, then slumped slightly, her body easing just enough to feel the shift.
"You'll sleep better," he said.
"I don't sleep."
"You will tonight."
"Will you come back?" she asked, surprising them both.
Orion's expression shifted, gentled for the first time. "Yes."
"When?"
"Soon."
"Why?"
He reached for the door, paused fhen glanced back.
"You're still here," he said. "Still breathing."
Seravyn leaned her head back against the wall, eyelids heavy, body warm for the first time in a long time.
"Go before I change my mind," she murmured.
He smiled and vanished into the dark. The bolt clicked. And this time, when the silence returned, it didn't feel so empty.