I woke up feeling lightheaded, the edges of the world blurred and antiseptic. The room was unnervingly white—walls, floor, ceiling, even the bed I'd been lying on. Every surface bled the same sterile light.
"Ira, Fastidium, Timor, Laetitia, Tristitia, et Admiratio," I called instinctively, my voice bouncing off the blank walls as I sat up. "How long have I been unconscious?" The space offered no answers.
"What happened? I thought we'd handled the intruder." My gaze roamed the room. Every object was white, stripped of clues. "What's the time?" Even my belongings had vanished.
"What is it, Ira?" I asked, the sensations around me swelling, emotions tangibly present. Happiness lingered in my shadow, and Surprise flitted restlessly, probing the space with curiosity.
No doors. No windows. Only a bed, a desk, and two chairs.
"It's quiet," I murmured, lying back on the floor, staring at the ceiling. "I wonder where Victoria is."
"Good morning, Eudora. How was your night?"
I startled. Eyes snapping open, I saw figures standing where none had been. Where had they come from?
Disgust gestured sharply—they had stepped through a door that hadn't existed moments before.
"And who might you be?" I thought, while Surprise hovered over one of the silent figures, pointing insistently.
Four of them: two men, two women. Their black-and-white attire clung with suffocating structure, a rigid contrast to the soft white room.
Recognition struck. "Ahh, you." One of the women—I was certain I'd killed her—stood there calmly.
"Is there something on my face?" she asked coolly. One man placed a file on the desk, silent.
"Miss Eudora, correct?" the other asked. I held my expression steady. Worry had no place here—none of mine, none of theirs.
Even without my words, Surprise had said enough. Anger rose like a tide, pushing itself into my shadow as I regained composure. How… how was she still here?
"Yes. What can I do for you?" I asked, though nothing followed.
"A cultist with the ability to manifest emotion and manipulate it," one man finally said. Their unease was subtle, but I could feel it ripple through the room. Why were they disturbed if they already knew this?
Chime, chime—the faint bells on the other woman's hair rang. My attempt to measure them failed; she whispered something to the man who had been scribbling notes. This might not be ideal, I concluded.
"How long have I been here?" I asked, finally. Silence. Names unspoken, introductions omitted.
"So… what can you tell me about the Ninth Catalogue?" The man designated as interrogator leaned forward. Paul—my mind supplied the name. That belonged to my father's association. My eyes stayed on my shadow, where all my emotions clustered.
"I do not know what that is," I sighed, tone neutral though betraying nothing. They catalogued every flicker of reaction.
"And the Bloody Eclipse?" he pressed, comparing my answers to their records.
I realized then: my responses were irrelevant. They had the answers before my lips moved. I was a mirror. My voice, a reflection for them to read my shadows.
And I felt… everything at once. Confusion, irritation, dread, relief—a dull fascination.
Mixed emotions swirled in my shadow like smoke, and there was no way to exhale.
I could see the mechanisms of control, the silent calculations, the careful observations. Yet none of it mattered. None of it could touch the weight of what I felt.
The room remained white. The four figures remained still. And I, stripped to bare awareness, lay there listening to the invisible pulse of my own divided self.