Pyrehold, Day Two
The first night passed like a breath held too long.
Toy Crimson didn't sleep. He sat near the wall, legs stretched, arms crossed over his chest, eyes only half-closed. The torchlight danced on the edges of the cell, but it never reached her. The Witch remained in the center of the frost-glazed floor, unmoving.
She didn't eat.
Didn't blink.
Didn't speak again.
She simply sat—like a statue carved from snow and memory.
When the door finally creaked open at dawn, Fenra returned with a tray of rations: flatbread, broth, and a tin cup of boiled water. She didn't make eye contact with the Witch. She handed the tray to Toy.
"Don't expect her to take it," Fenra muttered, already backing away. "She hasn't touched food since the collar went on. Doesn't even blink at it."
Toy nodded, accepting the tray in silence.
The door shut again, locking with the same finality as the night before.
He waited.
Lara Frostborn didn't move.
Toy set the tray on the ground near her. Not too close—just within reach.
He sat again. Closer this time.
She didn't acknowledge him, not with a glance or a word. But something had shifted.
She was aware of him now.
Watching him.
And not with hatred. Not even curiosity. Just… observation. Like he was part of the room. A new fixture to catalog.
Toy studied her, too.
She didn't look monstrous. If anything, she looked too human. Her skin had no blemishes, no scars, but it didn't look unnatural. Just untouched. Her hair was long, curling slightly at the ends, and even in this heat-buried cell, it didn't wilt or cling to her skin. She didn't sweat.
Her breathing was slow—barely visible. Toy had to look carefully just to be sure she was still alive.
He almost asked a question.
Almost.
Instead, he said, "You're not what I expected."
Her eyes didn't open, but her fingers shifted slightly on her lap.
Progress, maybe.
He didn't push. Words weren't currency here. They were tools. Dangerous ones.
So he sat. And listened.
That was when he noticed it.
The only sound in the chamber was his breathing.
Not hers. Not a shuffle. Not a sigh.
Just his own chest rising and falling, over and over, like a heartbeat echoing off frozen stone.
It made his skin crawl.
Time passed strangely. The torches dimmed. The heat in the floor hummed louder. Sweat dripped down his back, but his body no longer reacted. He was used to discomfort. Familiar with pain. He bore the curse of the dark primordial, after all. The black mark across his hand never stopped pulsing—not since the day he survived something no mortal should.
He looked at her again.
Still unmoving.
Until her lips parted.
"You breathe loud," she said.
The words were so soft he almost missed them. But they cut through the silence like a blade.
Toy blinked.
She hadn't opened her eyes. Hadn't looked at him.
"You hear that over the torches?" he asked.
"I hear everything," she replied.
That was all.
No explanation. No emotion.
But Toy felt something shift again. Her voice had changed. Less frost now. Less distance. Just enough to let something in. Maybe boredom. Maybe recognition.
He leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly, deliberately quieter.
"You don't," he said, after a pause.
"Don't what?"
"Breathe."
She didn't answer. Not directly.
Instead, she whispered, "Do you think I'm still human?"
Her tone didn't ask for comfort. Or denial. It was just… honest.
Toy didn't move. "I don't think you care."
Another silence. This one heavier.
Then, finally, she opened her eyes again.
And for the first time, he noticed the faint shimmer beneath them. Not magic. Not power.
Tiredness.
A kind he understood too well.