Lies by : Yara
It was foul beyond words.
The stench clung to me like a shadow that would not leave, wrapping itself around my throat until I could hardly breathe. I pressed my palm against my nose, but even that did nothing. The air was thick with rot and dampness, heavy enough to choke the sky itself.
One might say I was made for such places. My life had always smelled faintly of ruin.
And all of this… all of this was because of Sabira.
She, whose luck gleamed brighter than the sun, who smiled and the world bent for her. She had a fondness for handsome faces — especially one belonging to the driver of this accursed wagon — and so, in her delight, she tossed me in with the trash.
"Now you can glimpse him too," she said.
And because she was my only friend, my only kin in this godforsaken land, I had stayed silent.
The wagon rattled endlessly, its wheels screaming against the stone. Each jolt sent me tumbling among heaps of torn cloth, spoiled food, and shattered things that once belonged to someone's joy. I lost count of how long I had been inside — an hour, perhaps more — until the world gave one last violent shake and stopped.
The halt threw me forward. My head struck something hard, and pain bloomed like a fire across my skull.
I hissed softly. "Wonderful," I muttered to no one. "Now my luck has blisters."
The wagon creaked. Then, with a sound like thunder cracking open the world, the back door yawned wide.
And I fell — along with the rest of the garbage — into the fading light.
I hit the ground hard. Dust rose around me, swirling in the air like pale spirits. For a moment, I lay there, too stunned to move. Then, slowly, I pushed myself up, brushing away scraps of torn paper and wilted petals that clung to my hair. The smell of rot still lingered.
When I lifted my gaze, I saw him.
He stood not far from me, his back half-turned, the light bending around him as though it feared to touch his skin. His hair was silver, soft as moonlight, threaded with glints of gold that shimmered when he moved. A loose knot held it near his shoulder, though stray strands fell to frame his face.
And his eyes — by all gods, his eyes — were like the clouds after rain: pale, nearly white, with a ring of blue circling the edge. They were cold, unreadable, the kind of eyes that had seen eternity and found it dull. The most weird thing, no pupil.
He was beautiful in the way the heavens are beautiful — distant, untouchable, and terribly real.
I rose to my feet, wincing as pain pulsed where the bump had formed. My voice trembled with indignation more than hurt.
"You," I said, pointing at him. "You have to say sorry to me."
He turned his head, just slightly, his gaze drifting lazily toward me. "For what?"
"For this," I snapped, gesturing at my head. "For bumping it so hard that it now carries a blister larger than my own cursed skull."
He blinked once. Slowly. Then said, in a voice that carried neither warmth nor care, "I am sorry."
It was dull, empty — like a hollow apology given to a stranger whose name he would forget by dawn.
How dare he.
How utterly dare he.
I took a step forward, the wind stirring the filth still clinging to my torn skirt. "Are you sorry, though?" I asked, my voice quiet but sharp, the way one might test the edge of a blade.
His gaze slid to mine, slow and deliberate. The blue ring around his eyes seemed to shimmer faintly, like light caught beneath frost.
"Perhaps," he said.
I narrowed my eyes. "No, you're not."
He tilted his head slightly, and that faint, unbothered smile touched his lips — the kind of smile that carried no warmth, no truth.
"No," he said while grinning. "I'm not."
The words sank into the air like falling stones, cold and final.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Only the whisper of wind passed between us, carrying the scent of rust and rain. He stood there — tall, distant, unbearably serene — while I, covered in filth and fury, could do nothing but stare.
And in that silence, I knew this meeting was no accident.
The gods had always despised me — and now, it seemed, one of them had come to prove it.