Darkness clung to her, thick and suffocating, until the ache in her chest dragged her upward.
Eva's eyes fluttered open to a ceiling of black stone. For a moment, she thought she was still convulsing on the floor, still choking on her own blood. But no—she was breathing, shallow and raw, each swallow scraping against bandages pressed tight around her throat.
Restraints.
Leather bit into her forehead, buckled to the bedframe, denying her even the smallest lift or turn of her head.
Her wrists—splinted and thickly bandaged—were strapped down at mid-arm, leather cuffs fixed to the cot's sides so that her broken joints had space to heal but no strength to strain. A broad strap crossed her chest, pinning her ribs against the thin mattress, each breath dragging shallowly beneath its pressure.
Another strap cinched across her thighs, anchoring her hips, while her ankles were bound to the bed's corners.
Not chains this time. Something worse. Flexible. Unyielding. Designed to keep her alive against her own will.
She shut her eyes briefly, fury sparking through the fog of pain.
It had worked, then. The last resort. The agony that had stolen her voice before the monster could pry into her mind. She remembered the eyes—those bright rings of gold blazing with his will—and how the darkness had swallowed her before she yielded.
Her body was wrecked, but her silence was intact.
She licked cracked lips, tasting copper. She didn't know how long she'd been unconscious, but someone had reset her wrists and tended her throat.
The door creaked open, and the muted shuffle of boots broke the silence.
Her fiery eyes turned, and a figure slipped inside.
He was unnervingly tall, his crown brushing the top of the doorway as though the dungeon itself had been built too small for him. His long frame bent slightly forward, giving him a perpetual air of looming. Dark, thin hair fell in straight curtains around a narrow face, making his eyes seem all the larger: wide, gray, unblinking, as if the world were a specimen laid bare before him.
He carried a tray of glass vials. The bitter tang of crushed roots and tinctures filled the air, sharp enough to sting her nose. Eva winced, the scent scraping against the rawness of her throat.
The healer paused when he saw her eyes open. His shoulders eased, his long face brightened with genuine relief.
"Ah," he murmured, soft and unassuming. "You've returned to us. I am… thrilled, truly, to look into such eyes again."
He set the tray down carefully, each vial chiming against the wood. His hands were steady, precise—not the trembling haste of someone terrified of failure. He moved with the reverence of a scholar at work.
Unlike the guards, unlike the other leeches in gray, this one was different. His gaze lingered with wonder instead of hunger, as though she were less a prisoner and more a rare text newly uncovered.
He lowered himself onto the stool at her bedside, studying the bruising along her throat, the faint rise of her chest. "The others," he said quietly, as if sharing a secret, "they see only blood. Livestock. A vessel. But I… I see a marvel. Every species, every mind, is a world. Yours fights harder than most I've ever touched."
Eva's lips tightened. She was not fooled by his obsequiousness.
He plucked up a vial of pale liquid, swirling it idly as though it were a bauble meant for play. "This will help the swelling in your throat," he said, his voice bright and sing-song, the kind of gentle lilt a mother might use to coax a child.
The healer swirled the vial once more before sliding a hand beneath her head, lifting it gently against the restraint. The leather strap at her brow tugged tight, reminding her of her cage.
"You won't enjoy the taste, I'm afraid, but it will keep you breathing. And I should very much like to keep you breathing." He shaped his mouth into what might have been meant as a gentle smile.
"Slowly now," he coaxed, tilting the glass to her lips. The liquid burned bitter and sharp, crawling down her raw throat like fire wrapped in ice. Reflex made her gag, but he tipped it just enough to force the swallow.
"There," he whispered, pleased. "Good. That will ease the swelling. You've punished your voice terribly, but with care, it will return."
He set the vial aside, fingers brushing absently against the bandage at her neck as if it were a fragile relic. His eyes lingered far too long.
"I should very much like to hear it," he continued softly, almost indulgently. "Your voice. It must be as beautiful as you are."
Eva stared at him, breath hissing through clenched teeth. Did he truly think she believed that? That he nursed her voice out of some pathetic admiration?
Her lip curled in disgust—the only defiance her bonds allowed.
No. He didn't want her voice because he thought it beautiful. He wanted it because it was safer than her hands. Because if her wrists were free—if she even had one opening—she would cut his throat with the same precision he mixed his herbs.
And he was correct.
His smile deepened, as if he had divined her thought. "There it is again, that fire. Remarkable," he murmured clasping his gigantic hands on his lap. "Refreshing. We're so used to docile cattle. But you—ah, you remind me the human spirit still has teeth. How fortunate I'm the one allowed to study you."
The door slammed open, snapping the fragile thread of control. Boots clattered against stone, heavy and abrupt. A guard's voice cut through the quiet.
"Healer," the man barked. "The crown prince summons you. Daily report. Now."
The healer's gaze shifted, and for a moment, he seemed almost boyishly thrilled. He clapped his enormous hands together once, the sound booming in the room. "Oh dear, I get to be the bearer of good news." He said, voice light and almost playful.
Then, with a breathless little laugh, he pivoted and strode toward the door, leaving Eva alone again.
Her chest heaved against the restraints, the leather biting into her skin. She let out a shuddering, muffled sigh. Eyes squeezed shut, a single tear traced down her cheek.
She thought the words in the deepest part of her mind, the prayer she had whispered in countless dark nights, now trapped behind her own broken voice:
God of War… hear me again.
I am still yours.
My blood remembers your call,
my bones remember your fire.
You found me again in the dark,
when breath had left me.
Set me back upon your path
and mend what still aches within my soul.
I have walked where you willed—
through ruin, through mercy, through pain.
You have torn me down and raised me new,
and still, I do not turn away.
Guide my hand,
guard my spirit,
and grant me strength to rise.
For I am not lost,
only tested.
And if I fall again,
I trust you will find me still,
and lead me where you have deemed right.
The thought of it—the silent invocation—burned through her, fiercer than any pain. She had whispered those words once before—at the edge where breath ends and silence takes hold—and something had answered.
Even bound, even silenced, the prayer was a weapon—her defiance made manifest. A spark of fire in the shadow, a promise that she would not yield.
Beyond the dungeons, the empire moved like clockwork, unaware of the human defiance that lingered in its shadows.
The war room smelled faintly of smoke and iron. Maps stretched across the long table, their parchment edges curling where candle wax had spattered. Thin red threads traced the arteries of their supply routes, crossing the jagged ink of rivers and mountains.
Lucarion leaned over the table, one sharp nail pressing at a mark where the lines converged. "Switch the shipments here," he told Kael, his voice low and even. "If the western roads falter, the eastern span will hold. The humans will starve before winter if they cannot strike our convoys."
Kael, grunted in approval. "And if they do strike?"
Lucarion's lips curved faintly. "Then they spend their last strength on stone and steel. They cannot win both hunger and blade."
The chamber door groaned open, breaking their exchange. A slender figure stepped inside, hood thrown back to reveal sharp, hawk-like features. The intelligence officer bowed quickly before straightening, a sheaf of notes clutched in his pale hand, eyes sharp and calculating.