“Lark?”
Not asleep. Not enough.
Jasper’s voice slithered through the smoke. The same voice that used to order me to kneel, to pray, to obey.
I ran.
The world narrowed to one sound — my breath. My skirt caught on the stone; my burned hands scraped the wall for balance. The stairwell waited just ahead, a hole of shadow and air. I was almost there when his hand caught my arm and yanked me back hard enough to send my teeth crashing together.
My skull hit the wall. Light burst white behind my eyes.
“Thought you were clever, did you?” he sneered, his breath hot and sour.
I looked at him, the man the Prophet hadgivenme to, the one who spoke of purity while his hands left bruises. “Clever enough to drug you.”
The slap came fast, hard, final. My lip split, and the taste of blood filled my mouth. I smiled.
Men like him hated when you smiled.
He dragged me down the hall, another guard joining him. My body went heavy, limp, but my eyes stayed open, cataloguing every step, every door, every smell of oil and rot. They shoved me into a small storage room, no window, no mercy, just wood walls and a locked door.
Smoke followed me in. It slid under the crack like a serpent, curling around my ankles, climbing higher. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of lamp oil and burning cloth.
I pressed my palms to the wall, the skin tight and tender from the punishment circle, and told myself this wasn’t fear, it was fury. Fury at Gabriel, the Prophet who built a kingdom on submission. Fury at the men who called themselves Shepherds while feeding on our obedience. Fury at myself for once believing that silence meant survival.
Obedience is just another kind of death,Ash used to say.
He was right.
My vision wavered. The room spun. The fire had found me — slow and deliberate, like a promise kept. I sank to the floor, cheek pressed to the cold stone, my breath shallow and quick. Somewhere above the roar, I thought I heard the Prophet’s voice again, that soft drawl he used when he wanted to sound kind:The vessel that cries out rejects the Flame.
I hadn’t screamed then. I wouldn’t now.
I closed my eyes. The heat pressed close. The smoke whispered something like a prayer.
And then the world exploded.
The door didn’t open — itceased to exist.The blast threw light and dust through the room, and when the smoke cleared, he was standing there.
Boots first. Heavy. Black.
Then denim, ash-streaked.
Then leather — a patch catching the firelight.
Not a Shepherd.
He moved through the smoke like it had no power to touch him, scanning the corners fast, sharp, sure, until his eyes found mine.
Cold became fury. Fury became relief.
“Got you,” he said.
He didn’t sound like a savior. He sounded like a man finishing a promise. Before I could think, his arms were around me, lifting me clean off the floor. I twisted weakly, my body fighting out of habit. His grip held solid, rough but careful.
“Save it,” he muttered, his voice firm. “We’re not dyin’ in this shithole.”
The words hit somewhere deep. A command. A vow. I stopped fighting.
