Because she’s not awake. Not really. Her eyes are closed, lips parted, and her body moves like she’s responding to touch that isn’t there. Like she’s trapped in something that feels real enough to drown in.
He’s feeding off her dreams.
The realization hits me like a fist to the gut.
Not just feeding—replacing reality with something that feels better than truth. Making her want the cage so much she won’t try to escape it.
It’s the cruelest thing I’ve ever seen him do.
And I’ve seen a lot.
A sound escapes her—soft, broken, wanting—and something in my chest cracks wide open.
I should leave. Should back away slowly and disappear into the Void before Ethos realizes I’m here.
But I can’t.
My feet move without permission, carrying me closer to the cushions. Closer to her.
She doesn’t notice. Doesn’t even open her eyes.
Just lies there trembling, chasing sensations that aren’t real, while the silver around her dims with every breath.
I kneel at the edge of the light, close enough now to see the details that make her real instead of dream.
Freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. The way her fingers curl into the velvet like she’s holding onto something.
And scars.
So many scars.
They cover her body like a map of pain—pale lines across her ribs, a cluster on her shoulder blade, more scattered down her arms and thighs. Some are old, silvered with time. Others look newer, angrier.
My heart breaks all over again.
Because it’s not just this. Not just Ethos and his cruel dream-feeding.
She’s survived a lifetime of torture.
Her story is written on her skin in violence, and she’s still here. Still breathing. Still reaching for something even when she’s lost in nightmares.
She’s real.
And she’s the strongest thing I’ve ever seen.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
The emptiness I’ve carried for years—decades, maybe—and the scars she wears on her skin. They’re the same thing, aren’t they? Different kinds of survival. Different kinds of torture that should have broken us but didn’t.
She’s the first real thing I’ve seen in longer than I can remember.
The silver Ether drifts closer to me, curious and cautious all at once. A tendril brushes my arm and I freeze, expecting pain or cold or the hollow ache the Void leaves behind.
Instead, it feels warm.
Safe.
Like recognition.
