He looks at me for a moment longer, his tongue running along the inside of his cheek, and just when I think he'll do something, he takes a deep breath and nods.
"Good night, Zaria," he says, and shuts the door.
I stand there, staring at the handle, waiting to hear the lock, but it doesn't come.
I wait five seconds, then ten.
I try to listen for his footsteps retreating down the hall, but I can't hear anything over my own breathing.
Finally, I move.
I walk to the door, my hand trembling as I reach for the handle.
I grip it and turn it slowly. It moves.
The latch clicks, and the door opens an inch.
My heart rattles in my chest, wild, and I shut the door quickly.
What are you doing? He's testing you. He's waiting for you to fail.
I shake my head, trying to clear the panic, and open it again.
This time, I peek my head out and look down the hall.
It's empty.
No guards. No Callum. No one.
Just silence and shadows.
I shut the door again and lean against it, my legs shaking.
The unlocked door terrifies me more than the locked one.
Because now I have to choose whether or not I want to stay.
I slide down to the floor, my back pressed against the wood, and pull my knees to my chest.
In the Order, choice was a myth. Everything was decided for me. Where I slept. What I ate. Who touched me. When I bled.
Cormac made sure I understood that freedom was an illusion, that rebellion was futile, that my body and my will belonged to the Morrígan.
And when I tried to choose, when I dared to say no or hesitate or question, I was punished.
The burn on my arm throbs faintly, a phantom ache that never fully fades.
I rub it absently, my fingers tracing the raised scar tissue.
But this, this unlocked door, it's not a gift.
It's a test.
Callum is giving me the chance to prove I'm not who he thinks I am. That I'm not a threat. That I won't run back to Cormac or betray him or disappear into the night.
And if I fail, if I leave or make the wrong move, he'll lock me back up. Or worse.
I press my forehead to my knees and close my eyes.
