It's killing me.
I slip out of the apartment, closing the door with a soft click, and the morning air hits my face like a shock of cold water. It's barely dawn, the sky still streaked with pink and gold, and the village is just starting to wake. Smoke rises from chimneys. Somewhere down the street, I hear the clatter of shutters being thrown open.
"Morning, Senna."
I turn to see Old Marrik shuffling past with a bundle of firewood under one arm. He's been the village elder for longer than I've been alive, his face creased with wrinkles and his back bent from years of labor.
"Good morning." I force a smile, and he nods before continuing on his way.
No one ever asks questions. No one ever wonders why I'm always up before dawn, slipping out of my own home like a thief. They know. They all know what Darian is. But no one says anything.
Because he's a man. Because I'm his wife. Because this is just how things are.
I walk quickly through the narrow streets, keeping my head down, and try not to think about how different it felt in New Solas. How alive the city was, howbright. How no one looked at me like I was property.
How Lorenth looked at me like I was everything.
The ache in my chest sharpens, and I press my hand against it again.
I can't keep doing this.
Can't keep pretending I'm fine. Can't keep telling myself that one night doesn't matter, that I should be grateful Darian's leaving me alone, that running would only make things worse.
Because every day I stay, it gets harder to breathe.
Every day I stay, that thread in my chest pulls tighter—yanking toward something I can't have, someone I left behind in a lantern-lit garden.
The stables sit at the edge of the village, a low wooden structure that smells like hay and animal musk. Mira's zarryn—a temperamental silver-coated beast named Ash—lifts his shaggy head when I slip inside, his double tails flicking in greeting.
"Hey, boy." I grab a brush from the hook on the wall and approach slowly. Ash tolerates me, but he's not exactly friendly. Zarryn rarely are.
He snorts, his breath warm against my palm, and I start brushing out his coat in long, steady strokes.
This is my routine. My escape.
Mira's a courier, which means she's gone more often than not, riding between villages with messages and parcels. She pays me in bread and company—two things I desperately need—and in return, I help care for Ash and put away any packages when she's away.
It's not much. But it's something.
It's a reason to leave the apartment. A reason to not be there when Darian wakes up mean or drunk or both.
The brush moves rhythmically through Ash's coat, loosening dirt and tangles, and I let my mind wander.
Back to the Masquerade.
Back to Lorenth's hands on my waist, guiding me through the dance. Back to the way he smiled—rare and devastating—when I made him laugh. Back to the garden, the lanterns, the way he looked at me when I told him I wanted to feel good for once.
"Then let me make you feel good."
Gods.
My throat tightens, and I blink hard against the sudden sting behind my eyes.
I can't cry. Can't afford to. If I start, I won't stop, and then someone will ask questions I can't answer.
Ash shifts under my hands, rumbling low in his chest, and I focus on the rhythm of the brush. In and out. Steady. Grounding.
"You're here early."
