Any sinister hint of something not quite right was swallowed up by the welcoming dark.
7
Islept.
One hour bleeding into the next, unmarked. Hours that became days without much ceremony. One after the other. Pressing forward in a relentless march that seemed not to mind if I got up and rejoined the daily grind, or rotted right there in dark sheets.
A feast for a better monster. Threads of thin, elite silk binding me tighter and tighter with each breath. Until my every inhale saw those threads cut through my flesh, sinking in deep, until they’d become a part of me.
Untilhewas a part of me.
Raw, painful memories were glossed over by a subtle dusting of calm. Seething hatred flipped, until there was a confusing, pleasant blur of feeling that had rewritten who I’d been.
Sterilized.
Cool.
Efficient.
Fed a steady drip of elite energy, I turned my lagging, dizzy attention to the brightest flame and found it warm when I was so,socold…
Still, part of me seethed. Cringing back from the wall I couldn’t scale, even as it fed on my marrow. Hiding deep in the dark, alone, where he hadn’t yet managed to touch me.
But my refuge grew tighter and smaller by the hour.
The temptation to indulge and be pampered was more enticing with each honeyed drop of dew that trickled over his wall with the command to drink what he offered.
Without ever once bothering to open my eyes, I could feel the coming and goings of several elites and their various entourages. Powerful men, made all the more vicious by the women bound and indentured to follow in their wake. Perfect little slaves, complacent and obedient.
The priestesses. Not a one equal to Sasha’s pure might, but they haunted the halls of the captain’s stolen brownstone just the same.
Their priestess magic was a taunting lure I was forbidden to taste.
And their grief… it oozed through the walls in a toxic sludge. Sticky. Dripping from the rafters in a constant acid rain that reached for me no matter how deeply I was buried, nor how impenetrable that wall. Each droplet burned. Each burn a throbbing reminder of what I’d done.
That Sasha was dead.
That it was my fault.
And the Caledonians agreed with me.Heartily.
For many countless days, I’d listened as they argued about what to do with me.
Publicly euthanize me as a token reparation to the families of those who’d died in the wake of the riot—but Asher was an asset trained by the Empire, and they couldn’t risk killing him with the same blade. Not knowing if he’d survive my death.
Lobectomy to maintain access to the so-namedgolden priestessand the rarity that was the empath, without any of the risk of my continued sentience. But they had no idea if the empath was tied to me, Asher, or some unfortunate combination of the two.
Bind me with a second set of chains, as the late General Tilcot had intended. Both to help the captain carry the burden of being tied to one such as me, and to distribute my abundant power between more than one elite. But there was no one left who knew the history of the Tritan people. No one who they might ask to see if any of their many options might lead to consequences with an astronomical price.
They cycled through a thousand iterations of the same plans. Each one more horrible and creative than the last—none of them hinting that they had any idea of the truth of what had really happened.
Itwasn’tSasha who’d killed dozens, upon dozens of unarmed Caledonian civilians.
It wasn’t her grief and anger that had lashed out and sparked a deadly riot.
Marco had been right, for she’d already been dead.
And not even she could do something so vile from beyond the veil.
