Gerard.
Her body locked before her mind caught up.
He leaned against the far wall, laughing, completely at ease with two other guards, a mug in his hand. Casual, smug, untouched, as if everything was normal. As if he hadn’t—
Her legs trembled, everything blurring, the festive scene twisting into a grotesque parody of happiness. The fire’s warmth became a suffocating heat, the laughter of the wards a mocking chorus.
A noise rang in her ears. Not from the room. From inside her. The rush of blood, of nausea, of panic clawing its way up her throat. She was gulping up air, yet it felt like none of it was reaching her lungs.
Amara pulled her to the table, oblivious. “Come on, sit down! Let’s get you something to drink.”
No. No, no, no, no.
She attempted to break free from Amara, but her body refused to listen. She wasn’t in control anymore. If she ever actually was. Every time she tried to look anywhere else, her eyes immediately shifted back to him.
Please don’t look at me. Please don’t see me.
But he did. Of course he did. His gaze met hers. His smile widened, his shoulders bouncing from a chuckle. Puckering his lips, he blew a mocking kiss across the room to her.
There was no air left in her lungs. Her esophagus burned, stomach twisting like a geyser about to erupt.
She bolted.
Her legs carried her to the latrine before she even knew where she was going. She stumbled inside, knees hitting the cold tile. Bile surged up, burning her throat as she retched into the basin.
Her whole body shook, sweat dripping down her forehead as she gasped for air. She pressed her hands against the tile, seekingstability, but nothing appeared real. Nothing was real except him. His voice. His hands. His smirk.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t stop the memories. Didn’t stop the feeling of filth still clinging to her.
A voice. Too close.
“Elora?”
She flinched.
Amara’s voice. Amara. Not him.
The stall door creaked open, and a hand touched her back. Elora recoiled, flattening herself against the wall, shaking her head.Don’t touch me. Don’t—
Amara’s hand lifted immediately. “It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to say anything.” But then her voice lowered, cautious. Testing. “Was it one of the guards?”
She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. But her body betrayed her. A sharp, broken inhale. A slight shake. The tiniest nod.
Amara’s breath hitched. Then, softly, her hand returned, careful, barely there, rubbing slow, soothing circles against Elora’s back.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
Elora didn’t move. Was unable to move.
The weight of Amara’s hand was barely there, light as air, but her whole body tensed beneath it. Not like him. Not like that. And yet. She wanted to pull away, to recoil, to make herself smaller. But she was already nestled against the frigid tile, her arms wrapped around herself like a cage. There was nowhere else to go.
Amara said nothing at first. She just sat there, quiet.
The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, but expectant. Elora waited for the questions.Who was it? What happened?Butthey never came.
Amara’s touch stayed light, careful. Not gripping. Not holding. Just the softest presence. Like she wanted Elora to know she wasn’t alone, but wouldn’t force her to accept it.
Elora let out a shaky breath, her body trembling in the aftermath. The panic was still there, churning within her, but the apex of it—the all-consuming suffocation—had passed.
