Claudia walks to the chapel alone. She’s proud to have won, pissed at how she was tricked into it, and pondering whether or not she’s still interested in going back to Cassius’s room and finishing what they started all those nights ago.
She still wants him. She knows she does. But now she fears she shouldn’t.
It’s not so much that she’s angry at what he’s done—though that’s part of it. It’s more that she fears what he could do next. If he’ll lie and manipulate her once, even for something asarguably justifiable as this, he’ll do it again, and for worse reasons. She hates that he broke their trust that was already so new and fragile. It makes it hard to believe that anything is genuine.
But he did a damn good job at begging for forgiveness. She could do with a bit more groveling from him.
It’s impossible to fully understand her feelings right now because they’re not coupled with rational thought. She’s still too high to think through her emotions—all she can do is trudge through the clouds of emotional color until she descends into clarity.
Right now, she is Gray. Gray is exhausted, confused, sad, and unsure.
When she rounds the corner, someone is standing in front of the chapel doors.
The game master. The man in the mask.
He’s staring right at her, green eyes glowing like twin flames.
“How? How are you here?” she bites out. Charging forward, she stands toe to toe with him, shoulders back, teeth bared.
He tilts his head without speaking, pushing open the doors behind him. He gestures for her to go inside.
She peers in, staring at the purple candle pulsing on the pulpit.
“Show your face,” she says when she turns back to him, but the hall is now empty. The game master is gone, and Claudia is left wondering if he was really there at all or if she’s truly starting to go mad.
“What’s wrong with me?” she mumbles to herself, blinking tightly.
Alone, she walks inside, and the doors close behind her. There is no light other than the candle at the end of the room, and the soft gold seam at the bottom of the door. It smells like salt and citrus, like summer and lemonade.
She walks to the pulpit and kneels. “Dolericym,” she says. Her voice is much more confident than the last time she was in the chapel.
Suddenly, the warm scent in the air disappears, as does the citrusy taste on her tongue.
“Beautiful Iphigenia. How well you play your part. How close you are to your character.” While she speaks, the candle doesn’t flicker—it dances. It remains a smooth, strong stream of light, an unbroken phrase akin to a singer managing an entire aria without a second breath. “I knew you would win.”
This is where the room goes dark. Did the candle go out? Claudia reaches forward, feeling for heat. It’s there. It’s still burning. She turns, but there is no light pouring in from beneath the door. She’s not even sure if she’s looking in the direction of the door. It’s as if her sight has been snatched away.
What the fuck is happening?
“Hm,” the god hums. “What to take next…?”
Claudia can no longer feel the heat of the candle. She can’t feel the floor beneath her knees or the pulpit in front of her. She can’t feel anything.
She can’tfeel.
“You’re taking my senses,” she whispers as even her voice starts to fade.
“You need nothing but my song,” Dolericym says.
“I’m here for Cassius.” That’s the last thing she’s able to say before her tongue grows too thick and heavy to move. She cannot see, taste, touch, or talk. It’s as though her soul has slipped out of her mortal self and it’s drifting, floating, falling through a black sea of deprivation.
Here, all she can do is listen.
The song starts with one note.
It’s both unmooring and unburdening, frightening and freeing. She follows the sound. It’s not a voice or an instrument or anything Claudia recognizes. It’s… oh gods, whatisthat? It’s horrific. It’s euphoric. It’s not a taste or a feeling or anything familiar. She wants more. Needs more. This perfect music is teething and tonguing through velvety silence. It’s a collision of sound against soul.
That’s it. Her soul. The music is inside her soul, like blood in a body. The notes slide through her missing pieces. They lick the shredded edges of the bite mark Dorian left.
