I seized the moment, lunging for a shard of glass on the floor, fingers closing around it just as he moved. He was faster, kicking it from my hand, the edge slicing my palm shallowly. Blood welled, warm and sticky, and I hissed, cradling it. "Bastard," I spat, backing up until the cot hit my legs. "If you're going to kill me, just do it. Or is that beyond you too?"
He didn't respond, just watched me with that strained gaze, like I was a puzzle he resented solving. The silence stretched, broken only by the drip of water from the ceiling, and the weight of it settled over me: this wasn't a quick scare, a mugging gone wrong. He had a place prepared, a life reduced to this barren room, and whatever had stopped him from killing me had trapped me in it with him. Fear coiled tighter, real now in a way it hadn't been during the chase, because out there I'd had options, streets to run, people nearby. Here, it was just us, and the nightmare wasn't ending anytime soon. I sank onto the cot, not because he told me to, but because my legs were shaking, watching him pace the small space like a caged animal, waiting for whatever came next.
5
MORGAN
Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the boarded window, weak and gray, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. I woke with a start, my body aching from the cot's thin mattress, the events of last night crashing back like a wave. The alley, the struggle, this godforsaken room. I sat up slowly, every muscle protesting, my palm throbbing from the cut I'd gotten grabbing that glass shard. The air was colder now, biting into my skin, and the silence pressed in, unbroken except for the distant drip of water somewhere in the warehouse beyond. He wasn't here. The man, the psycho who'd dragged me in, was gone. Hope surged, sharp and immediate, cutting through the fog of exhaustion. Maybe he'd stepped out, left a gap. This could be my chance.
I swung my legs off the cot, feet hitting the cold floor, and stood, wincing as pain shot through my side from where he'd pinned me. The room looked even worse in the daylight, grime coating everything, dust motes floating in the pale beams. The walls were cracked, patches of mold blooming in the corners where water had seeped in over who knew how many rainy seasons. The cot was little more than a metal frame with astained blanket, no pillow, no comfort. Scattered around were signs of a life scraped together: empty cans of food stacked in one corner, their labels faded and peeling; a pile of clothes, dark and threadbare, smelling faintly of sweat and rain; a few books, spines broken, pages yellowed, stacked haphazardly near the mirror. The mirror itself was fractured, reflecting back distorted pieces of the room, and beside it, the bucket of water sat stagnant, a thin film on the surface. This wasn't a home; it was a burrow, the kind of place someone crawled into to rot away from the world. How long had he been here? Months? Years? The isolation hung in the air, thick and suffocating, making my skin crawl. I scanned for anything useful: a loose nail in the floorboards, maybe, or something heavy to swing. The glass shards from last night were still there, scattered near the table. I pocketed the largest one, careful of the edges, feeling a little less helpless with it in my hand.
The door was the priority. Barred last night, but maybe he'd forgotten to lock it properly when he left. I moved toward it quietly, heart pounding, listening for any sound outside. Nothing. The bolt was heavy, rusted, but it slid back with a grating scrape that echoed too loudly in the stillness. I paused, breath held, then gripped the handle and pulled. The door creaked open a fraction, revealing a sliver of the larger warehouse beyond. Freedom, or at least a start. I stepped forward, and then the world exploded.
Something hit me, hard and invisible, slamming into my chest like a wall of force that shouldn't exist. I flew backward, crashing onto the floor, the impact jarring up my spine, knocking the air from my lungs. Pain bloomed across my ribs, sharp and disorienting, and I lay there gasping, staring at the doorway in shock. There was nothing there. No barrier, no glass, no hand reaching out. Just empty space, the door still ajar, mocking me. What the hell? I pushed up on my elbows, wincing,my mind racing. Concussion, maybe, from the fight last night. I'd hit my head at some point, hadn't I? Or drugs—he could have slipped me something while I slept, making everything feel wrong, hallucinatory. I shook my head, trying to clear it, but the pain felt real, the bruise forming on my skin too tangible for illusion.
I got to my feet, unsteady, and approached again, slower this time, eyes fixed on the frame. There, etched into the wood, faint but visible in the light: strange carvings, lines and symbols that looked like they'd been cut with a knife, irregular and old, like graffiti from someone unhinged. They didn't mean anything to me, but something about them set my nerves on edge. I reached out tentatively, fingers brushing the air in front of the threshold. Resistance, solid and unyielding, pushing back against my hand like an invisible sheet of glass. I pressed harder, and it shoved me away, not gently, sending me stumbling back a step. This wasn't possible. Doors didn't do this. Maybe a trick, some kind of magnetic field or setup he'd rigged, hidden tech I couldn't see. Or I was losing it, cracking under the stress, my mind inventing barriers because the real one—him—was too much to handle. Anger boiled up, overriding the fear. Screw this. I wasn't imagining it, and I wasn't staying trapped by nothing.
I backed up to the far wall, the room's length giving me space, and took a deep breath. If force was what it took, I'd give it. I ran, full speed, shoulder lowered like I'd seen in movies, convinced that whatever this was had to give under real impact. The doorway rushed toward me, open and empty, and then it hit. Harder this time, a brutal shove that lifted me off my feet and hurled me back, slamming me into the opposite wall with enough force to crack the rotting plaster. Dust rained down, the impact rattling my teeth, pain exploding through my back and skull. I slid to the floor in a heap, vision blurring, a groan escaping as I tried to breathe through the agony. My shoulderthrobbed, possibly dislocated, and warmth trickled from a cut on my forehead where I'd hit. Humiliation burned, mixing with the panic, because I couldn't fight this, couldn't even see it. What kind of nightmare was I in? Tears pricked, angry and unbidden, but I blinked them back, refusing to break.
A rough voice broke the silence, abused and low, from the doorway. "Are you done yet?"
6
XAVIAN
The warehouse air hung thick with the scent of rust and decay, a familiar rot that had seep delved into every corner of this forsaken place over the years. I had slipped out before dawn, after securing her in the room, carving fresh wards into the doorframe as she slept. The symbols were simple enough, drawn from the fading remnants of my old knowledge, designed to hold back anyone without the power or understanding to counter them. They would repel force with force, a barrier invisible to mortal eyes but solid as stone to anyone who tried to cross without permission. It was a test, as much as a cage. If she was what I suspected, some agent sent from Velrith to draw me out, she would recognize the wards immediately, perhaps even dismantle them with a touch or a word. If she was something else, something tied to the blade's unnatural reaction without knowing it, her ignorance would show. Either way, I needed to see her response without my presence clouding it. So I had left her alone and taken up position in the narrow corridor next to the room she was in, pressed against the wall where a jagged crack in the plaster allowed me a view into the room. The split was wide enoughto watch through, hidden by shadows and the angle, my breath slow and controlled to avoid any sound that might give me away.
Exhaustion clawed at me, a constant companion these days, my body heavy from the night's exertions and the blade's lingering demands. Virelya rested at my side, its presence a low hum in my veins, not the insistent hunger of before. The silence it had granted since encountering her ebbed and flowed without reason I could discern, a fragile reprieve that left my thoughts clearer but no less burdened—her presence still seemed to quiet it at times, yet it didn't satiate the blade entirely, the craving to feed still gnawing beneath the surface. I could feel the black threads under my skin retreating slightly, the tremors easing, but I trusted none of it. Trust was a luxury stripped from me long ago, along with everything else. Nyra's betrayal had taught me that much, her face flashing in my mind, cold and calculating. If this woman was her doing, a lure dressed in mortal innocence to pull me back into Velrith's grasp and kill me, I would end it here. But the blade's recognition complicated everything, turning suspicion into a tangled web I could not yet cut through.
She stirred on the cot, her movements abrupt, as if yanked from sleep by the weight of memory. I watched her sit up, rubbing at her eyes, the faint light catching the lines of tension in her face. She was disheveled from the struggle, her hair escaping its tie in loose strands, her coat rumpled and stained with alley grime. There was a cut on her palm, the one from the glass shard last night, crusted over but still raw, and she flexed her hand absently, wincing. Her gaze swept the room, taking it in with a sharpness that surprised me, not the wide-eyed panic of someone truly broken but a calculated assessment, eyes lingering on the debris, the mirror, the scattered remnants of my existence. She stood slowly, testing her weight, and I noted the way she favored one side, a bruise likely blooming from where I had pinned her. Yet she moved with purpose, not crumblingunder the ache, her posture straightening as if defiance alone could hold her together. It irritated me, that resilience, a quiet strength that made her seem less like prey and more like an adversary I had not asked for.
Her features came into clearer focus in the gray light: high cheekbones, a mouth set in a determined line, eyes dark and expressive, holding a fire that burned through the fear. She was striking, in a way that cut through the haze of my exhaustion, the kind of mortal beauty that might have turned heads in another life, before exile reduced everything to survival. I resented noticing it, the unwelcome pull of attention that had no place here, amid the rot and the wards. She was a problem, not a person, and allowing even that much awareness felt like a weakness, a crack in the control I clung to.
She padded across the floor, her steps cautious, ears straining for any sign of me. The absence must have registered, because a flicker of hope crossed her face, quick and unguarded, before she masked it. She approached the door, her hand hovering near the bolt, and I leaned closer to the crack, my pulse steady but alert. This was the moment. If she knew wards, she would sense them, perhaps trace the symbols with a finger and whisper a counter. If she was from Velrith, even a lowborn with basic training would recognize the energy humming in the air, the faint distortion that rippled like heat over flame. She slid the bolt back, the scrape echoing through the corridor, and pulled the door open a fraction. Then she stepped forward.
The ward activated with a silent force, slamming into her like an unseen fist. She flew back, crashing to the floor in a heap, her breath escaping in a sharp gasp. I watched her lie there, stunned, chest heaving as she tried to make sense of it. No recognition in her eyes, just confusion, raw and unfeigned. She pushed up on her elbows, staring at the open doorway as if it had betrayed her, her brow furrowed in disbelief. Not the reactionof someone versed in relic magic or veil workings. A true agent would have cursed, perhaps laughed at the simplicity of my trap, and set about unraveling it. Instead, she looked lost, rubbing at her chest where the impact had struck, her expression shifting from shock to something angrier, more determined. It unsettled me, that ignorance, because it did not fit. If she was not sent, not trained, then what explained the blade's silence? What tied her to Virelya in a way that defied everything I knew? Nyra's reach was long, her deceptions layered; this could still be a ploy, a performance to lower my guard. But the confusion on her face gnawed at my suspicions, planting doubts I could not afford.
She got to her feet, slower this time, brushing dust from her clothes with hands that trembled slightly. Not from fear alone, I thought, but from the pain, the way she rolled her shoulder as if testing for damage. Still, she did not crumble, did not curl into a ball or scream for help that would not come. Instead, she approached the door again, eyes narrowing on the frame, finally spotting the carvings I had etched there.
Here we go…
She traced them with a finger, hesitant, as if they were some puzzle to solve rather than a barrier of power. No spark of understanding, no flare of energy responding to her touch. She reached out, pressing against the empty air, and the ward pushed back, gentler this time but firm, sending her stumbling a step. Panic flashed in her eyes, brief but real, before anger overtook it, her jaw clenching as she shoved harder. The barrier held, repelling her with equal force, and she backed away, breathing heavily. I could see her mind working, rationalizing it away—perhaps thinking of tricks, illusions, anything but the truth of magic she clearly did not grasp. It puzzled me further, this persistence without knowledge. Anyone with even the barest exposure to Velrith's ways would have stopped after the first impact, recognizing the ward for what it was and conservingstrength for a better escape. But she kept testing, kept pushing, as if brute will could overcome what she could not see. It made her seem truly adrift, ignorant of the hidden world pressing against her, and that only deepened the mystery. If not Nyra's pawn, then what? Some anomaly, an echo from a long-extinct bloodline, unaware of her own distant heritage? A cursed vessel for a dark, ancient magic? The blade thrummed faintly at my side, its silence a mocking answer I could not decipher.
She retreated to the far wall then, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths, eyes fixed on the doorway with a focus that bordered on fury. I knew what was coming, could see it in the set of her shoulders, the way she braced herself. Foolish, I thought, irritation flaring alongside the confusion. She was going to charge it, throw her full weight against something designed to amplify force back at her.
Part of me wanted to intervene, to spare the damage, but I held back, needing to see how far her ignorance went, how deep her denial ran. She ran, shoulder lowered, feet pounding the concrete in a desperate sprint. The impact was brutal, the ward flinging her back with a violence that cracked the opposite wall, plaster crumbling in a shower of dust as she slammed into it. She slid down, a groan escaping her, blood trickling from a fresh cut on her forehead.
The force of it echoed through the corridor, vibrating in my chest, and I felt a twinge of something unwelcome— not pity, but a reluctant acknowledgment of her tenacity. She had gotten back up after the first hit, and even now, sprawled and hurt, she pushed onto her hands and knees, wiping blood from her eyes with a sleeve, her face a mask of pain and unyielding anger. It was that refusal to break that struck me hardest, the way she kept rising, body battered but spirit unbroken. Striking, yes, in her resilience, the fire that kept her moving when fear should have pinned her down. I resented it all the more for how it drewmy gaze, lingering on the curve of her neck as she tilted her head back, the determined line of her mouth, the way her hands clenched into fists against the floor. Such details had no place in my thoughts, distractions in a life pared to essentials, but they intruded anyway, sharp and unwelcome, stirring echoes of a humanity I had buried long ago.
The blade's hum intensified slightly, pulling my focus back to the test. She had proven her ignorance, at least on the surface, her actions those of someone blind to magic, not feigning it. But suspicion lingered, dark and insistent. Nyra had twisted truths before, crafting illusions that mimicked innocence to devastating effect. This could be another layer, a deeper deception, or perhaps something worse, a tie to the blade's origins that predated even my family's fall. Exhaustion pressed harder now, the clarity from Virelya's silence fraying at the edges, whispers threatening to return. I had seen enough. Prolonging this would only risk more questions I could not answer. I stepped from the shadows, pushing the door wider, my voice rough from disuse as I broke the silence.
"Are you done yet?"
7
MORGAN
His voice cut through the haze of pain like a blade, rough and mocking, pulling my gaze up from where I sprawled on the floor. There he stood in the doorway, filling the frame with his tall, shadowed form, arms crossed over his chest as if he'd been watching the whole pathetic show. Dust still settled around me from the wall I'd cracked, and blood trickled warm down my forehead, stinging as it mixed with sweat. My shoulder screamed from the impact, my ribs ached like they'd been kicked by a horse, but I forced myself to my knees, wiping the blood away with the back of my hand and glaring at him. The hope that had surged when I thought he was gone twisted into fury now, hot and grounding, chasing away the edges of panic. He hadn't left me alone; he'd been lurking, testing me or toying with me, and that realization burned.
