Samick peels away from me.
Like he doesn’t want to disturb me, like he doesn’t know I’m awake and staring blankly at the wall, his arm snakes away from my belly, hand grazing over my waist—then he’s out from under the covers.
The mattress dips, but only for a moment, before bootsteps tap softly out of the cell.
Then it’s quiet.
Quiet in here, I mean.
But out there, like an echo, the foreign murmur of the general goes on.
I wonder if I need to learn this language at some point.
Bee speaks it. She spoke to Samick and Dare on the road. But is that the same language of the light lands, or does she just know her own language, then the dark language, then also English?
I only know English and Welsh.
Not sure I’m actually smart enough to learn a whole other language in adulthood. Like, that idea immediately irritates me.
And that in itself is confusing—because if I’m going to be irritated or angry about anything, it shouldn’t be learning other languages, it should be Samick in the shower…
But suddenly I feel that thing again.
Not numbness. Not apathy.
It’s like an echo of feeling, so far away that I can’t tell what it is.
I rub my hands over my face and roll onto my back.
A stretch arches through me, and I let it.
It’s been a long time since I slept like that, a sleep so deep that I can feel the puffiness of my face beneath my palms, and I know that even if I had the absolute luxury of a few coffees, I would still be too… slow.
Not relaxed.
But like my body has gone into a tranquil state, and it’s taking too long for it to remember that I’m surrounded by dark fae monsters, and that there’s one in particular who’s out for my blood.
I turn onto my side—and startle.
The relaxation is too deep in my muscles for an actual fright to jolt me.
But my lashes flutter with the surprise of seeing Mika sitting on the bunk across from me.
And she looks rough.
That black powder really does a number on the fae.
She’s hunched over herself on the edge of the bed, her bare feet flat on the floor, and she takes ages to pick out a pair of socks from her satchel, then slowly, clumsily tug them on.
On my side, rugged up in the blankets, I watch her try to get her boots on.
Her face is furrowed with concentration and a trace of irritation as she flicks through the laces, trying to make sense of them.
Was I that bad when I woke up from that powder shit?
I don’t know if I was as fucked up as she is.
So maybe Rust is, too.
