Janab clung to the last threads of her sanity, though despair threatened to devour her completely. The dimness of the room seemed to come alive, stretching long shadows that crawled toward her like skeletal fingers seeking to seize her. The air had grown colder, now charged with a heavy static that made her skin bristle.
"S-so you know my name," she managed to articulate, in a tone so weak it almost vanished within the silence of the room.
The deadly man with the serene gaze observed her with shameless curiosity. He did not blink with human frequency; his eyes remained fixed, absorbing each of her tremors as if she were a specimen beneath glass. The stillness of his posture was unnatural, like that of a statue that has decided to breathe only in order to speak.
"I discovered it this afternoon," he replied, while his long, pale fingers removed a green apple from a plastic bag, handling it as though it were a trivial object. He offered it with a gesture that seemed kind on the surface, yet carried calculation within it.
The fruit gleamed beneath the dim light, a vibrant green that seemed obscene amid the grayish decadence of the room. It appeared too perfect, devoid of the imperfections of nature, as if it had been created solely for that offering.
"It must be difficult for you to remain here without understanding anything. Isaiah is truly cruel."
The shine of the fruit reflected in Janab's eyes, but it was the mention of that name that altered her expression. A shiver ran down her spine, colder than the air of the prison. She did not yet dare extend her hand, fearing that rejecting it might bring unpredictable consequences, as though accepting the food would be signing a contract with darkness.
"I have no encouraging words nor hope to offer you," Astilbe continued, gently pushing the apple toward her with a gesture that feigned amusement.
His voice had no echo; it was absorbed by the carpets and the heavy curtains. Janab felt the weight of that truth upon her shoulders. There was no comfort in that place, only the management of the remaining time.
Finally, Janab took it without looking away from that marble-like face. The skin of the apple was cold to the touch, icy as if it had remained in the snow. Every word escaping his lips felt like a vital fragment, and she wished he would continue speaking to fill the silent void. She surprised herself staring at the outline of his mouth, as if within those lips she might find answers—or perhaps the final sentence.
"Unfortunately for you, Isaiah's father is the noble who inhabits the White Castle… a merciless man, incapable of forgiving the mistakes of his children. That night you chose the wrong path. I feel a little pity for you."
The mention of the White Castle evoked images of tall towers nailed into the sky, places where justice was written with blood. Janab felt the ground tilt beneath her feet.
"Isaiah?" she dared to repeat the name, and the image of that dark-haired specter emerged immediately in her memory. The scattered pieces began to fit together in her mind, awakening subtle suspicions.
The memory was invasive, bringing with it the smell of rain and metal from that night. She understood now that it had not been an accident, but a gear within a much older and more complex machinery.
"Until Isaiah has resolved that matter, you will have to remain in this place. I am very sorry."
The sentence, clear and precise, sealed her fate within a single phrase. There was no appeal possible, no judge to whom she could turn. The chill that ran across her skin plunged her back into despair, closing around her chest like an iron hand.
"I-I… should have left the city," she murmured, barely audible.
It was a belated lament, whispered to walls that could not hear her. Regret was a luxury she could not afford, yet her mouth formed it before she could stop herself.
Astilbe smiled with an enigmatic gleam. It was not an expression of warmth, but the gesture of someone who knows the end of a joke that no one else understands. His green eyes seemed to darken by a shade, swallowing the light of the lamp.
"Isaiah has extended your stay in Caprissia. If you wish to speak with someone, you only have to tell me."
For an instant, Janab felt as if her thoughts had been torn from their most intimate place. Speak with someone? Yes, she had wished it in a hidden corner of her mind, though she knew there was no one she could call. Astilbe was not mistaken: the secrets of the human mind were, for immortals, like open pages. She felt vulnerable, naked beneath that gaze that read the layers of her consciousness without touching her.
"Tomorrow I will bring the things you left at your previous lodging."
The words relieved the pressure in her chest for a moment. A link to her past life, to her identity before confinement, was enough to keep her sanity afloat. Her exhausted body found a slightly less rigid posture.
"Will I really… be able to have my luggage?"
Her voice trembled slightly, betraying the hope she was trying to conceal. She needed something tangible, something that truly belonged to her in that world of borrowed shadows.
"I will collect it myself."
The affirmation was firm, leaving no space for doubt. The fear remained—constant, slow—but the uncertainty was even more unbearable. The desire to know more devoured her, though she feared the magnitude of the answers she might find. Every truth was a door closing behind her.
"Thank you…" she murmured, more out of human habit than trust.
The words sounded hollow in the stale air. Astilbe contemplated her with fascination. That woman was harsh with herself, yet she clung easily to resignation. If he chose to speak to her with complete frankness, she would learn her final verdict and know how much longer her confinement would last. Yet some mysteries were better when they remained hidden. Ignorance was the only veil protecting her from absolute madness.
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