My sword hung loose in my hand.
Drip.
Blood slid down the blade and dripped into the sand beneath my feet, darkening it.
Drip.
Someone shouted.
"BLOOD, NO MERCY!"
The sound reached my ears late, muffled, as if I were underwater.
Then another shout.
Then many.
The noise returned all at once, crashing into me from every direction. The crowd roared.
I couldn't tell what they were shouting.
It didn't matter.
My gaze stayed on the body in front of me.
The longer I stared, the more my strength faded.
My fingers loosened.
Thud.
The sword slipped from my hand and fell to the ground.
But my eyes stayed on him.
There were noises all around me, but none of them really reached me. It felt as if I wasn't a part of it anymore.
I don't know how long I stood there.
Hands grabbed my arms.
They were rough.
I was pulled back.
My feet gave in, but they kept going, dragging me away.
The distance between us grew with every second.
But my eyes stayed on him.
Rash stayed where he was.
Unmoving.
Unflinching.
With that same smile.
I was dragged farther away.
I didn't resist.
The ground beneath my feet changed.
Sand turned into stone.
Footsteps echoed.
Voices spoke nearby.
I couldn't tell if they were speaking to me or about me.
My eyes stayed fixed in the same direction, never shifting. And even when walls separated us, I could still see him.
Lying in the sand with a smile.
I was pulled upright and shoved forward.
Step.
My feet swayed as I stood.
Then a door closed behind me.
Click.
And—
Silence.
For a moment, I just stood there.
Then, I slowly turned until my gaze faced the corner of the cell.
My eyes drifted toward my bed.
Thin metal frames. The mattress was stuffed with hay, strands sticking out through torn fabric. Something closer to a rag than a blanket lay on top.
My gaze dropped to the lower bed.
It was empty.
Nobody was there.
My legs weakened.
All strength left them at once, as if something had been pulled out from beneath me.
I couldn't stand.
My hand caught something.
Wood.
A chair.
I sat down.
The chair creaked beneath my weight.
Then—
Silence again.
No footsteps.
No voices.
Haah.
Only my breathing.
Haah.
In.
Haah.
Out.
Haah.
It was slow.
My gaze stayed on the empty bed.
I closed my eyes.
Maybe if I opened them again, something would be different.
But instead of darkness—
I saw him.
Rash.
His dull brown eyes were looking straight at me.
He was smiling.
A bright smile.
It felt wrong.
Blood flowed down the corners of his mouth, slow and thick, toward his chin. His shirt was soaked red at the chest. The fabric was dark and heavy where it clung to his body.
There was a hole there.
A gap.
And buried inside it—
Metal.
I looked down.
My sword.
My hands were gripping the hilt.
They were steady.
My breath hitched.
My eyes snapped open.
The bed was still empty.
I closed them again.
The same image.
Again.
And again.
Each time clearer.
My heart raced.
Not faster.
Just—
Wrong.
Like it had lost rhythm.
Each beat slammed into my chest out of sync, too hard, too close together. My ribs felt tight, as if something inside them was expanding without permission.
My breath caught.
I inhaled.
Nothing came in.
I tried again.
Still nothing.
I pushed myself upright too quickly, the chair scraping loudly as it tipped back.
Thud.
The sound stabbed into my head and made everything worse.
I needed to stand.
I needed air.
There wasn't enough.
My hands clawed at my shirt, fingers digging into the fabric at my chest, pulling, tugging, as if something was wrapped around my lungs and I could tear it off if I tried hard enough.
I sucked in a breath.
It stopped halfway.
My throat locked.
My breathing turned shallow, uneven. Short bursts that didn't reach anywhere. Each one made the pressure worse.
The room tilted.
The walls stretched away from me, then snapped closer again. The ceiling felt too low. The floor felt too far.
My vision blurred at the edges, dark spots flickering in and out like something was eating away at it.
I swallowed.
Nothing changed.
I tried to breathe more slowly.
I counted the breaths.
In.
Out.
In—
My chest refused to move.
Panic surged, a sudden certainty crashing into me all at once.
I can't breathe.
The thought was loud.
Too loud.
My heart hammered harder, faster, trying to force something through my body that wasn't working anymore.
My hands trembled.
I pressed one against the desk, then the other, fingers wide, nails scraping uselessly over wood as if it could hold me upright.
My legs weakened.
The room felt unreal, distant, as if I were sinking backward into it.
My ears rang.
A high, thin sound that drowned out everything else.
I opened my mouth to call out.
To shout.
No sound came.
My throat felt too tight, too small.
I bent forward, shoulders curling inward, trying to make myself smaller.
Trying to protect something.
My chest burned.
Each breath hurt.
My hands moved without thought, pressing against my ribs, my stomach, my collarbone—anywhere that felt solid.
Anything that could hold me.
Nothing helped.
Then the image slammed back into my mind.
Rash.
Smiling.
His blood.
My sword.
I squeezed my eyes shut hard enough that it hurt.
It didn't go away.
My breathing broke completely then.
Sharp gasps tore out of me in uneven bursts. My body jerked with each one, desperate and uncontrolled.
I couldn't stop it.
I couldn't slow it down.
I couldn't think.
I needed something.
Anything.
My gaze drifted helplessly around the cell, jumping from wall to wall, corner to corner, looking for something.
Anything.
Then I saw it.
A wall.
Grey stone.
Rough.
And written on it—
Red lines.
Writing.
I couldn't look away.
My eyes locked onto it.
My breathing slowed a bit.
My body leaned forward before I realized I was moving.
I needed to see it.
That wall.
I needed it.
Those markings.
My body moved.
Desperately.
Each step hurt.
Each felt like my last.
My body swayed.
But I moved.
Forward.
Toward it.
Before I knew it, I was sitting in front of it.
My hand lifted and brushed against the stone.
It was cold and uneven beneath my fingers.
I stared at the markings.
They weren't letters.
They were numbers.
Right.
I remembered.
My wall.
The numbers.
And as if in a trance, my eyes moved to the first line.
The first number.
My lips moved as I read it.
Before I realized it, I had spoken out loud.
"14."
The voice I heard didn't feel like mine.
It sounded wrong. Strained. Like it had been dragged out of my throat instead of spoken.
My chest still burned.
My heart still hammered too fast, too loud.
I swallowed and read the next number.
"12."
I pressed my palm harder against the wall, grounding myself in the rough stone.
My eyes shifted to the next number.
"20."
My tongue felt heavy. Slow. The syllables didn't come out cleanly.
My breathing hitched again, sharp and uneven, but this time it didn't spiral further.
I stared at the wall until the edges of the number stopped blurring.
"5."
My chest still hurt, but the pressure loosened just a little, like a knot pulled half a finger-width apart.
My gaze slid down.
"6."
The sound echoed faintly in the cell.
My lungs dragged in a breath without me forcing it.
It was shallow.
But it went all the way in.
I blinked and focused again.
"18."
My heart was still racing, but it no longer felt like it was tearing itself apart. The beats began to fall into something closer to rhythm.
"10."
The ringing in my ears dulled.
The image of Rash flickered at the edge of my thoughts, but it didn't crash into me this time.
"19."
My shoulders sagged.
The shaking in my hands slowed.
"..."