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4/9/2025, 12:38:25 PM
>>6225352
>>6225710
>>6225835
>>6225849
The ache in your ribs is like a second heartbeat. Each breath drags it sharper.
You shift onto your side, cold stone scraping your cheek, blood wetting the straw beneath you. The world swims—torch shadows still flickering behind your eyes—and you hear the guards’ boots fading up the stairwell, their laughter echoing long after they’re gone. The silence feels heavier than before.
“…Why?” you rasp. It’s barely more than a whisper, but in the quiet, it carries.
“Why help me?” A pause. Then the low voice grates through the dark like a whetstone on steel.
“Didn’t.”
You wait. Pain gnaws at your patience.
“But you spoke,” you say. Another silence. Then, the sound of weight shifting—iron links clinking, straw rustling.
“You’ve got eyes,” the brute mutters. “And blood still in you. Means you ain’t broken yet.” You don’t know if it’s approval or disappointment.
“You see what matters, wolf? Keys jingle loose when he swings hard. Means he's lazy with his belt. Means there’s a rhythm.”
You push yourself upright, every movement a dull fire in your limbs. “You've been watching.”
“I count steps. Count beatings. Smell oil on hinges. Some men pass time thinking on women. I think on doors.”
You lean closer to the bars, squinting into the gloom. Still, you haven’t seen his face clearly—only the shape of him, broad and hunched, like something carved from driftwood and hate. A brute, yes—but not just muscle. A mind built for pattern. And patience. The kind that waits with the tide.
“What else have you seen?”
A dry chuckle. Not warm.
“Too much. Not enough. The girl—Vaella—mutters names when the moon’s high. Places too. I heard ‘Maegor’s Steps’ once. And ‘the door with no handle.’ The singer stops breathing when the rats come near—like he’s waiting to hear them whisper. Old man Tom," he points to a thin figure in one of the cells on the other side of the wall, "talks to shadows when the light’s gone. Says they answer back, too.” He shifts again. You hear the dull scrape of knuckles on stone.
“And the man opposite you? With the rot? Dead near a week. Guards don’t clean him out.”
Your stomach tightens.
“They don’t see the cloth on his wrist. But I did. Northern stitch. Wolfshead pattern.”
You freeze.
>>6225710
>>6225835
>>6225849
The ache in your ribs is like a second heartbeat. Each breath drags it sharper.
You shift onto your side, cold stone scraping your cheek, blood wetting the straw beneath you. The world swims—torch shadows still flickering behind your eyes—and you hear the guards’ boots fading up the stairwell, their laughter echoing long after they’re gone. The silence feels heavier than before.
“…Why?” you rasp. It’s barely more than a whisper, but in the quiet, it carries.
“Why help me?” A pause. Then the low voice grates through the dark like a whetstone on steel.
“Didn’t.”
You wait. Pain gnaws at your patience.
“But you spoke,” you say. Another silence. Then, the sound of weight shifting—iron links clinking, straw rustling.
“You’ve got eyes,” the brute mutters. “And blood still in you. Means you ain’t broken yet.” You don’t know if it’s approval or disappointment.
“You see what matters, wolf? Keys jingle loose when he swings hard. Means he's lazy with his belt. Means there’s a rhythm.”
You push yourself upright, every movement a dull fire in your limbs. “You've been watching.”
“I count steps. Count beatings. Smell oil on hinges. Some men pass time thinking on women. I think on doors.”
You lean closer to the bars, squinting into the gloom. Still, you haven’t seen his face clearly—only the shape of him, broad and hunched, like something carved from driftwood and hate. A brute, yes—but not just muscle. A mind built for pattern. And patience. The kind that waits with the tide.
“What else have you seen?”
A dry chuckle. Not warm.
“Too much. Not enough. The girl—Vaella—mutters names when the moon’s high. Places too. I heard ‘Maegor’s Steps’ once. And ‘the door with no handle.’ The singer stops breathing when the rats come near—like he’s waiting to hear them whisper. Old man Tom," he points to a thin figure in one of the cells on the other side of the wall, "talks to shadows when the light’s gone. Says they answer back, too.” He shifts again. You hear the dull scrape of knuckles on stone.
“And the man opposite you? With the rot? Dead near a week. Guards don’t clean him out.”
Your stomach tightens.
“They don’t see the cloth on his wrist. But I did. Northern stitch. Wolfshead pattern.”
You freeze.
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