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4/8/2025, 10:55:38 AM
>>6224948
>>6224959
>>6225067
>>6225300
You turn toward the left.
The whispering fades behind you, swallowed by stone. In its place, the girl’s song threads softly through the dark. It’s in Rhoynish—fluid and strange, the syllables curling like river reeds. A lullaby, maybe. Or a prayer. Or both. The kind of song meant for children who never woke up, or mothers who never came back.
You edge closer to the bars, trying not to startle her.
The cell is three down from yours, across a narrow stone recess that’s slick with moisture. The torchlight doesn’t reach far, but you glimpse a shape curled at the edge of the straw. Slender arms. Tangled hair. Eyes that glint like wet glass in the gloom.
“…you’re listening,” she says, not looking up. Her voice is low, clear, and tired. Not frightened.
“I thought you might. The others don’t, not really. Not the guards, not the bones, not the big one with the ear.” Her fingers curl around something in the straw. A scrap of thread, maybe. “But you… your silence had teeth in it. So I hummed to see what kind of animal you were.”
“My name’s Torrhen,” you offer. “We should know each other if we are to survive.”
The slightest pause. Then a nod.
“Vaella. That’s what they called me. Before this place. Before the gold cloaks. Before Ser Harlan broke my hand for trying the lock.”
She stretches her fingers slowly, showing the way they bend wrong.
“I was almost out. Would’ve made it, too. But the steps were louder than I thought. The stone echoes when it’s cold. I forgot that.”
You crouch low, your cuffs clinking. “Why try it alone?”
Vaella shrugs, barely more than a twitch.
“Because no one else listens. Because escape isn’t something you talk about down here. It’s something you do… once. And if you fail, they remember.”
Her voice softens, almost wistful.
“And because I know things. Things I shouldn’t. My mother used to say secrets stick to the poor like soot. She worked in the Red Keep, did you know that? Cloak-mender for the queen’s ladies. Listened more than she sewed.”
Her hands move again, shaping thread into something: a knot, a pattern, a symbol that doesn’t last.
“She told me stories. About doors with no handles. About the King’s Shadow. About a raven that never left the rookery.”
You look at her anew. “Then why stay quiet? If you know all this…”
Her eyes drop to the stones. “Because one escape costs more than most lives. Because I’m not ready to pay again.”
Footsteps crash above—metal on stone. A torch flares beyond the stairwell.
“Oi! Shift change! Ser Harlan wants a sweep before the hour turns!”
You both freeze. She curls back into her corner, cloak drawn over her head. Gone.
>>6224959
>>6225067
>>6225300
You turn toward the left.
The whispering fades behind you, swallowed by stone. In its place, the girl’s song threads softly through the dark. It’s in Rhoynish—fluid and strange, the syllables curling like river reeds. A lullaby, maybe. Or a prayer. Or both. The kind of song meant for children who never woke up, or mothers who never came back.
You edge closer to the bars, trying not to startle her.
The cell is three down from yours, across a narrow stone recess that’s slick with moisture. The torchlight doesn’t reach far, but you glimpse a shape curled at the edge of the straw. Slender arms. Tangled hair. Eyes that glint like wet glass in the gloom.
“…you’re listening,” she says, not looking up. Her voice is low, clear, and tired. Not frightened.
“I thought you might. The others don’t, not really. Not the guards, not the bones, not the big one with the ear.” Her fingers curl around something in the straw. A scrap of thread, maybe. “But you… your silence had teeth in it. So I hummed to see what kind of animal you were.”
“My name’s Torrhen,” you offer. “We should know each other if we are to survive.”
The slightest pause. Then a nod.
“Vaella. That’s what they called me. Before this place. Before the gold cloaks. Before Ser Harlan broke my hand for trying the lock.”
She stretches her fingers slowly, showing the way they bend wrong.
“I was almost out. Would’ve made it, too. But the steps were louder than I thought. The stone echoes when it’s cold. I forgot that.”
You crouch low, your cuffs clinking. “Why try it alone?”
Vaella shrugs, barely more than a twitch.
“Because no one else listens. Because escape isn’t something you talk about down here. It’s something you do… once. And if you fail, they remember.”
Her voice softens, almost wistful.
“And because I know things. Things I shouldn’t. My mother used to say secrets stick to the poor like soot. She worked in the Red Keep, did you know that? Cloak-mender for the queen’s ladies. Listened more than she sewed.”
Her hands move again, shaping thread into something: a knot, a pattern, a symbol that doesn’t last.
“She told me stories. About doors with no handles. About the King’s Shadow. About a raven that never left the rookery.”
You look at her anew. “Then why stay quiet? If you know all this…”
Her eyes drop to the stones. “Because one escape costs more than most lives. Because I’m not ready to pay again.”
Footsteps crash above—metal on stone. A torch flares beyond the stairwell.
“Oi! Shift change! Ser Harlan wants a sweep before the hour turns!”
You both freeze. She curls back into her corner, cloak drawn over her head. Gone.
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