Chapter Three - The Sound of Breathing

Seraphina Vellaro – POV 

At first, I thought I was dead.

The world was so quiet. Too quiet.

The air around me was still, heavy with the sour scent of blood, sweat and dust. My tongue was thick, dry, swollen against the roof of my mouth. When I tried to swallow, pain clawed at my throat.

I lay there, face down, my cheek pressed against the splintered floorboards, my body unmoving. Every inch of me hurt. My ribs felt cracked, my shoulders burned, and a sharp, throbbing pulse radiated from the side of my head.

I breathed in slowly, counting each shallow inhale.

One.

Two.

Three.

Still alive.

That realization brought no comfort even thoughit should have.

Why hadn’t he finished it this time?

He’d left me like this before—broken, bleeding—but something about this time felt different. Longer. Quieter.

I shifted slightly. Pain screamed through my leg, and I bit back a cry, clenching my jaw so tightly I thought my teeth might break.

The room smelled of iron and smoke. My blood, old wood, the lingering echo of his presence. I could feel it even now—his shadow, cold and heavy, pressing against the walls like a stain that wouldn’t fade.

I dragged one hand across the floor until I found the wall and used it to pull myself upright. My arm shook violently. My fingers slipped once, twice, before I managed to sit back against the wall, knees drawn to my chest.

It was dark—though for me, it always was.

Still, I could sense the shape of the room. The broken chair near the corner. The window high above, sealed shut, no breeze, no light. The faint hum of the generator downstairs. I knew it all by sound. By air. By memory.

The silence pressed in on me, thick and suffocating.

Sometimes I think the house listens. Holds its breath when he’s angry.

I touched my lip—split open. My fingers came away sticky. My shoulder throbbed from where he’d struck me with the whip. I tried to steady my breathing, to stop the trembling in my hands, but every breath felt jagged, torn.

I wanted to cry. But tears had become a luxury I couldn’t afford. Crying never softened him, not even once.

I tilted my head back against the wall and let the pain settle into something dull, heavy.

He’d wanted answers. About Gloria.

He thought I knew where she went.

If I did, maybe he would’ve killed me.

The thought made my chest tighten—but not with fear. With relief.

He believed she was alive.

If he did, then maybe she was.

Maybe she had found a way out.

The hope was faint, a flicker in the void, but it was there. I held onto it.

Because if she had escaped… if she carried the relic… then maybe, somewhere beyond these walls, there was still a chance.

A chance for justice.

A chance for vengeance.

A chance for me.

I closed my eyes and pressed my palms together, fingers trembling. 

But like Dante said she could also be dead, she might run into the wrong people, they might see that book and kill her just to have it.

I don't know the contents of that book but I know it's powerful. 

The thought that she could be killed because of it scares me.

I tried to pray, but the words came out broken, unfamiliar. It had been years since I’d whispered to any god. I wasn’t sure if they listened to people like me anymore.

“Please,” I breathed. “keep - keep Grace safe.”

My voice cracked. It sounded small. Like a child’s.

I stayed that way for what felt like hours—curled up, motionless, listening to the old house creak around me. Somewhere, water dripped. Somewhere else, wind hissed through cracks in the foundation.

Eventually, the ache in my bones shifted into exhaustion. My eyelids grew heavy. My heartbeat slowed.

But I didn’t sleep.

Sleep was dangerous.

Sleep meant dreams.

Dreams meant remembering.

And remembering meant breaking all over again.

When I was younger, I used to count the seconds between his footsteps. It helped me predict his moods. If he walked slowly, he was calm. If he moved quickly, someone was about to bleed.

Now I listened for other things—changes in his routine. The rhythm of the guards outside. The kitchen doors. The way silence fell in certain parts of the house.

I was blind, yes. But I wasn’t helpless.

Every sound was a map. Every scent, a signal. Every vibration, a warning.

I had learned this house better than anyone. Better than him.

And one day, it would be the thing that set me free.

That thought was enough to steady me.

Freedom.

It seemed impossible, like sunlight through stone. But I could still imagine it.

What would it feel like?

To breathe air that didn’t smell like dust and blood. To walk without pain in my leg. To lift my face to the sky and feel warmth, not the sting of cold shadows.

To smile.

To laugh.

To live without fear of footsteps in the dark.

I didn’t even know if I remembered how to smile. But I would learn. If I ever escaped, I’d learn everything again.

How to walk in grass.

How to touch without flinching.

How to speak without trembling.

How to trust.

The thought made me ache. It was too big, too bright, for the world I lived in now.

Still, I whispered it into the silence, just to hear it aloud.

“I want to be free.”

My voice cracked, soft as a prayer, small as a secret.

The house didn’t answer.

But somewhere deep in my chest, beneath the bruises and fear, something stirred.

Not strength. Not yet.

Just… defiance.

The kind that grows slowly, like roots under ash.

The kind my father could never burn out.

I tilted my head, listening—no footsteps, no breath but my own. For now, he was gone. For now, I had this moment.

And for now, I was alive.

It wasn’t victory. Not yet.

But it was something.

And for the first time in years, I realized something simple and terrifying:

If I could still breathe, then I could still fight.

Even if all I had left was silence.

Even if I had to do it blind.