CHAPTER SEVEN

TWO DAYS LATER-----

I’ve always wondered…

There’s this recurring dream I’ve been having for the past few years. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s always exactly the same.

I’m standing on the rooftop of a towering building in an unfamiliar city. I’m not sure which kingdom it is—but judging by the height alone, I know it’s nowhere in Vargrheim.

My muscles are tense, teeth chattering. It feels so real I can practically feel the cold wind threading through my hair.

There are no guardrails. I’m right at the edge.

My toes are hanging over. And the thing is, I know I should back up. I know I should do everything in my power to launch myself backward, away from sudden death. But it doesn’t happen that way. 

Every time, like some subconscious, suicidal slip… my foot gives way. And I fall.

I’m falling and falling, but not fast. It’s slow and dreamlike.

Spinning midair, I catch sight of a shadowed figure cloaked in darkness leaping after me, cape flaring like a shadow come alive. I never see his face. It’s always hidden, blurred by fog or night, as though the dream refuses to give me his name.

I keep falling but I don’t scream. I’m just transfixed and afraid for the stranger.

Somehow he catches me before I hit the ground. I know they're a he because of the muscles I feel under his apparel.

His arms lock around my waist, solid and strong, pulling me into him like I belong there. I gasp—every nerve in my body humming with heat. His body is warm against mine, almost burning. 

My fingers curl into the fabric of his cloak, afraid he'll let go suddenly.

He leans into me, lips brushing the curve of my neck. I suck in a breath, sharp and involuntary.

He inhales me like I’m something forbidden. His nose traces a path behind my ear, slow and possessive, until his mouth finds the tender flesh of my earlobe.

And he bites—soft, deliberate, sensuous.

A whimper escapes me, unbidden. I feel it ripple through me, a heat blooming low and fast. My skin is on fire, hypersensitive beneath his touch. I arch into him without meaning to, and he pulls me tighter, hand splaying across the small of my back.

I don’t speak. I don’t move. I just let myself feel as we float.

We glide past windows glowing with amber light. The world below disappears. There are people behind the glass. Some I know. Some I don’t.

Father is always one of them.

He looks up. His expression is hard—confused, disapproving. That look always slices through me, makes me feel small, reckless. I cling tighter to the man who holds me, burying my face in the curve of his neck. He growls softly—like he likes that.

Then I see Elio.

He’s behind my father, eyes red, wet. On his knees.

He looks betrayed. Angry. Hurt.

I want to reach out to him. I want to ask what's wrong. But I don’t. I can’t.

The man holding me shifts. And then, without warning—he lets me go.

I’m falling again.

But the thing is, that while I’m in my weightless nosedive, I’m not afraid. The thrill of descent takes over, hypnotic reverie bringing me not to death… but to life. Awake.

I wake up flushed and breathless.

I sigh as i get dressed in my work uniform ready for a harrowing, bone aching day at the mines.

I told them all I knew.

Which was nothing.

Father just looked at me blankly while Elder Ezekiel called me nothing short of a deceitful witch.

I really didn't know what happened. Everything was a fog after I hit the tree.

I was still sent me to the mines.

Because it was a familiar punishment. Because they didn’t know what else to do with me.

Because, curse or not—

They needed to remind me where I belonged. Apparently that was with the other powerless, wolfless minority.

I’m pushed out of the carriage with all the grace of a sack of rotting vegetables.

Boots skid against gravel. I nearly fall, knees buckling, but catch myself on the edge of a rusted rail. Before I can even spin around and curse whoever had the audacity—the carriage wheels screech and spit dust, coughing it into my face as it trundles away.

I blink the grit from my eyes, blow a limp strand of hair off my forehead, and turn back around to face the dreary underbelly of Vargrheim—the mines.

Gray. Lifeless. Claustrophobic.

A sunless wound in the earth where dreams came to die choking on dust.

The gates yawn open before me like a mouth of a beast ready to devour. 

Rusty hinges. Old blood. Rock dust. 

A heavy iron sign dangles over the entrance, barely clinging to its bolts. Someone had scratched out the original name, and now it just reads:

THE PIT.

How poetic.