Salt in the Silence

Chapter III

Liana Pov

I woke to quiet.

Not the fragile quiet of prayer halls or the forced stillness before punishment—but something colder. Controlled. The kind of silence that existed because nothing was allowed to disrupt it.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

I lay there, staring at a ceiling that wasn’t carved stone, waiting for the familiar weight of eyes on my skin. Waiting for a voice to tell me what to do next.

Nothing came.

The bed beneath me was soft. Too soft. Clean sheets brushed my legs when I shifted, and the unfamiliar sensation made my stomach tighten. I sat up abruptly, breath catching as I scanned the room.

White walls. Dark wood. A single window set too high to reach.

Not a cell.

Not freedom either.

My hand flew to my left shoulder.

The bandage was gone.

Bare skin greeted my fingers—and beneath it, the Mark.

I didn’t need a mirror to know it was there. My body remembered. The symbol lived under my skin like a second pulse, faint but undeniable.

A slow throb answered my touch.

I pulled my hand away sharply.

“No,” I whispered, more plea than command.

The cult had told me the Mark was holy. A seal. A blessing.

It never felt like one.

I slid off the bed, bare feet meeting polished wood. The room smelled faintly of soap and cold stone—nothing like incense or blood or smoke. The absence of those scents felt wrong, like silence after screaming.

On the far wall, a mirror reflected a girl I barely recognized. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Dried blood at the corner of her mouth.

Alive.

Saved.

The word made my chest ache.

Saved didn’t feel like this.

Saved didn’t feel like waking up alone in a stranger’s house with no idea how long you were expected to stay—or what would happen if you tried to leave.

A dresser stood against the wall. I opened a drawer.

Clothes.

Simple. Dark. Normal.

Not robes. Not white.

I closed the drawer slowly.

Normal terrified me more than chains ever had.

A soft sound reached me then.

A click.

I froze.

It wasn’t loud. Not threatening. Just… deliberate.

The door opened without warning.

He stepped inside like he belonged to the space.

Cassian.

The Blood King.

He didn’t wear a crown. He didn’t need one. Power clung to him in the way he moved, the way the room seemed to rearrange itself around his presence. Dark clothes, sharp eyes, a stillness that felt coiled rather than calm.

His gaze met mine.

My shoulder burned.

Not pain—heat. A living response beneath my skin.

His eyes dropped instantly to the exact spot.

“You’re awake,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t know where I am,” I replied, forcing the words out.

“You do,” he said calmly. “You just don’t want to accept it.”

My throat tightened.

“Then say it.”

A pause. Measured.

“My house.”

The word landed heavy.

House meant ownership. Permanence. Control.

“I didn’t ask to be here.”

“No,” he agreed.

“You didn’t.”

That honesty unsettled me more than a lie would have.

“You killed them,” I said. My voice shook despite my effort to steady it.

“You didn’t have to.”

Cassian didn’t react. Not visibly.

“You don’t understand what you witnessed,” he replied.

“I saw bodies.”

“So have I,” he said flatly. “That part isn’t unique.”

Anger flared hot in my chest. “Then what matters?”

His gaze slid back to my shoulder.

“What answered me.”

A chill crept down my spine.

I took a step back without thinking.

He noticed.

“You’re afraid,” he said.

“Of you?”

“No.” His voice lowered. “Of yourself.”

I wanted to deny it. To scream that I was just a girl ripped from a cult, not something ancient or chosen or powerful.

But the Mark pulsed again.

Alive. Listening.

“I don’t want it,” I said through clenched teeth.

“I didn’t ask what you want,” Cassian replied. “I asked what’s true.”

He stepped closer—not aggressive, not rushed. Just enough to remind me how little space I truly had.

“Tell me,” he said quietly. “Where would you go if I let you walk out that door?”

The question struck harder than any threat.

I had no answer.

The cult was gone. Burned out. Reduced to memory and ash. There was no home waiting for me. No place untouched by what I carried under my skin.

My silence answered for me.

Cassian exhaled slowly.

“That’s what I thought.”

He reached into his jacket and placed two things on the dresser: a glass of water and folded black clothing.

“Put that on,” he said.

“I’m not yours,” I snapped.

His gaze cut sharp.

“I’m not asking you to be,” he said.

“I’m telling you how this works.”

I swallowed hard.

“I have questions. About the Mark. About why you”

“Not yet.”

“When, then?”

“When you stop pretending you’re ordinary.”

He turned toward the door.

My frustration boiled over.

“Why me?” I demanded.

“Why did you take me?”

He paused.

For a brief moment, something old flickered behind his eyes. Not kindness. Not regret.

Recognition.

“Because the Mark chose you,” he said quietly.

Then he left.

The door closed with a soft click.

Silence rushed back in—but it wasn’t empty anymore.

I stood there, heart racing, staring at the space he’d occupied. My shoulder still burned faintly, as if my skin remembered the nearness of him.

The cult had raised me to be obedient.

Cassian had taken me because I was dangerous.

And somewhere between those two truths, I realized something that made my breath stutter in my chest:

The Mark hadn’t just reacted to him.

It had known him.

And that terrified me more than anything else ever had.