The Young Gods (The Young Gods #1) [NEW DRAFT]

•capítulo veinte // chapter twenty•

She awakens to find that the Head Sentinel is gone. She sits up in his bed, blearily staring around the room, before tearing the blankets off her body and darting to the windows. She tries pulling open the shutters. They resist her, groaning at the force she exerts on them, but as he promised, they're locked tight. She goes to the doors next, banging upon them with her fists, screaming bloody murder. After, she presses her ear to the wood, hoping to hear footsteps or the sound of voices. Her heart sinks into her stomach when she hears nothing at all.

Malina backs away slowly. Her hands dig into her hair. She lets out a cry of frustration.

"Damn it!" she shouts. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

One of her hands goes to her left eye, covering it to see better with her right. She looks over the crisscrossing strings of the weave, zoning out the walls around her, the floors, and everything in between. Suddenly, everything beyond the glittering strings is an endless black void. Far in the distance, the strings twitch and overlap each other with the echoes of life, too far in the distance.

She backs up. Her legs hit the edge of the bed and she topples backwards, the breath flying out of her when she lands. The scent of pine needles erupts around her, stronger than she remembers from last night. Her hands search the sheets until she finds what she's looking for: the handkerchief the boy gave her, her blood staining it in shades of rust-brown, his initials embroidered in the corner.

"VJCH," she says to herself. "VJCH..."

She gets to her feet again, crossing over to the desk set in between the windows. It's made of what looks like mahogany, and sturdy enough that it doesn't shake when she pushes it. The top has been cleared, perfectly polished and shining in the morning light that streams in from the shutters. Malina yanks open the first drawer, wide and short. Pens rattle within, all the same kind and colours, black and gold. A stack of blank parchment scatters at the sudden movement.

Malina goes to the left side of the desk first, moving on. She pulls open each drawer, top to bottom. In one, she finds a map of the city folded up, covered with lines and boundaries that go over every single district. In another, she discovers a journal, though when she flips it open, rifling through the pages, all she finds is a pressed winter rose in the middle.

In the bottom drawer, Malina pulls out a picture of a pretty girl sitting on a wicker chair, long hair pulled up into a swirling updo, hands settled demurely upon her lap. Her smile tilts in a way that makes her seem like she has a secret. Beneath the picture is a handwritten note that Malina puts up to her nose. She quickly draws away from it; the strong scent of perfume clings to the paper. She settles for reading it instead, the letter dated a few months prior.

Dearest Valentine,

I trust that you are doing well in these cold winter months while out on patrol. I have enclosed to you a coat insulated with furs from the elusive Wilshorian fox, which will be sure to keep you warm even on the chilliest of mornings. Do be sure to pay me a visit whenever time permits. I miss you nearly too much to bear.

Truly and forever yours,

Rufina

Malina looks down at her left hand, where the handkerchief is crushed in her palm. VJCH. Then she glances back to the letter. Valentine.

"An odd name for an Edeiran," she mutters to herself.

She tosses the letter and the picture back into the bottom drawer and moves to the right. Drawer after drawer reveals nothing of note besides bound stacks of what look like reports on the daily happenings of the city. It isn't until she reaches the last drawer that she pauses. She digs her fingernails into the space between the drawer and the desk, pulling it free, and comes upon another picture.