𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

𝟏𝟐. 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟕𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟔𝟔𝟔

When you awoke some considerable amount of time later, your limbs were heavy with iron cuffs that shackled you to the wall of the cave. You were back in the space that you had dubbed the sacrifice room, which seemed fitting both earlier and especially now.

You were alone with your scattered thoughts until Solomon slowly parted the tattered curtain and stepped inside like he was worried that he would startle you if he moved too quickly.

There was a new fire burning at the center of the bloody sigil that illuminated his face—the dirt on his hands and the blood on his clothes. His long tangled hair was still tousled from your fight in the caverns and a few strands had curled upward, plastering a horned shadow across the slanted wall.

You would have gasped had your throat not been drier than the dust that caked your palms.

The horned devil, the chains, the room. You had known all along that it would come to this.

"I had no choice, (Y/N)," Solomon says, forgoing your usual nickname. His words felt empty without it. He was already bowing his head like a scolded child and you hadn't even opened your mouth yet. "You gave me no choice."

"Solomon–"

You don't recognize your own voice. It's scratchy and makes your throat ache. Thankfully, you are interrupted before you can continue.

"You'll be safe here for as long as it takes," Solomon says. You notice as he creeps closer that he holds a leather canteen of water in his arms, lowering it down to the floor carefully at your feet. "I will talk them down, convince them that you had nothing to do with this. Caleb Abery will rot in hell to pay for what he has done to your good name."

You wanted to argue that your name wasn't all that good in the first place. Your parents had a reputation for kindness, but that was truly all they had going for them after landing on the shores of the new world. Kindness and a small family to raise with no means of raising them.

"Solomon, no," you manage to cry. "No more lives, please. These people don't know any better. They are just as afraid as you."

It was easier to defend them when they weren't chasing you with pitchforks and torches.

"Fear is a dangerous thing, my love. Which is why I must keep you here until the dust clears." He bent down to cup your cheek. His eyes were dark and hollow, like graves. He had truly sold his soul to the devil.

"The sun will shine down on you again, lamb."

Solomon stood and left the sacrifice room with a long departing glance over his shoulder. The prospect of being left all alone was terrifying. What if the candles were to burn out? What if something happened to your captor whilst he was out and no one knew where to come looking for you? You rather face trial than stare at your own name carved on the stone wall adjacent to Cyrus Miller's.

For a few long minutes, you tore the rest of your voice screaming for help that would never come. You twisted and kicked the wall behind your head, trying to free the rusted bolts that held you there.

At least you wouldn't have to worry about starving to death, because there was a bowl of fresh fruits laid within an arm's reach on the floor, right beside the canteen. In his own deranged way, Solomon Goode did care about you. 

You plucked a single red berry out of the bowl and held it up to the firelight. The rot only had a preference for Union crops. Whatever doubts you previously held about Solomon's curse vanished at that moment.