A Curse of Twisted Dreams

11.1 || The Nightwrath's Fury

"No." The word was barely a whisper. A broken plea that escaped on a breath. "No," she repeated, more firmly this time as she shook her head. Tears of fear and frustration blurred her vision. "You can't do this. Roan..." She choked. Evoking his name as a sort of shield sickened her, but what other choice did she have? She tried again. "Roan said—"

Sabin released her with a scoff. "That brat thinks he can reach the highest tree branch without trouble. Maybe I can't kill him, but he is a single Scion who has broken away from the gods and their favor. When I turn you in and point them in his direction, I'm sure they'll be more than willing to offer me some protection along with their coin."

What was he saying? Scions couldn't just walk away from the gods. They were... They were Scions! The very offspring of the gods and meant to desire all that was best for the world.

But wasn't this good? Didn't this mean the gods weren't part of whatever scheme Roan was enacting? Sabin said something about other humans like her, touched by magic that wasn't given by the gods, humans they wanted to hunt down, but surely she could get some leeway for being the twin of their Dreamwoven?

Except that, according to Roan, the curse afflicting her twin had triggered before he had any part. As much as she wished she didn't believe him, she did. He had been dishonest about so much, but in his twisted mind, what he'd done hadn't been wrong. There had been no regret in his eyes, no reason to lessen his blame for what had happened to Odella. The gods had even sent their Modika after her. Could Ash truly turn to them, to expect grace?

She didn't know. After the past few days, she felt like she didn't know anything at all.

A hand on her head jolted her from her panic. She jerked out from under it, which earned her a dark chuckle. "I see you are still alive there," Sabin said. He walked over to the door, gaze drinking her in the entire time. "I will check on you again this evening, young miss. Someone will be by with food in the mean time. Please, do behave yourself." With a final crooked grin, he disappeared from her room.

She stared at the door for a full ten seconds before the scream finally erupted from her.

People shouted outside, and the door opened half an inch. She didn't even react, barely registering the person on the other side grunting before closing it. As long as she wasn't in danger, they didn't seem to care.

Her screams petered out into quiet whimpers. Her eye stung, begging for tears to relieve the pain, but none came. All her fear and frustration sat deep in her gut. She wrapped her arms around herself to keep the pressure from splitting her apart.

Sitting there, doing nothing but feeling wouldn't do her any good, but she couldn't find a way to make it stop. She took a deep breath in and let it out, slow and steady, then repeated it. She counted a little more than fifty breaths before her heart rate felt normal again. By eighty, the pressure had lessened to a slight discomfort in her shoulders.

Twenty-five more passed, and she unfurled.

The empty room greeted her. It was much nicer than the cell. A wooden box held a mattress with a simple sheet and pillow thrown atop it. She stood, legs aching in protest, and approached the wall. She nudged a desk placed against it, but it didn't budge. The chair with it, however, did.

It was a plain chair, made of wood and straight-backed. She checked the drawers—void of pens, letter openers, or anything else sharp—before testing the chair's durability. Despite appearances, it gave little to the strain.

She nibbled on her lower lip. It would be so easy to sit there and do nothing. Await whatever came for her. If she thought about it, she was powerless. A single girl against an entire ship, many of whom were mercenaries.