Sleep might come at some point during the night, but it's difficult to tell. It blurs in snatches of darkness, grabbed with shaking hands and cradled through tears before it escapes again. Eventually, I give up on it entirely.

Summoning the courage to unfold from my ball and sit upright takes nearly all my energy. I shiver as my bare feet touch down on the floorboards. They're freezing. As I push unsteadily to my feet, I feel the wear and tear woven into the pattern, tiny, irregular ridges sharp against the soles of my feet.

Almost in a daze, I drift to the room's single window, collapsing against its sill. My forearms dig into the edges of the tile. I can't seem to stop moving, my fingers stretched and twitching, my knee hitting the wall in an off-beat drum as it bounces, my toes squeaking against the floor as I shift forward and back. Awful, clawing discomfort wriggles through me. I wish I could tear the very skin from my bones, if only to make it stop.

A sigh scrapes between my clenched teeth. I knock my head against the glass, pressing it hard enough to ache as I stare blankly downwards. I can't even cry anymore. A numb sensation swallows the tears, tying them up in a ball and burying them deep in the pit of my stomach.

I can't do this a second time. I'd sooner rip myself to shreds than have to look into Harlow's dull green eyes again, than hear him speak his faked kindness and vague, empty promises. I'd sooner jump out of this window, but it doesn't open when I push, and there's no latch. He's made sure of that precaution.

You don't want to die, he told me with such surety, his tone flat, his eyes shimmering with nothing at all. I drag my nails over the windowsill.

"He's a liar," I whisper, the words poison in my mouth and yet weak and rasping once they emerge.

Sucking in a deep breath, I force my head to raise, letting the view beyond the grimy glass snare my attention. I must be on an upper floor given the broad sight that greets me. Ashen morning light paints the town outside in a grey hue, the straw rooftops coloured in slate, the cobbled streets strung together by murky, bottomless shadows. If the sun has risen, it is too obscured by cloud to have much effect.

The silhouette of a figure catches my eye, and senseless hope strums a chord in my chest, drawing me forward. It fades into nothing within the moment. The people below are too far away, and too invested in their own affairs to care about a boy trapped in a cage of his own curse's making. They wouldn't want to save me anyway.

The only ones that will come looking are Sarielle and Fiesi. And yet the more I think, the more I hope they won't. They'll only get hurt.

I wrap an arm over my chest, fingers pulling uselessly at the tight fabric of my tunic. There is an ideal outcome to all this. Death has already tunnelled its way into my flesh, embedded in my blackened scars. All I have to do is wait and it will claim me.

If I'm dead, Harlow cannot use me. No-one can trap me or torture me. I'll no longer be a burden on Sarielle or any of the others. They'll be free to focus on saving the kingdom, and I'll be gone for good, a problem that no longer steals their attention.

It would be selfish of me to hope for rescue at all. I benefit nothing to my side of this war. The sooner I accept my fate, the sooner peace will find me.

"Good morning."

I jolt, heart thundering in my chest as I whip around. Fayre stands in the doorway, her blonde plait flicked over one shoulder, her steely grey eyes boring into me. A tray is balanced in her hands. She sets it down carefully on the bedstand, her gaze not faltering for a second. "The general sends you breakfast."

I grip the windowsill behind, wishing its edges were less rounded so it would properly dig into my palms. "You can take it back to him," I say. "I don't want it."

Her hand drifts to her belt, fingers circling the hilt of one of her knives. "He suggests you eat it. I'll be coming to check in an hour."

"Do what you want," I snap. Familiarity washes over me, and as much as I hate it, my tongue wanders that same track. "I don't care. I don't want it."

Her fist closes around the hilt. I flinch at the look in her eyes, as much as I despise myself for it. Cold washes over my skin as she stalks forward, slow and precise, her knife a dulled slice of silver as it lifts and slides under my chin. The windowsill digs into my back as I shrink back. The blade is like ice, its sharp point grazing my neck.

No light flickers in her gaze. It pierces me with the blunt force of rock. "The general says you're hurting," she says, tone perfectly flat. "Would you like to hurt more?"

Yes. I bite down on my tongue, fingers trembling as they curl into the sill. "No."

"Then you'll eat." She retracts the knife slowly, keeping it pinned in her hand as she moves away. I can't seem to look away from it. Its edge toys with the shadows. "I'll be back in an hour," she reiterates, turning on her heels.

The door slams behind her. The lock's click is rough, yanked more harshly into place.

The air seems to sink heavier on my shoulders, as if went stiff in her presence and only now succeeds in relaxing. I sag beneath it. My breathing rattles, shallow and shaky despite how much I've been holding it in. For a moment, I can do nothing but listen to it, watching the closed door as if it might snap open again. I don't quite know what I'm waiting for. All I can taste is stagnant, hollow fear.

Yet no-one comes. Forcing myself to heave in a full breath, I push away from the window and pace back to the bed, sitting tense on its edge. The tray catches in the corner of my eye. It contains a thick slice of bread, a piece of hard cheese positioned beside it. Not an unfamiliar meal. Tongue catching between my teeth, I wrench my gaze to my feet, burying my face in my hands. What's the use in eating when I have so little time left? I can't even find the desire to. Pain gnaws so incessantly at everything inside that hunger is of no consequence.

Fayre can dig her knife into my flesh as punishment if she wishes. Perhaps a few more scars will kill me faster.

"Noli."

A bolt of panic jerks my head up, my heart tripping over itself at the mere sound of my name. It's quiet, muffled as if submerged underwater, and yet it tickles my senses regardless. The room appears just barely out of focus. I sweep my gaze across it, lingering on the door. Nothing but emptiness greets me.

"Psst." A soft, enticing hiss, shaped in an oddly familiar voice I can't quite place. My hands shake as I stand. I drop them to my sides, then hug my chest, sure the temperature has fallen.

A thump. My blood freezes over.

There's something blocking the window.

Somehow, I manage to venture a step closer. It's a face. A person. A hand presses against the glass, pale as dusted ice, the pads of the fingers white and flattened. The eyes that watch from beyond it are black voids.

Edita. It's a wonder I didn't recognise her voice in an instant.

She catches my gaze, and her lips quirk in a smile. Those strange, pointed teeth poke out. I stagger back, my foot catching on the edge of the bed and sending me toppling back onto its sheets. The momentum carries me into a haphazard roll, tipping me off the other side and leaving me free to curl up on the floor, huddled behind the bedframe. Useless pleas circle my mind. No. I can't be falling back into these foolish daydreams so quickly. I don't want to see her. I just want to die without my own thoughts latching onto every stray piece of fear and haunting guilt in the time I wait.

The silence lingers, filled only with my own breathing. I exhale slowly. If I stay here, she can't see me. I can't see her. She isn't there.

Then the glass shatters.

It's deafening. A scream surges up my throat, trapped in by my gritted teeth. Clapping my hands over my ears, I pull my knees right up against my ribs, squeezing my eyes shut. This is a dream. It will be over soon. This is a dream.

I can't drown out the sound of feet hitting the floor, of footsteps prowling towards me. They're getting closer. A sigh cracks the air, short and tight with irritation.

There truly must be ice in the air now, shards of it slitting my lungs with each breath. My nails try and fail to cut into my scalp. This is a dream.

A cold hand curls around my arm, brushing the bare skin left by my shortened sleeve. A whimper slips free. I press my lips together to seal in any more sound, though I feel as if I choke myself as my hand is slowly, carefully, teased away from my ear. The next sigh is louder without a barrier to shield me from it. Her fingers tap out an impatient rhythm.

"Noli, come on." Her voice isn't even distorted now. I can hear its every ebb and flow. "This is silly."

"This is a dream." The words slip out before I can stop them, thin and breathless. "I'm dreaming. It's okay."

"For the sake of the stars. Look at me."

Another tug on my arm, and despite the way my instincts beg me to get as far from her voice as possible, some feeble thread of curiosity compels me to obey. There's little else to do. I prise my eyes open, caution hastening my pulse.

She still looks the same. She's knelt before me now, sitting back on her heels, frowning as she examines me. Her smile reappears as we lock eyes. "There we go." She releases my arm, tucking both hands neatly against her knees. "See? All fine."

Her eyes carry a warped, darkened reflection, almost as if their surface is entirely opaque. I recoil, scrambling away until my back hits the wall, one hand still resting on my head as if it can push back the thoughts. "Go away," I try. My voice is brittle, breaking into pieces as I force it between my teeth.

"This is a little ungrateful." In a startlingly casual movement, she lifts her broken sword, and I gasp. Dark blood coats its jagged edge. She hardly seems concerned. "I went to a lot of effort to get here. Rakis has a ridiculous amount of security these days."

Agony squirms in my chest. I shut my eyes again, trying to climb into the warm darkness underneath. "Go away. Let me wake up."

"You are not dreaming, Noli." Weary exasperation seems to hang off her words. She sounds so tired that I have to pin down the urge to believe her. None of this can be anything but a dream. Sarielle told me that ghosts aren't real.

Perhaps if I say nothing, she will leave. I bite down on my tongue, waiting, hoping. Yet her voice pierces the air again after only a few moments. "Am I really so creepy that you think I belong in a nightmare?"

"You are in my nightmares," I say without thinking, shoulders digging into the wall. "All of them."

Edita hums. "That is a shame. Well, apologies."

Confusion tugs at my fear, urging me to peek at her again. There might be genuine remorse scrawled into her expression, though that black glaze to her eyes distracts me from properly reading her. I swallow hard. "You're... apologising to me?"

"Yes?" She shrugs. "Granted, for your own subconscious thoughts. Perhaps it is stupid." She turns her blade over, glancing past it at the door to her side. "Now, accept that I am real and let me finish rescuing you, if you will."

"Rescuing..." I shake my head, fingers dragging through my hair. None of this makes any sense. If this is a dream, why doesn't she whisper her usual malice, or wield her sword at me, or speak of monsters and heroes? Where is her vengeance, her hate?

It isn't entirely beyond reason that I might have twisted her this way, created her anew in some strange attempt to clog the pit of loneliness. Still, it leaves me reeling.

She hops to her feet, sliding her half-sword into the chipped sheath at her side. Her hand stretches down in invitation. I stare at it, noting the veins in her wrist prominent beneath her frayed sleeve, the elongated nature of her fingernails so that they appear almost like claws. My palms remain flat against the ground either side of me.

"Come on." Her hand jerks, hovering in front of my face. I flinch back.

"I..." I don't even know how to protest, fragmented as my shock is. "I don't even want to be rescued." My fingers curl inwards. "I want to die."

Her black-flooded eyes rake over me, studying. "To die?" Her brow furrows. "That would put a wrench in my rescue plans. I would prefer you remained living."

"I'm going to die anyway," I mutter. Bitterness coats my throat, roughing my voice. "I don't see the point in fighting it. Everything will be better once I'm dead." I look up at her, see the thoughtful frown pinching her lips, and a hollow laugh shakes my chest. "You're not even real." Empty humour trails into my tone. "I wish you'd get out of my head and let me die in peace."

"Mm." Edita crouches down. I stiffen as her hand trails to my hair, brushing over my ear as she catches hold of a few unruly curls. "What if I told you I knew a way to keep you alive?"

A shiver snakes my spins, the piercing chill of her touch entwining with the shock of the statement. My tongue is almost too numb to piece together words. "I wouldn't believe you. You're an illusion."

Her gaze hardens, frustration cracking through the odd comfort she seemed to have been attempting. She jerks straight again, pacing away from me to peer in the direction of the window. Its shattered pieces are strewn across the sill. "Well, I am telling the truth whether you like it or not. Now do get up and follow me. I was not exactly subtle in the path I chose to break in here." She blows out a sigh. "What a soldier I have become."

Her voice washes over me, barely registered beyond the chaos in my mind. I watch the bleached light of winter cast weak rays that leak over her skin, her worn navy tunic, the silver-grey shirt thrown on top of it. Her limp ponytail swings with her movement. If this is a dream, it's an impossibly vivid one. I can't deny how real she seems.

Whatever she is -- hallucination, ghost, saviour -- she is offering me a chance. Hope. I thought I had no hope left.

Sarielle would want me to grasp any bit of hope I could find.

Edita's blackened eyes cut a sharp glance over her shoulder. "You are starting to wear on me. Get up."

This time, I clamber to my feet, steadying myself on the wall. She raises an eyebrow, smiling a little as she turns. "So you do believe me."

"I... I don't know yet." I shift, toying with the curls she tucked behind my ear. They've already sprung back. "But I'll follow you."

"Good." Her fangs slip out as she grins. "I did not want to have to drag you out. This is nicer. Oh." Striding over, she reaches past me to grab the slice of bread from the tray, holding it out to me. "And eat that. You have a tendency to pass out, so I would like to rule out starvation."

I take it hesitantly. It's softer than I'm expecting, its crust less tough. "Okay."

A sudden wave of familiarity washes over me. Edita merely presents me with the same choice Fiesi offered all that time ago. To stay and know exactly what lies ahead, or to take a step into the dark, face the unknown, for some small, dubious chance that things might get better. I wouldn't change the decision I made then, and I won't now.

This is a risk, but it's worth it. It has to be.

I hardly have anything left to lose.

With newfound strength tacking on steel beneath my skin, I bite into the bread. I'm going to live. If there's any possibility I can make it through this, I have to try.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Is Edita a ghost? An illusion? Just some dead girl chillin out and adopting herself a bby? Who knows but she's back :D

Just in time as well because Nathan is being really ouch at the moment. Can he stop pls T^T

- Pup