Her reflection doesn't lie, it's the one thing that can't lie to her. It bares the truth in all its horrifying glory, and she hates it for that.

The mirror shakes in her grip as she swipes the blood from her face, the split on her nose weeping crimson with her uncaring treatment of it.

All she can remember is the feeling of the gun in her grip, the way it jolted in her hand when she shot as Oliver grabbed her wrist. She thought she'd killed Grayson, and she instantly wanted to vomit. She promised she'd never fight for revenge again, not after her pa.

The knock on her door jars her senses and she drops the mirror, watching it clatter to the floorboards. She damns it for not shattering like so many other things in her life.

"Alicia?" The voice on the other side of the door is familiar with its rough tones, and Alicia leaps to her feet to open the door to see Oliver frowning down at the bottle in his hands. "It seems we've drank all the whiskey and this is all..." He trails off as he looks at her, slate grey gaze assessing her features; the purple that's bloomed around her eyes and the left side of her face and the dried blood that cracks against her pallid skin.

She grabs the bottle from his hand, presses it to her chest, and casts her eyes to their feet.

"Let me take that," he murmurs, and he reaches for the bloodied cloth in her grip before stepping past her and into the dim room.

She didn't think to light anything; sitting in the darkness seemed more manageable than truly seeing the damage to her face. But Oliver lights an oil lamp with the matches from his pocket before dipping the cloth into the bowl of water she was using.

She swallows thickly—still tasting blood on her tongue—before she closes the door and sits on the edge of her bed. She busies her hands with uncorking the bottle that Oliver brought as he kneels before her, squinting at her with those all-seeing eyes. She winces through the pain, her right hand swollen and aching as she opens the champagne.

He reaches for her and Alicia flinches away from his touch, the little space between them tightening her chest.

"I promise I'm not going to hurt you, Alicia," he reassures her in his low voice that slides along her spine.

She tips the bottle to her lips in response, bubbles and bitterness filling her mouth as she drinks deeply, washing away the metal tang of blood. She licks her lips as she lowers the bottle and lets Oliver's fingers brush against her jaw without pulling away. His touch is callused and rough against the smooth skin of her jaw, warm against her cold. She lets him clean the blood from her face, his brow furrowed in concentration.

His touch is gentle for someone who supposedly only knows the ways of war.

"I'll take you to see the doctor in the morning," he tells her, filling the silence with his soothing voice. "She's a busy woman right now, though. I hope I'll suffice for now." He tries to offer her a smile and that effort tugs at something deep within her. Then she's reminded of her situation as he dabs at the cut against her nose and she winces.

"What's happened to him?" she questions, her voice cracking by the end of her sentence.

Oliver meets her gaze, their faces close enough that she can feel his breath tickling her lips. "He's being treated, then he'll be given supplies to be sent beyond the walls."

She lets out a breath, shoulders slumping.

Oliver lifts her chin, pressing the damp cloth to the corner of her lips. "What you did was okay, Alicia."

"He was on the ground. I shot an unarmed man."

He pinches her chin, drawing her gaze back to his. "He attacked an unarmed woman. I would've shot him myself if you hadn't beat me to it."

Alicia can't answer the smile that tilts his lips with one of her own, she just grabs the bottle and swigs from it again, letting it warm her stomach. "So why are you casting him out instead of killing him?"

"Do you want him dead?" he's quick to ask, eyes flicking between hers, searching for any piece of herself she reveals to him. He's already seen more of her than most. She hasn't been able to wear her mask of silks and glamour since she was exiled. Finding a new mask has never been easy.

"I don't want anyone to die because of me, not again."

Oliver shakes his head, lowering his gaze to dip the cloth back into the stained water. "If he were to die, then it wouldn't be because of you, it would be because he's a fool that crossed the wrong people. There's no blame on you for any of this."

"That's the life out here, right?" she says, leaning away from him as he raises the cloth. "We kill, and there are no consequences? What type of life is that?"

Oliver sits back on his heels, dropping the cloth into the water. "We survive and deal with the consequences when we're dead."

Alicia looks down at the bottle between her palms with a frown. "What's the point of survival when this is the cost?" She glances at Oliver, watches the shadows flicker within the hollows of his cheeks. His face is its usual slate, puckered lips pressed together and eyes bright in the light of the lamp.

"We live fighting for what keeps us going."

Alicia can only stare at him, stare at the Reaper's shadows flickering in his eyes.

She can't even tell him what she fights for anymore, because she doesn't know. Once it was for survival, for riches, for her family, for a better Muovea, but none of that matters anymore. She left it all behind when she exiled herself and there's no returning to that ash.

"What do you fight for, Oliver?" she asks. "Or is it as the people of the Commons say? You're a man who knows only violence, and revenge is what you load your guns with?"

"The people of this town talk too much for their own good." He gets to his feet, brushing his hands on his tailored pants. "What I want is a good bottle of whiskey and a decent night of sleep."

That pulls a laugh from her, a small burst of noise that aches from her head to her toes. "A man of simple tastes," she says, raising the bottle of champagne that he takes and tips to his lips, still watching her. The silver of them seems stark in the low light, the intensity of his gaze sliding along her skin with phantom fingers.

When he hands the bottle back to her, she's quick to drink deeply from it once again, hoping that the alcohol will dull the pain and dampen the embers within her that grow hotter beneath his gaze.

"I'll take you to the doctor tomorrow morning," he repeats, gaze breaking from hers to study her swollen hand.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "Thank you for everything you've done for me."

"We look out for each other out here."

"I don't deserve your kindness." Alicia glances down, staring at her bandaged right hand, blood blooming on the fabric.

"Why wouldn't you deserve kindness, Alicia?"

Alicia can't find the words to answer him, or she just doesn't want to. She clenches her bandaged hand, the pain letting her focus on something other than the gnawing darkness in her mind. She's done bad things for her own survival, things she now looks back on and wonders if her survival was even worth it. She was never meant for this type of life.

"I didn't know Grayson was Warren's nephew," he says into the silence. "If I had, you wouldn't be in this situation."

"You mean the situation where I shot an incapacitated man?" she replies, looking up at him with a hollowness in her gaze that reflects the hollowness in her chest. Oliver's face is without expression, there's more emotion in a dead man's eyes than what he regards her with.

"If you think he didn't deserve what he got, then you're mistaken. Your guilt is better used elsewhere. Besides, he'll hopefully lead us to Warren and that man deserves to die."

"No one deserves to die," she whispers.

His mask splits with a spiteful smile that curves his lips, revealing his teeth, silver flashing in the corner of his smile. "Oh, I know plenty of people who deserve to die." He leans forward, hands shoved into his pockets as he narrows those sterling eyes at her. "How we survive as exiles is by understanding what it takes to survive. Yet, you resist that concept more than anyone else I've met. Even Viktor picks up a gun quicker than you. So, what are you so afraid of, Alicia? What did you do in the past that makes this so hard for you to understand?"

She stands then, putting them face to face, her eyes level with his lips, but she doesn't let that dampen the sudden burning beneath her skin. It crawls through her like insects, pinching her stomach, biting at her eyes, begging for tears, desperate for her to scream. He just continues to study her like she's the next chess piece that he has to move.

"What I did," she says, her voice a whisper within the shadows that surround them, hoping the Reaper doesn't hear and come for her, "has nothing to do with you. Don't pretend to know me."

"But I do know you, Alicia," he answers calmly, the darkness of his tone unsettling her. "The war changed us all, but you're not the woman I met in those tunnels, she didn't come back from the war either."

"Stop it," she manages as she feels her throat close, but he steps closer to her, into her space, bearing down on her.

"You pretend you don't know how to survive out here, that you don't belong beyond those walls, but who are you trying to fool?"

"Stop it!" she screams, pushing him away, pain a spark of fire in her blood that only fuels her rage as her hands collide with his firm chest. She lashes out again, needing to break something, needing to feel something shatter beneath her hands. The crack of her hand against Oliver's cheek startles even her. His face merely tilts, as though he was expecting the blow, anticipating it.

He looks at her, and she swallows the dryness in her throat. Shards of glass shine in his gaze, the knowledge of death in the sharpness of his features.

"You play a dangerous game, Alicia," he murmurs, red blossoming on his pale cheek. "You're hiding, but your enemies know exactly who you are. I also know that if I hadn't grabbed you, then that bullet would have gone through Grayson's heart."

She can only stare at him, the numbness in her fingers crawling through her and she lets it, she needs it like a blanket in the icy cold.

"I've wondered how the Zalanas truly came to their fortunes so quickly during the war. Just you and your mother against the south and the north of the capital."

"I want you to leave," she whispers, looking down at his shined shoes. "There's no need to speak of old tales that are dead."

"You won't survive as an exile as the girl you pretend to be," he tells her as he moves towards the door. His next words are given with his back to her, Alicia cold without his presence, cold with the memories he's littered before her. "We can't all run forever."

He leaves her, leaves her to her ice and shadows, leaves her with this guilt eating her soul.

Her breath heaves from her lungs, making her ribs ache but that may just be her heart. It's hammering in her chest and she can't understand why. Her numbness, her coldness and disregard for everything around her is meant to protect her from this. Just as it did in the slums of the south.

So, she sits down. Her knees quake too much to hold her weight anymore and she slumps down on the bed with her arms around her chest like she can smother the emotions that swell inside.

She deserves this. She deserves to feel every morsel of her grief and resentment. After all, she's the one that brought ruin to the people she lost. She's the self-righteous fool that forced her own mother to betray her so the grand duke wouldn't cast their gaze upon her entire family. She's the one who exiled herself.

The breath in her throat hitches and she buries her face in her hands. She shuts her eyes and digs her fingers into her skin, pressing against the colourful hues and swollen contours of her bones, hoping the pain will bury this wretched guilt.

They're dead. They're just... dead. Nothing she does—no fighting against the duke, marrying the prince, getting back to the capital—will bring them back.

What's the point of it all if those she was fighting for are gone? They're all just fucking gone but she's still here and their ghosts scream for her, demand recompense, thrash for some sort of closure. She can't give it. She can't do anything.

She's nothing but a Grey Blood, a shambling corpse, wasting and withering, waiting to turn to dust like the bodies she's left in her wake.