It… is easy to picture her enjoying that. She is a hard worker, often pushing herself to impose order on chaos. Something in me recognized that a life like that leads to few moments of respite.
I too wished for the sweet, consuming oblivion that pleasure could provide. It had been a long time since?—
Clamping down swiftly on those thoughts, I turn away and adjust my pants at the groin. With another deep breath, my gaze landed on the large frame loom standing in the far corner of the room.
My chest tightens.
I approach it slowly, my fingers brushing over the sturdy stone frame. It has been a while since I’ve seen her working with cloth. The vertical threads are stretched taut, frozen in time, while the shuttle rests mid-weave, abandoned as if she had left in a hurry. The half-formed pattern lingers—a story interrupted.
The colors are breathtaking—deep indigos, rich crimsons, and streaks of gold woven together in intricate patterns. A river. A meadow. And… a barren mountain?
Was that blood staining the top?
No, just thread.
The craftsmanship is impeccable. Even half-finished, it is a work of art.
My fingers trace over the strands.
For all my time in Enduvida, for all the painful distance between us, I have never been allotted much access to her thoughts or hobbies. Part of that is my fault.
I wonder what she would create if she weren’t carrying a thousand responsibilities. If she weren’t constantly working herself to exhaustion. If she weren’t… alone.
A cold ache presses into my ribs, but I shove it away. I am not here to marvel at her skill. Nor am I here to ruin my day before it’s fully begun.
I am here to figure out what’s happening.
Turning, I scan the room again—and that’s when I find a crate filled with crumbled clothes. I stride closer, realizing the smell of blood is more potent in this area.
Pulling out a handful of garments, I spot a white nightgown,similar to the one she wore last night. I crouch as I lift the delicate fabric between my fingers. It’s stained with deep purple that’s nearly black.
I inhale sharply, and her scent floods my senses.
Warm, soft, something distinctly Arlet beneath the sharp, pungent tang of spider’s blood. Her scent hits me harder than I expect, wrapping around my throat, stealing my breath.
For a moment, my grip tightens on the fabric. My body is betraying me, reacting to something it shouldn’t.
Damn it.
I force myself to crumple it up as my fingers curl into fists. I try to steady my breathing.
Who gives a sparkling fuck what she smells like? This is about what happened last night. Daniel is missing. Thearadhlumwas butchered. And Arlet acts like she doesn’t remember an entire day, nor how the spider died.
I rise to my feet, rolling my shoulders. I take one last glance at the room—at the loom, at the mead, at the nightgown—then exhale slowly.
Never in the history of my recollection has something like this happened in the caves.
I’ve never seen someone forget so much time from drinking alone. Never seen someone cold and pale and screaming in the middle of the night.
She wasn’t bitten by a vaimpír, not with those black eyes. Maybe it was a trick of the light?
In the past, I had seen a soldier on the battlefield go mad after days without sleep paired with intense bloodlust, but Arlet isn’t in that position.
Something is wrong, and that worries me.
I can’t be in this state, constantly wondering if she is going to walk off a cliff. She isn’t ready to face whatever is happening. But I am.
I step back toward the door, my thoughts already spinning through the possibilities. Looking down at the gown, I decide I will give her one last chance to talk to me.