And this time, I don’t bother hiding the certainty.
1
AERYN
Ikeep my head lowered, not out of submission but because it makes it easier to disappear, and in a place like this, disappearing is the closest thing to survival that still resembles living, especially when every movement is watched, measured, and punished if it strays even slightly from what is expected of me, my hands raw from labor that never seems to end, my breath shallow in the damp air that clings to my lungs as though it resents being shared.
The stone beneath my knees is uneven, biting through the thin fabric that no longer protects my skin, and I focus on that, on the sharp, grounding discomfort, because it anchors me to the present, because it keeps me here instead of there, instead of slipping into the fractures that wait just beneath the surface of my thoughts, always watching, always waiting for the moment my control weakens enough for them to break through.
I do not let them. I cannot.
The others around me work in silence, their movements mechanical, dulled by exhaustion and fear, and I have learned to mirror that emptiness, to become something indistinguishable from them, something unremarkable, something that won’tdraw attention, because attention is dangerous, and I have seen what happens to those who attract it.
I have seen it too many times.
The memory presses at my mind, not a memory at all but something else, something sharper, something that is not part of the past, and I force it down, tightening every part of myself as though I can physically contain it, as though I can cage what I see the same way they cage us.
It fights me. It always does. A flicker, just a flicker, of silver blades in motion, of dark figures moving with purpose through corridors I know too well, of blood that has not yet been spilled but will be, and the pressure behind my eyes spikes so suddenly that I nearly falter, my fingers curling into the stone to keep myself steady.
No.
I swallow hard, forcing my breathing into something controlled, something steady, counting each inhale and exhale as though rhythm alone can hold the vision back, as though discipline is enough to defy what I am.
It has to be. Because if it isn’t, I am already dead. I lower my gaze further, letting strands of my pale hair fall forward to obscure my face, because my eyes betray me when the visions come, because they shift, because they reveal too much, and I have survived this long by ensuring no one looks closely enough to notice.
The overseer’s footsteps echo somewhere behind me, each one carrying the promise of pain, and I adjust my movements accordingly, making them smaller, weaker, less noticeable, another body in a line of bodies that blur together under his watch.
Time stretches, though I do not measure it in hours or moments, only in the distance between one breath and the next,in the fragile space where nothing happens, where I remain only myself.
It almost holds. Then something tears through me without warning. There is no build, no gradual fracture, only the sudden, violent intrusion of something that doesn't belong to now, slamming into my mind with such force that the world around me shatters into fragments of light and sound and sensation that no longer align.
Dark figures move through the outer gate, their armor absorbing what little light reaches them, their presence wrong in a way that settles deep into my bones, something older, something sharper, something that is not part of ones who normally control this place.
Their weapons are drawn. Their intent is clear. They are coming here.
The vision shifts before I can stabilize it, splintering into overlapping possibilities that blur at the edges, and I see myself rising too quickly, drawing attention, I see myself staying and being found, I see myself running and…
Pain.
It slices through me with brutal precision, dragging me back into my body so violently that I nearly collapse outright, my vision swimming as the present reasserts itself around me in jagged, disjointed pieces.
I suck in air that feels too thin, too sharp, my hands trembling despite my effort to still them. I cannot tell which version of events I am standing in, which path has already begun to unfold.
But I know one thing. They are coming. And if I stay here, I will not survive what follows.
The decision forms without hesitation, instinct overriding caution, and I push myself to my feet with more force than Ishould risk, already aware of the attention it will draw, already calculating the cost even as I accept it.
Movement around me stutters. Someone notices. Of course they do. I turn anyway. The corridor stretches ahead, dimly lit, familiar enough that I can navigate it without thought, and I move before doubt can take hold, before fear can anchor me in place the way it always tries to, my steps are quick, never breaking into a full run, because running invites pursuit, because panic is as dangerous as stillness.
I keep my head down. I keep moving. The pressure builds again, sharper this time, more insistent, and I know what it means even before it hits, even before the world fractures once more into something I cannot fully control.
Another vision, but I try to stop it. I fail.
The corridor shifts around me, bending into something unfamiliar, something wrong, and I see myself reaching the outer passage only to find it blocked. I see guards where there should be none, I see a hand closing around my arm.
I stumble, my foot catching against uneven stone, and the impact jars me back into the present, pain lancing up through my leg, my balance faltering as the edges of my vision darken. My body cannot take this. Not like this. Not so close together.
I force myself forward anyway, my limbs slow to respond as the strain compounds, because if I lose control now, if I lose myself inside this… I will not come back.