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Riven
Severin’s not stupid. That’s what’s pissing me off the most. This endless loop of blood and bone and things that shouldn’t crawl, isn’t desperation. It’s a strategy. And it’s working.
It’s been nearly two weeks since we crossed into this twisted stretch of nightmare, and what should’ve been a three-day passage has turned into a slow bleed. He’s drawing it out. Keeping us locked in this godless labyrinth while he chips away at our strength, our patience. Our unity. He doesn’t need to win in one blow. He just has to keep us moving slow enough to fall apart.
And maybe we are.
The fire’s low, more ember than flame, and none of us has the energy to feed it. Layla's curled into herself near the edge of camp, her eyes shadowed and body curled like she’s trying to disappear. She hasn’t said a word in hours, and it’s not the silent strength she normally wears. It’s… empty. Starved. Her energy is thinning, and even with Orin feeding her life through his own body, through that strange, grotesque communion he’s perfected, it isn’t enough. Not anymore.
I glance across the camp. He’s sitting beside her now, quiet, fingers pressed lightly to her wrist. His skin has paled, death-white where it normally glows with slow-burning gold. Eventhe trees around him are wilting, like the land knows it’s been harvested too many times. He can’t keep doing this. None of us can.
And yet, here we are. Waiting. Again.
My grip tightens around the blade resting across my knees. Wrath hums beneath my skin, restless, aching for something to sink into. I haven’t had a real night’s rest since the last time I touched her, and even that was a blur of bruised kisses and biting silence. The bond between us is a goddamn curse, pulling tight every time she sighs, every time she flinches, every time her power calls to mine like it wants to bury itself in my ribs.
She’s not looking at me now. Good. Because if she did, I’d see the worry on her face, see her watching Layla like she wants to take the pain for herself. I’d see her guilt. Her need. And that would be it. That would be the thing that tips me over, that makes me say something I can’t take back.
Like how I’m ready to burn this entire fucking realm down just to get her out of it. Like how I dream about her, every goddamn night. Even when I don’t want to.
A twig snaps in the woods. My head jerks toward the sound, body already shifting into attack even before I’ve registered what it is. A deer. Or maybe just the shadow of one. It vanishes before I can tell. My muscles scream in protest, but I don’t relax. Not yet.
Because this is the part of the night where it always starts.
The quiet before the next scream.
The pause before the next nightmare.
And I know, I know, Severin is watching. Somewhere out there, behind whatever glamour or abyss he’s hiding in, he’s grinning like the smug bastard he is, knowing full well that he doesn’t need to face us to destroy us.
Not when he can make us tear each other apart first.
And not when he's already found our weakness.
Her name is Layla.
Lucien lowers himself beside me with that tired elegance only he can pull off, like even exhaustion respects him enough not to muss his clothes. His knees crack, sharp and human, and I snort without meaning to. Not because it’s funny. Because hearing someone like him make a noise so… mundane, so normal, feels like catching a god mid-stumble.
"You're not immortal, old man," I mutter, tossing another twig into the fire. The flames hiss, swallowing it like they’ve been waiting.
Lucien doesn’t glance at me. Doesn’t need to. His gaze is fixed on the woods, on the shadows that shift just a little too wrong, a little too slow. "No. But I’m something worse," he says, voice dry, cracked at the edges. “I remember everything.”
I don’t answer. Because I know what he means. We all do. This realm, whatever Severin has turned it into, feeds on more than strength. It feeds on memory, on exhaustion that seeps past the muscle and into the marrow. You can’t sleep it off. You can’t bleed it out. It just stays.
He exhales, and it’s not quite a sigh. More like a surrender. "He’s not trying to kill us, Riven."
"I know," I growl, jaw clenching. My fingers tighten around the blade resting across my lap, the one humming with my wrath. It’s warm from my grip, hot like it knows I’m one heartbeat from snapping.
Lucien shifts just enough to look at me then, and I hate the way his gaze slices through me. Always has. He sees too much. Not in the way Orin understands. No, Lucien calculates. Dissects.
"It’s Layla," he says finally, voice low. “He’s bleeding her slowly. Using us to wear her down. You feel it too, don’t you?”
I look toward her. She’s curled on her side near Orin, wrapped in one of Elias’s coats, dwarfed by it. Her hair’s matted. Herlips are pale. And still, she hasn't asked for anything. Not even water. Just lies there, shrinking.
“I feel it,” I admit. Quiet. Brutal.
Lucien nods once. “He wants her exhausted. Starved. Willing.”
Willing. That word echoes in the hollow space between my ribs. I grit my teeth. “She won’t be.”