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Ambrose
I don’t know if it’s day or night in this place.
The room has no windows. Just stone walls that pulse like they were grown instead of built—black-veined and slick with magic that hums at the edge of hearing. There’s no sun. No moon. No shadows, either, because light doesn’t exist here. It’s more like... awareness. Like the space itself watches, remembers. Judges.
I’ve lost count of how long I’ve been here.
A day? A week?
Time doesn’t behave here. It coils, loops, stops. Sometimes I close my eyes for what feels like minutes and wake up with more bruises than I had before. Sometimes I blink and think I’ve skipped hours, only to find the candle beside my bed hasn’t burned down at all.
The bed. That’s generous. It’s a slab of blackstone warmed by something beneath the surface, just soft enough to pretend it's comfortable. There are no sheets. Just a blanket that smells like absence.
Branwen doesn’t visit often. She doesn’t need to. Her Dominion seeps through every crevice of this place like rot. You don’t forget she owns it, not even when she’s gone.
Caspian was here. Once. Maybe twice. Time makes liars of us all, but I remember his silhouette—taller than mine, less wrecked. The way he stood in the door like he might be able to pull me out just by looking. But there’s a leash around his neck now. Invisible, cruel. Tied to Branwen’s wrist.
He gets to roam. Gets summoned when she’s lonely. I can’t decide if that’s a gift or a punishment. Maybe both. He looks worse every time. More undone. Like her claws are under his skin, not just in it.
Lust, and the puppet strings that come with it.
I’m Greed. I don’t bend like he does.
That’s what I tell myself.
But I still count the steps in this room like they’re currency. Still measure the weight of each silence like it’s a negotiation. I still dream about doors. Not escape. Leverage.
There’s a basin in the corner, fed by a trickle of water that tastes like it remembers my name. I wash there. Cold and quick. The mirror above it doesn’t reflect anything unless Branwen wants it to. Sometimes I see her. Sometimes I see myself. Sometimes I see things I’m not ready to name.
She left a book last time.
Not a threat. Not a gift. Just a reminder.
"You know what you are."
I flipped through the pages anyway. Maps. Names. Sigils I haven’t seen since Daemon. The ones etched into the ceilings of the oldest chambers. The ones they said were buried after the first Binder failed.
I’m starting to think this whole realm is built on failures.
She wants me to turn. That’s the point of this. Break me down. Leave me with silence long enough that I start to fill it with her voice. Let the space chew me up so that when she calls, I run.
But I was born from want. Starvation. You can’t starve Greed. You just sharpen it.
The door opens without warning. It doesn’t creak. It doesn’t groan. It just... appears. Like it never wasn’t part of the wall.
Caspian enters.
And for a moment, I almost don’t recognize him.
His shirt is half-buttoned, wrinkled and stained. His collarbone is marked with deep red imprints—fingertips, maybe. Maybe teeth. His eyes are glazed, too bright. Not high. Not exactly. Just used.
His mouth twitches when he sees me. Not a smile. An apology.
“Morning,” he says, even though there’s no morning here.
I arch a brow. “Is it?”
He shrugs and slumps into the corner chair like it’s the only place his body still works. He looks worse than last time. Paler. Like Branwen drained something vital and filled it with static.