Page 37 of Shadebound (Dark Fantasy #1)

An hour or so later, when my eyes throbbed harder than my head, from lack of blinking, Zayden tapped my arm and signed: How are you handling this?

It’s more tolerable than Varl’s class. I signed. I’ll just sleep longer tomorrow .

He shook his head. They repeat it. Usually three nights, but they skipped the first night because of the arena win.

Brilliant. Absolutely wonderfully brilliant.

And what’s the next initiation? I signed. I know there’s three.

He shrugged slightly. The third changes every time we have a new person in our dorm. No one knows until it happens.

My eyes landed on the hairline crack near the corner of the wall.

It hadn’t moved—but it was wider somehow, like the dorm itself was splitting at the seams right alongside me.

A trick of the shadows, maybe. Or maybe I was the one unravelling, piece by piece, and the wall was just honest enough to show it.

Zayden’s fingers brushed mine again. Then he signed: If you wanted me in your bed, you could’ve just asked. You didn’t need to lie still enough for four hours that I thought you’d gone and died.

I signed back, fingers moving with tired precision. If I were dead, you wouldn’t notice. I’d give you the same amount of winning conversation and attention. My hands trembled slightly, but I held his gaze, letting the sarcasm do the talking because anything softer might have broken me entirely.

He grinned, tired but not enough to fade his smugness. You’re an idiot if you think I wouldn’t notice, Heartache. I notice everything you do.

I tugged on my braid until it loosened. Like what?

He rolled over, his face barely inches from mine. I could taste the mint from his toothpaste on my tongue and wondered how nice it would be in my mouth. For a split second, anyway. Until I remembered how much blood had stained my hands the last time I’d let myself act on my feelings towards him.

He lifted his hand, unaware of my internal spiral. How you don’t blink when you’re stressed out. Or how you keep tugging at the cuff whenever you do something that would normally have your shadows present.

Anyone could have noticed those things. I replied. It was a lie. But it was hardly like I could tell the truth now.

Or ever.

He scoffed, eyes rolling. Would anyone have noticed that you keep talking to Death? I know you’ve been hearing him more. You keep zoning out, and you always do that when he speaks to you.

I didn’t blink for a minute. Maybe more. Then I lazily signed, Maybe you’re right. Maybe you do pay attention.

He grinned bright enough to burn. I have to. That’s what best friends do. We learn the small things that show how much the person we love is struggling. So we can help them.

I kept my hands still. My throat tightened. A reply tried to form, but the weight of everything—pain, exhaustion, the ache of being witnessed—pressed it back down again. I didn’t respond. Couldn’t .

Even if I wanted to say that I loved him. That out of all the emotions in the world, love was the only thing I didn’t mind feeling with him.

It felt less hideous when I felt it for Zayden.

It was almost... almost nice .

The hours dragged, stretched out and cruel enough to make me almost feel bad. I wound up people-watching when I wasn’t staring into space. It seemed like the only thing worth doing. The only thing that didn’t make me feel anything.

Draven looked bored. Otherwise unbothered. He was just doodling in a notebook, muttering silently to himself.

Kalamity sat hunched on his bunk, arms wrapped tight around himself. His head was low, almost pushed into a pillow, but I heard the sound that slipped from his lips—hoarse, ruined, barely there. Not a cry. Not a word. Just pain that had nowhere else to go from the sheer noise in the air.

Luna had buried her face in her arms and hadn’t moved in hours. Her shoulders were rigid, still locked in whatever tension had overtaken her at the start.

At the foot of his bed, Tyler rocked back and forth with shallow rhythm, fingers clawing through his hair like maybe pressure could anchor him.

It brought me joy to see him suffering. Even if it was from something that was meant to hurt me too.

When the sky was well and truly dark, I kept my eyes fixed on the far wall, searching for anything steady to focus my attention on. My chest rose in uneven rhythm, too fast, too shallow to be normal. I tried to inhale slower. Tried to hold it. Failed.

Time passed some more, and the room blurred at the edges, just a little. The blanket under my palms was too thin. My fingers pressed into the mattress, desperate for something real to ground me. My throat burned, dry and tight, breath stuck. I let it out slowly, then tried again.

Everything was wrong.

No one spoke.

No one moved unless jolted.

The screaming hadn’t stopped.

The screaming was never going to stop.

I couldn’t close my eyes. Every time my lids lowed, the sound drilled deeper, dragging me back to the surface.

I focussed on the ceiling instead—on the jagged seam where two panels met, on the faint discolouration in one corner.

On the scribbled image of a monster, with the same handwriting from the poetry book having scrawled, we’re all mad here.

Anything to keep my mind occupied worked. Even reading that over and over.

My fingers curled tighter against the blanket. The fabric creased and thin from overuse. Pressure built behind my eyes. My body screamed for release, but there wasn’t any to give.

Sleep was a myth now, a cruel joke.

Zayden’s presence was no longer comforting. It was just there.

The screams pulsed through the walls in endless repetition, a carousel of agony with no off switch.

They tore into us in layers: the shriek of metal, the guttural cries, the weeping.

Not random. Not chaotic. Patterned just enough to keep me expecting the next burst. I hated how it settled into something almost rhythmic.

Almost bearable. That trick was the worst part.

Zayden kept drawing shapes on my arm. When I turned my head, he was watching the ceiling, his lips moving faintly, silently. Repeating something over and over. Maybe a mantra. Maybe a prayer.

I hoped it was bringing him comfort. Even when his eyes shut, and I worried he would fall asleep.

At least I did, until my hand slid into my pocket, seeking a thorn from the flowers I’d carried all day. And found the note I’d completely forgotten about.

Careful not to disturb Zayden, I pulled it out. Hurrying to open and glance at the slanted words.

Pretty things don’t last long here. So I couldn’t let you wander too far from my sight. You’re safer by my side and I like how you look there.

I also like this necklace around your throat almost as much as you enjoy my hand around it.

My muscles had locked in place, like shifting even a fraction would invite everything crashing down. As much as my lips wanted to curl into a smile at the words, I could not. I barely had the energy to slide the note into my side table before returning to my corpse playing.

Before doing anything but wonder who the killer was. Where they were.

What they were up to and how I could possibly begin to hunt them down.

For hours after that, I stayed still, spine rigid against the mattress, eyes wide and unblinking.

There was heat behind them, but it didn’t spill over.

The weight inside my chest pressed harder with every second that passed, but I didn’t make a sound.

My jaw was clenched so tightly it ached.

Speech felt a thousand miles away—just the thought of opening my mouth made my throat tighten further.

I stayed silent. Frozen. Waiting. Enduring.

I just lay there and survived it.

Barely .