Page 7 of The Scars of War (Of Ruin and Fire #1)

He Wasn’t the Only One

I walk out like I won’t shatter—chin high, spine straight, hands loose at my sides, like I didn’t just stare down a man who claims he wants to own me and somehow made it sound like a goddamn compliment.

The cold hits me like a slap; it’s damp and thick. I shove through the front doors, lungs aching with the need to be out, to breathe something that isn’t him. Gravel scatters under my shoes as I cross the drive. My car waits where I left it, headlights catching the edge of stone like eyes.

I kill the engine only a few blocks later, nerves too raw to sit still behind glass and steel. The steering wheel burns under my grip, and I can’t shake the thought of being trapped in another cage. I slam the door, gravel crunching under my boots, and keep going on foot .

The garden looms on either side of the path, heavy with silence, vines curling like nooses around old stone. The air smells like moss and endings.

I don’t run, refusing to give him that. I walk the winding path, past the statues with screaming mouths.

Past the wrought iron gate that clicks shut behind me like a verdict.

Like the end of something I didn’t agree to begin.

My legs carry me forward, block after block, until the mansion and its shadows are swallowed behind me.

I keep walking through neighborhoods that blur into each other, not caring where I end up, just moving.

Like if I stop, whatever’s crawling under my skin will catch up.

I wind up downtown, near the clubs, where the lights are loud and drunk laughter pours out of bars in waves. It's so normal here it makes my teeth itch. Only then do I realize I’m shaking. My hands, my breath, my core…they won’t settle. That blade in the glass case wasn’t just familiar.

It was mine. I drew it. Weeks ago. Months maybe.

Before the stranger in the bar. Before the envelope. Before any of this spiraled into obsession and darkness, I drew it, and tonight I saw it in real life, under glass, on display in his collection.

I stop walking and lean hard against a building, chest heaving. Did I see it before, somewhere deep on the internet? Copy it by accident? Am I losing my mind, or is he in my head? Is that what this is?

I pull out my phone. No new texts. No missed calls.

No shitty memes from coworkers. Not a single sign that reality still exists.

I call a rideshare, and when the driver pulls up, I slide into the backseat and say nothing.

I stare out the window and try to glue my sanity back together; every red light blurs, and I swear every person on the street looks like they’re watching me.

I tip too much and slam the door behind me harder than necessary.

The second I’m in my apartment, I lock the door, deadbolt it, and slide the chain in place for extra measure.

Not that any of that will do a damn thing if he wants back in here.

I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t want to see myself.

Don’t want the shadows to move wrong. I go straight to the bedroom and yank the sketchbook from under my pillow; graphite dust is already smeared on my hands.

The paper feels heavier than it should. Or maybe that’s me.

Dropping onto the couch, I drag my legs up and flip it open.

The blade is still here, but it’s different.

Sharper. The linework is deeper. There’s a nick in the hilt just like I saw in the glass case.

That wasn’t there before. I never added that, did I?

I keep flipping through the pages, and the sketches greet me like ghosts.

Hands reaching through the fire. A woman with a jagged crown, mouth stretched in a silent scream.

A man standing in a field of ash, coat billowing behind him in the smoke.

Their eyes all stare at me, hollow, accusing, familiar.

Like they’re waiting for something. Like I’m the thing they’re waiting for.

There are faces I don’t consciously recognize but know deep in my bones.

Expressions twisted. Mouths too wide. Ribs exposed like cages.

One figure with ink bleeding from his sockets, hands clutching his own heart like he’s trying to rip it out.

The pages pulse with tension, as if they’ve soaked in something more than charcoal…something alive.

I stop cold.

A hallway. Black floors. Plaster walls. Illuminated glass cases filled with relics of war.

The exact one I walked through tonight. Drawn in detail days, maybe weeks, before I ever set foot in Riven’s mansion.

I don’t remember sketching any of this. I didn’t tear the pages out.

I didn’t scribble over the faces. I think some part of me knew. Even then.

My hands go numb. I stare at the page until the lines blur, until the blood roars in my ears.

Then I tear it out and throw it across the room.

It lands as if it were simply just a regular piece of paper.

I want to destroy it. The whole book. Burn it.

Rip it page by page. My hands won’t move.

I press my forehead to my knees, trying to breathe.

How long has he been watching me?

How long have I been seeing him without knowing?

How deep does this go?

I sit there in the dark with the sketchbook in my lap, and the fear crawling up my spine like a second skin.

He’s in my head. Or I’m in his. I don’t know which one is worse.

I lose track of time sitting on the floor. I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I just…sit. My fingers stay curled around the sketchbook like it’s a weapon. Or a leash. The paper cu ts and graphite smears across my palms like bruises that haven’t bloomed yet. Eventually, I get up. Moving on muscle memory.

Kitchen. Tap. Water.

I drink like I’ve been crawling through the desert, but it doesn’t help. My mouth still tastes like ash and iron. The apartment hums around me. Fridge motor grinding. Plumbing pipes shifting. Distant traffic. All of it sounds wrong. Slanted. Out of step.

I don’t trust sleep, I haven’t for a while.

Exhaustion drags at me like chains. I crawl into bed without bothering to change.

The sketchbook comes with me. I tuck it under my pillow, again, like a fool.

Like paper and ink will save me. I leave the lamp on, telling myself it helps.

The shadows on the ceiling still move. And eventually… I sleep.

It starts like the others. Darkness. Then heat.

A hallway I know but shouldn’t. Glass cases lit like altars.

Weapons humming. Fire flickering. The sound of war rises like a heartbeat.

Then…hands. On my hips. My throat. My waist. Possessive.

Familiar. A voice I’ve never heard but somehow recognize curls against my ear like sm oke, “There you are.” I try to turn, but I’m pinned.

A mouth brushes the curve of my neck. Teeth graze my skin…

testing…tasting. My pulse goes wild, and the air around me vibrates.

My body arches into the touch like it remembers this.

Like it’s been waiting for it. The voice again.

“I’m not the one you should fear…but I will be. ” The fire grows brighter, closer.

I see the blade again, held in a hand that doesn’t shake, pointed straight at me. I know, somehow, I’m the one who drew it. I wake up gasping. My sheets are soaked with sweat, and the lamp is still on. My sketchbook is on the floor, open to a page that wasn’t there before. A new drawing.

The blade again, but this time, it’s being held by a figure in shadow. No face. No eyes. Just a silhouette outlined in gold and fire, with a name scrawled underneath in frantic jagged strokes:

VESCARI

I didn’t write that. I know I didn’t.

The pen I use for notes is uncapped on the nightstand. Fresh ink bleeding into the wood. My heart jackhammers. I scramble for the book and slam it shut, like that’ll trap whatever’s trying to get out.

This isn’t normal.

This isn’t just dreams, or paranoia, or stress. This is an invasion. My hands won’t stop shaking. I think of burning it—again—but I don’t.

Some part of me, the same part that doesn’t run when a monster says he wants ownership, wants to see what happens next. That scares me more than anything else.

The sun’s already up when I drag myself out of bed.

It feels wrong, too bright, like the light knows what I’ve seen and is trying too hard to look innocent.

My skin itches with sweat, sleep, and something else I don’t have words for.

Something that clings like soot. The sketchbook stays closed, I shove it under the bed, and head for the shower.

I stay under the water too long, letting it scald my skin until the heat blurs into something numb.

I scrub hard, as if I can scrape away the memory clinging there, peel myself down to something untouched.

It doesn’t work. The image stays — that blade, those eyes — etched deeper with every pass of my hands.

Betrayal stares back at me from inside my own head, carved by my goddamn hand as though it had always been waiting in my bones.

By the time I’m at the bar, I’m running on caffeine and spite.

It’s too early for my shift, but I don’t care.

I need noise. Movement. Something to drown out the silence that’s been nesting in my brain.

I unlock the front door and flip on the lights.

It smells like lemon cleaner and old beer. The usual.

The stillness doesn’t last. By late afternoon, the place is half full as regulars drift in and new faces check the chalkboard specials. I busy myself behind the bar, pouring drafts, stacking glasses, moving like muscle memory’s the only thing keeping me upright.

“Rough night?” Benny, the barback, asks.

I grunt. “Don’t start.”

He smirks and throws me a rag anyway. I almost start to believe I’m okay. Almost. Until I see him.

Not Riven, the man in the mansion who wants to own me and stalks my nightmares.

This guy’s younger. Thinner. Hair like dried straw, eyes a bland brown.

Late thirties, maybe. He slides onto a stool at the far end of the bar like he’s trying not to be noticed, which immediately puts me on edge.

“Can I get a Coke?” he asks, voice too even—no eye contact.

I nod, grab a glass, and when I turn back, he’s watching me.

I set the drink in front of him. “You good?” I ask. He doesn’t answer right away.

“You smell different than I expected.” The words are soft. Casual. They drop like lead. My stomach clenches.

“What did you just say?”

He blinks, slow, then shrugs. “Just wanted to see you in person.” The next second is a blur. My hand slams down on the bar.

“Out.”

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says quickly, hands up. “I just needed to see…”

“I said get the fuck out.”

People are looking now. Benny’s moving in behind me. The guy stands, awkward and twitchy. “Sorry. Really. I didn’t mean to…”

“Go. Now!”

He backs out the door, eyes still on me.

I just stand there, vibrating with fury and something colder.

He didn’t look or act dangerous. The things he said, and the way he said them?

It felt like a thread tugging something loose in my chest. Like another line just got crossed.

He was the second person to say this to me.

Benny waits until the guy’s gone before asking, “What was that?”

I shake my head. “No clue. I’m not in the mood.” He nods, smart enough not to push. I go back to pouring drinks and wiping counters. Pretending I’m not unraveling from the inside. The truth is, I’m starting to feel like the world is watching me—or worse—waiting for me.

I need to pretend it didn’t happen. Focus on the here, the now.

Benny’s working the back. Two girls are flirting with each other in the corner booth.

Old man Crispin’s posted up near the jukebox, drinking the same IPA he’s ordered every night since the Bush administration.

It’s almost enough to trick myself into normal.

Almost.

“Hey, Red.” The familiar voice comes from directly across the bar.

I look up and spot Jesse, one of the weekday regulars; late twenties, shaved head, always tips in exact change.

Friendly in a quiet kind of way. He has called me Red since the first time he stepped into this bar.

It’s as if having red hair is my entire personality…

and honestly, I don’t mind. “You okay?” he asks, squinting.

“You were… kinda out of it the other night.” Making my stomach drop.

“What do you mean?”

“Couple nights ago,” he says. “You were working, but you didn’t seem like you were here.

Didn’t look at anyone. Poured a vodka soda into someone’s beer.

Said you were fine, but…” he trails off with a shrug, like he’s not sure if he’s remembering right, or if he’s about to get yelled at.

I freeze. “I wasn’t here,” I say carefully.

His brows knit, a faint crease cutting between them as his gaze searches mine. “You were,” he says, the words slow, like he’s trying to fit them into place. “I swear…you served me.”

No. I couldn’t have been. I wasn’t. I know I wasn’t here. That was the night after the dream. The night after the first drawing of the blade… “I wasn’t here,” I say again, firmer this time.

He looks uncomfortable now. “Sorry. Maybe I’m wrong.” He isn’t.

My pulse kicks. I excuse myself and duck into the walk-in cooler out the back, where it’s freezing and quiet enough to think…or try to. I don’t black out. I don’t sleepwalk. I drink, sure, but not that night. So how in the hell could I have been here?

I run my hands through my hair and pace between stacks of kegs, trying to understand what is happening to me. Am I unraveling? Is someone messing with my memory? With me?

After a minute, I push back through the door, plaster on a smile, and start checking the register. I reach for the bar mat and lift it to clean underneath…and freeze.

A folded note sits tucked under the mat. Crisp white paper folded perfectly. I look around, but no one’s watching. My fingers shake slightly as I open it.

No signature. No mark.

With just a single sentence, suddenly it’s not just paranoia anymore. It’s proof. Someone’s been here and they know, and they want me to know it. I fold the note again, tighter this time, and shove it deep into my back pocket like I can crush the words that way. They still echo in my skull.

“He wasn’t the only one watching.”