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Pain.

I’m more accustomed to it than the average person. But did you ever really grow accustomed to it? Or did it mold you into something new, something unrecognizable from what you were before? Like hardened, thick, calloused palms that scratch when they touch.

Would I have been someone different without it?

Someone better?

Someone more like Syra?

By the middle of the night, the pain has become unavoidable—not in my body, not in my mind. It sears through every fleeting thought, not allowing me to lose myself in sleep for a moment. I shift back and forth listlessly, some pathetic attempt to shake it off, but it’s within me, a part of me.

I grow angry with Sitri. All of this talk about what a scary murderer he was and he couldn’t even bring himself to put me out of this misery? He ran like a coward.

When the dawn's early morning light seeps through the curtains, and Vera prattles endlessly beside me, trying to distract me, I look over at her, her own eyes heavily bagged with exhaustion. “The healer said there’s a plant called…deadly nightshade.”

She jumps out of the bed in panic. “No,” she says furiously, shaking her head. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t.”

I turn my head to the wall. After that she spends more time avoiding me in the other room. My vomiting eventually begins to dwindle, and that afternoon, we find out why. A large purplish bruise mars my abdomen, the blood pooling under my skin.

Weakness finally takes precedence over pain, and I slip in and out of consciousness. Every time my eyes slip open, I think— soon .

Something grips my jaw, and I force my eyes to open into thin slits. Sitri? Either he’s back, or I’m dreaming. I stretch a hand out, as if I could gauge its legitimacy if I touch him, but my hand falls limp to the bed as he steps back, pulling the blankets down and my dress up. He places a hand over my bruised abdomen.

I don’t understand—can’t make sense of it until white hot pain is piercing me open, forcing my wounds to close. I writhe.

He has nothing.

He’s still trying to heal me in this same way the healer said wouldn’t work—prolonging my suffering.

I bat at his hand. “No!” I cry. My voice is a mere wisp. He ignores me, brows pressed in concentration. Once he finishes, he stalks out of the room. I start to sob, an almost silent and tear-less cry. He comes back carrying two vials.

“You said you were a…killer,” I sob. His face is indecipherable. “Do it.”

“No.”

“I’ve seen you do it. It would be so easy for you.”

“It’s never easy,” he growls. He holds a vial to my mouth. “Drink,” he demands.

I desperately jerk my head away.

“Sitri.” Vera appears, face full of pity as she clasps a timid hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps…“

She knows. She understands.

There’s no point in all this.

“Leave,” Sitri snaps, brutal face unwavering from mine. Vera drops her hand and opens and closes her mouth. “I’m starting to feel it,” she says softly. “I have been for at least six hours now. It’s not safe for you.”

Maybe bringing up the killing plant wasn’t the reason she was avoiding me after all.

“Leave,” he snarls. She shrinks away, leaving me to fend for myself. I turn my head to the wall. I refuse. I’m done. Done. I don’t want to be a monster, and I don’t want to do this anymore.

When I don’t make to move, his jaw sets determinedly, and he pulls me to face him. “Don’t,” I cry, furiously shaking my head. My face locks with the force of his magic, and my mouth is pried open. He empties the vial into my open mouth. I try to spit it back out immediately, and he clamps my jaw shut. I hold it there, refusing to swallow.

“Swallow,” he demands. I plead with him silently. My stomach is back to its churning and burning. I’m done, I’m done, I’m so fucking done. He clamps a hand over my mouth and pinches my nose shut, intending to force me to swallow if I wish to breathe.

Maybe I can die this way. I grow damn near giddy with the realization. I’ll make him kill me. I’ll make him kill me before I’ll swallow. I’ve found the limits to his magic. He can’t force me to swallow though I can feel him trying as my tongue lifts against my will, our eyes locked in a battle of wills. His face is all fierce determination. Underneath that, I can see the panic in his flitting eyes. “Gods fucking dammit. Swallow!” he all but shouts, pressing my face back into the bed.

The potion tastes like honeysuckle and hope. Syra and I used to forage for honeysuckle on our childhood treks before we were Shrouded and sealed away. Finding it was like finding gold. We’d pick the tubular flowers and inhale them until the scent dissipated with the wilting petals.

My heart, which slowed to a sludgy thud, thunders back to life. It’s not the first time I’ve wanted to die. I’ve even tried before when the dāemon was wracking me into near madness. They were half-hearted attempts. Each time, some innate survival instinct, a minuscule seed of hope that things could be different, bloomed, extinguishing the desire. I can feel my face reddening as the pressure in my chest tightens.

His face presses in close, eyes burning a willfull intensity. “LookatmeIneedyoutotrustme—I’m going to save you. Let me fucking save you.” The words come out in one panicked stream and crack through my resolve.

I falter as my vision starts to tunnel.

Hope . That one bastard seed sprouting through the rot and decay. I’m not sure if it’s bravery or fear, or maybe it’s not even a choice. Maybe that innate instinct is in our very makeup. In all of us. I crumble against it and choke the liquid down, whimpering as the liquid meets the already re-corroding wounds of my stomach and throbs .

His hands immediately slide back to cradle my face as I gasp. My stomach convulses, and I gag. “No. Hold it.” He gives my head a jerk as though he could will me not to vomit through pure force.

I squeeze my eyes shut and fling them back open with a sob. No tears flood my cheeks. I don’t have a drop left to spare. His thumbs brush soothing motions against my temples.

It’s no use. My stomach convulses, and I choke on a heave. He hauls me up with a curse as the potion dribbles down my chin. He peels me out of the bed, saying something. I can no longer make out the words. Underwater again. For a split second, I reemerge, the world sharpening. There’s a golden tinge around his pupils, bleeding into the pools of green like sunlight peeking through the leaves.

“Don’t die,” his lips say before I slip back into the black.