The stones are wet again.
My cheek sticks to the floor, and I can't tell if it's from sweat or blood. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe the dungeon just does this now; maybe it leaks into me, seeps into the cracks of my skin until I'm more stone than flesh.
I try not to shiver. Doesn't help. The cold moves on its own down here. Slides over skin and bone like it knows it belongs, like it's been waiting for me longer than I've been alive.
He hasn't spoken in a while. That's worse. When he talks, I can almost pretend I'm a student. When he's silent, I remember I'm not.
"Get up."
His voice lands behind me. Not loud. Not sharp. Just tired of looking at me, tired of the way my body refuses to harden the way his did.
I push off the floor. My hands are numb, one wrist won't straighten all the way. It started bending wrong last winter. I didn't say anything. He would've blamed me for that too, would've said I held the blade wrong, that I let the cold in when I should've burned it out.
The whip drags behind him, tail of a dying thing. It leaves a thin trail in the damp, like a snake shedding its skin.
"You think you're soft because you're young?" he says, circling me. "You think the world waits?"
I pick up the blade. It slips in my hand. Not from sweat. There isn't enough of me left to sweat.
"Your grip's still weak."
He walks behind me again. I don't follow. I've learned not to. Just listen. Count steps. Breathe when he breathes out. Don't ask questions.
I swing the sword. It cuts through air like a limb with no weight behind it.
Crack.
White flashes behind my eyes. The sound comes first. Then the heat. Then the wet.
Crack.
I grit my teeth. Don't fall. Not this time.
"Again."
I lift the sword. My arms wobble. Everything about me is soft. He's right. I'm useless.
Crack.
I drop. I feel the blood this time. Hot on my spine, like paint someone meant to smear.
"Again."
I try to stand. The sword clangs on stone. My legs bend but don't straighten.
"You were a mistake."
He says it flat. Like it's not even worth being angry over. Like he's just stating a fact, the same way he'd say the sky is gray or the stones are wet.
I don't answer. There's nothing left to say.
The door creaks. I flinch before I know what it means.
But it's not him.
He doesn't slam it shut. He just… leaves.
The silence after is heavy. Heavier than the blade.
I stay down. I don't move until I hear the second set of footsteps. Quieter. Smoother. Like someone who doesn't want the place to notice them.
The door opens again. It's slower this time. Careful.
He walks in. Not tall. Not old. Not young. I never asked his name. He never gave it. But he always looks at me like he wants to take my pain and carry it somewhere quiet, somewhere the stones don't whisper.
He kneels. Doesn't speak. Just pulls the cloth from his coat and presses it to my back.
"I'll get you out of here," he says, soft. Almost not there.
He lifts me in his arms.
My legs dangle. My eyes stay low. I don't want to see anything.
We leave the dungeon. The door shuts behind us with a groan. Dust falls from the ceiling as it does.
He carries me up the narrow stone steps. The air gets warmer. Only slightly. The ground flattens beneath his boots.
We step into the basement. I smell oil, mildew, something dead in a corner that no one talks about. The torches are out down here. I don't think they've been lit in years.
We pass shelves, broken crates, rusted tools. My shoulder brushes a beam with carved notches in it. I counted them once. There are fifty-three.
Then up another stair, thinner, older. The walls close in. I close my eyes.
When we reach the main floor, the light stings. Not daylight. Just torchlight. But it's still too much. I blink, and the hallway yawns out before me.
His shoes scrape gently on the stone path beneath us. Each slab the size of a coffin lid. I know that because I counted those too.
We pass through the entryway. The tall one. With the big wooden doors no one opens.
To the left, I see the corridor split and fall into the servants' hall. It smells like soap and damp cloth.
To the right, our wing. Our rooms. His shadow.
Ahead, the glass corridor. The greenhouse. I can barely see it from here. Just the outline. But I remember—roses behind fogged glass, vines curling in places they don't belong.
He turns right.
The walls here are cleaner. The candles brighter. But it's colder in a different way.
There are mirrors spaced between the doorways. I catch a glimpse of myself.
Red welts. Raw skin. Hair plastered to my forehead. Eyes not crying, but not dry.
He doesn't stop until we reach my room. He opens the door, steps in, sets me down.
I try not to grunt when I hit the mattress. It smells like lavender. They stuff the pillows with it, hoping it'll make the place seem gentle.
He says nothing else. Just moves toward the cabinet where the clean cloths are kept.
"Why?" I ask, voice hollow.
He stops. Doesn't turn.
"Why does he hate me?"
Silence.
"Is it because I'm wrong?"
Still nothing.
I laugh, but it dies in my throat.
He brings me a cloth and a basin. I flinch as he presses it to my back. He doesn't speak the whole time. Just dabs. Cleans. Binds.
Then he leaves.
The room dims.
I stand. Slowly. Walk to the balcony.
It creaks when I lean against it. The stone's cold. The same as the dungeon floor, just less honest.
The sky is pale. Not night. Not day. Something in between.
Clouds drift like they don't want to be there.
I stare.
"I wish I could fly," I whisper.
No one answers.
"Fly on the wind."
The trees shift below.
"Fly to the sun."
The clouds don't move.
"Fly to the moon."
And I stay there, until I forget what flying is supposed to feel like.