Pyrehold, Day Four
The days blurred together quickly.
There was no sun in the Pyrehold. No sky. No wind. The torches stayed lit, flickering low and lazy in the corners, but they gave no sense of time. Toy only knew it was "morning" when the food came.
Fenra delivered it each day without comment. Sometimes a nod. Sometimes a muttered warning. But she never stepped into the cell. She never looked at the Witch.
Toy had begun to understand why.
Lara Frostborn didn't do anything. She didn't rage or scream. She didn't cast spells or threaten him. She just sat in the center of the room, wrists chained lightly, meteoritum collar gleaming faintly, and watched.
Watched him.
She watched the way he walked. The way he shifted his weight. The way he exhaled when he thought she wasn't paying attention.
It wasn't paranoia. It was presence.
Toy had been around killers before. Real ones. The kind who didn't boast. They observed. Measured. Waited.
She was one of those.
Except colder. Much, much colder.
By the fourth day, he started talking.
Not often. Just enough to remind himself he had a voice.
Sometimes he'd comment on the food. Or ask rhetorical questions. Never anything deep. Never anything that mattered.
The Witch didn't respond. At least, not with words.
Once, when he complained the stew tasted like boiled stone, she tilted her head. Just a little. Like she was acknowledging the attempt.
Another time, when he cursed aloud after hitting his elbow on the wall, her lips parted slightly—as if amused.
Toy didn't press. He took what he got.
He cleaned the tray. He checked the temperature of the floor. He scratched notes into a small leather-bound logbook Fenra had given him. He made a record of her posture. Her eye movements. Any sign of emotion.
There wasn't much.
But there was something.
She started closing her eyes when he sat down. Not out of dismissal—but something closer to trust.
And one evening, after Toy sat down with a grunt and leaned back against the wall, she said something without looking at him:
"You're bleeding again."
He looked down.
A thin red line had split across the scarred back of his hand—the one marked by the curse. A reminder from the dark primordial. A gift and a burden all at once.
He wiped it with his sleeve. "Happens sometimes."
Lara opened her eyes.
The way she stared at the wound—she wasn't horrified. She wasn't disgusted.
She was... curious.
"You were marked," she said. "Not by magic. By something older."
"Yeah," Toy muttered. "I don't recommend it."
Silence stretched again.
"You survived something that doesn't let mortals survive," she added.
Her tone wasn't admiration. But it wasn't mockery either.
Toy met her eyes. "So did you."
For the first time, her expression changed.
Not a smile. Not anger.
But grief.
It passed quickly. Like a shadow slipping between clouds. But he saw it.
And she knew he saw it.
That night, he sat a little closer. Not touching. Just… nearer.
She didn't flinch.
The next day, when he set the tray down, she actually looked at it.
She didn't eat. But she noticed it.
And for Toy, that was enough.