Pyrehold, Day Eleven
Lara watched his hands more now.
Not his sword. Not his stance. Not even his eyes.
His hands.
Toy noticed, of course. He noticed everything in this prison. The silence between them had started to shift, like ice thawing along the edges. Not warm yet — but moving.
That morning, when Fenra brought the usual tray, Lara did something she hadn't done in eleven days.
She reached for the cup of water.
Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet acknowledgment of hunger. Or thirst. Or trust.
Toy didn't comment. Didn't ruin the moment with words. But when she brought the cup to her lips, her eyes dropped again — not to the drink.
To his right hand.
The black mark coiled from his knuckles to his wrist — like ink spilled and frozen in place. It looked like a burn at first. But the edges pulsed faintly, like veins that had forgotten their colour.
When he noticed her watching, he didn't hide it.
Instead, he rolled up the sleeve farther.
"You've been staring at it," he said.
Lara set the cup down. "It's not magic."
"No," Toy replied. "Worse."
She tilted her head.
He held the hand up, turning it under the dim light.
"I got this when I was fifteen," he said. "Stumbled into a ruin I wasn't meant to find. A place lost before kingdoms had names."
"A Primordial?" she asked.
Toy nodded. "Three of them came to kill me. But the fourth... didn't."
Her brow furrowed.
"It marked me," Toy said. "Called me its 'pillar.' Said it liked how I refused to beg."
Lara's voice was quiet now. "The Dark One."
"Yeah."
He flexed his hand. The veins shimmered. The torch behind him dimmed slightly.
"They call it a curse," Toy continued. "But it's also a shield. That day, when the others came to unmake me, they looked into the mark and left me alive."
"That should have driven you mad."
"It almost did."
Lara stepped closer.
She didn't touch him. Just examined the mark, eyes narrowing slightly. "It's alive."
Toy nodded. "Sometimes it whispers. Usually when I bleed."
"And you carry it like it's just another scar."
"I've got plenty of those."
He unbuckled part of his sleeve, letting it fall to the floor.
Lara's gaze lingered.
His arms were a tapestry of damage — burn scars, blade lines, jagged old wounds stitched by time and pain.
"I don't heal like I used to," Toy said. "I just stop breaking."
Something like admiration flickered in Lara's expression. "You're not afraid of it."
"I'm afraid of what it makes me capable of."
She considered that.
Then: "Does it let you hurt me?"
Toy blinked.
"No," he said. "But it lets me resist you."
Her eyes locked with his — pale blue and ancient, full of storms.
"I don't want to hurt you," she said.
"I know," Toy replied. "But the world does. The collar. The chains. The memory of your name."
"Lara Frostborn," she said aloud, like testing it on her tongue again. "I forget what it feels like when someone says it without fear."
"I'm not afraid," he said.
"You should be."
Then she stepped forward again, slowly, and this time — this time — she raised her hand and touched his cursed palm.
The moment froze.
The mark flared. The torch behind them burst into frost.
But neither of them pulled away.
"I don't think your curse is here to destroy you," she whispered.
Toy said nothing.
Because maybe — just maybe — she was right.