Cold woke him.
Not air—metal.
The chill of it had weight, pressing into the bone of his wrists and ankles, ringing faintly each time he tried to move.
Silas opened his eyes to nothing. The dark was so complete it felt textured, a black cloth pressed against his face. Then a thin slit of gold light slid down the wall, splitting the dark like a knife. It revealed fragments instead of a room: the curve of carved stone, a glimmer of paint, shapes that might have been murals—or eyes.
He wasn't sure if he was underground or inside something alive.
When he shifted, the chains answered him with a slow scrape. The sound didn't echo. It was swallowed, as if the walls themselves were listening.
He looked down—and stopped breathing.
His own skin shone pale beneath a robe that wasn't his. Silk, almost white, patterned with threads of gold that caught the faint light. Too soft, too ornate, cut for someone else's body. His hair was braided tight against his skull; he could smell incense woven into it. Even the air on his skin felt perfumed.
The half-mask still covered his left eye. Somehow that small, hard weight steadied him.
Then came a sound: a click, a sigh, the grind of hidden hinges.
Light crawled across the floor as a doorway opened.
A man entered, robed in white and gold. His mask caught the light and threw it across the chamber in shifting patterns, so bright Silas had to squint. He moved like someone who already owned the space.
The words that followed were smooth and melodic, but foreign—each syllable rich and heavy. Silas couldn't understand them; only one name carried through the strangeness.
"…Seraphine."
The voice filled the room—soft, almost loving. The name struck something in him that wasn't memory but recognition, a sound he shouldn't have known but somehow did.
The man came closer. Silas tried to pull back, but the chains refused him. The man spoke again, the foreign words rolling on, affectionate and possessive. A gloved hand brushed his face, tracing the edge of the mask, lingering there before sliding lower to the hollow of his throat. The touch was careful, almost reverent, but it set his nerves on fire.
He froze. His breath hitched. He didn't know what the man was saying; the rhythm of it sounded like worship and threat at once.
The hand paused, then drifted down his arm, the heat of it seeping through the silk. The man's breathing deepened; his next words blurred together until only the name returned, whispered like a prayer.
"Seraphine."
Then he stopped. The glove withdrew; the air cooled.
The man exhaled sharply, as if catching himself, and murmured something that might have meant not yet. His voice trembled—not from fear, but restraint.
He turned and left. The door sealed, the light vanished, and the darkness returned heavier than before.
Silas stayed perfectly still, counting his heartbeats until they slowed. The scent of incense and leather clung to him. Every place that had been touched burned.
He whispered into the dark, hoarse, "What the heck"
The room gave no answer.
He waited until the last echo of footsteps died, then tried to draw in air without shaking. The silence seemed alive, pressing close.
He reached inward for the hum of his resonance—the pulse the instructors at the Academy had taught him to find.
Nothing.
The emptiness felt like being buried.
He tried again until his lungs burned. Still nothing.
The mask bit into his skin. He pressed his forehead to his bound hands. The metal warmed under his palm; faint green light crept through the engraved lines, tracing veins across the floor. The chains shivered once before the light snapped and the mask slid free, clattering to the ground.
He blinked—and the darkness unfolded.
Every edge sharpened. The murals glowed, dust drifted like embers. He could see farther than he should, every contour of stone and shimmer of heat. Beyond the archway, something metallic shifted, slow and deliberate, the sound like a heartbeat inside the wall.
The clarity stabbed at him until he squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the glow from his left eye cast faint emerald light across his hands. The pupil had narrowed to a slit; the iris burned bright green laced with gold.
Not human. Not hidden anymore.
He slid the mask back on. The world dulled; colors bled away to gray.
Relief came first—then fear.
Then the sickness hit, sudden and violent. He bent over and vomited onto the stone, the acid sting of it sharp in the perfumed air.
The pounding behind his eyes returned, leaving him curled on the floor, trembling.
When the nausea eased, he dragged himself upright and stared at the sealed door, the thin line of light still glowing along its edges.
The foreign words the man had spoken still rang in his head, meaningless except for one: Seraphine.
He whispered it once, tasting the shape of it.
The sound made the chains vibrate softly, as though the name itself was a command.
He went still, afraid to breathe.
…The chains vibrated softly, as though the name itself was a command.
He went still, afraid to breathe.
Then came a sound from above—a soft flutter, a scrape of tiny claws on stone.
A small bird slipped through a crack high in the wall and glided down to perch on the edge of one of the carved murals. Its feathers were a dull, reddish brown, black-tipped at the wings, the white of its chest bright even in the gloom.
They regarded each other in silence.
The bird tilted its head, studying him.
"You shouldn't be here," Silas said softly.
A quick, scolding trill answered him.
He huffed a breath, almost a laugh. "No, I don't need company."
Another chirp—short, defiant.
Silas let his head rest back against the wall. "Fine. Do what you want."
The little creature gave a satisfied flutter, hopping closer. Its gaze was unblinking, too sharp for something so small.
He closed his eyes, letting the presence settle beside him. The exchange hadn't needed explanation. The understanding was simple, wordless. He had always been able to speak to living things when he was quiet enough to listen.
The bird stayed a while, then darted up toward the crack of light again.
Something loosened in his chest as it disappeared.
For the first time since waking, the dark didn't feel endless.