Page 94 of Fallacies

She’s feeling sorry for me, concluding that the raised skin on my wrist is the result of some kind of restraint, and that I was the victim of whatever I’ve been through. While yes, both things are true, it also proves that in the last fifty years, humans haven’t changed. Well, at least this one hasn’t.

What if I had deserved the chains? And instead of running, Elspeth’s watching me like the words “who hurt you?” are seconds from spilling off her tongue. It’s all sweet and innocent until you soften around a true monster—the devil, perhaps.

“Thank you,” I exhale, ducking my head before she can see the disappointment on my face. Elspeth wouldn’t last a day where I come from. I make it a few steps from the desk when I turn back around. She lifts her head. “Sorry, how much do I owe you?”

Elspeth smiles, waving a small hand in my direction. “We rarely see new faces, Mr. S. Consider it a welcome gift.”

Scratch that. She wouldn’t last 60 seconds.

The door shuts behind me, severing the light from the hall and bathing my room in darkness.

My eyes adjust, the bones in my shoulder grinding as my bag slides off my arm and onto the bed. Being immortal means I recover from most injuries, but it seems fifty years in chains has left a semi-permanent mark. It’s never taken me this long to heal before, but I’ve never been without Sena or the full weight of my power this long. There’s no user manual for my kind.

I did my best to keep my strength up, but jump roping my chains or dragging them back and forth until my arms gave out was all I could do in confines that small. After a while, it became my only source of entertainment. Externally, I might have the muscle to show for it, but there is still a hollow ache in my stomach. An emptiness in the cavern of my chest that longs for that mighty swell of power. My power. I’m starting to forget what it felt like.

Pulling the strip of fabric from around my neck, I kick off my boots and tug my shirt over my head, exhaling in relief as cool air hits my skin. I’m still not used to the absence of chains. My center of gravity is still lopsided, and my weight is entirely off, but trekking down the coast to Roara helped.

The King coordinated my passage across the channel, but that is as far as his aid extended. I was given a bag with a few clothes, supplies, a small sack of gold, and an inked Vow in my skin—the end of that tether binding me to our bargain.

Some girl for my freedom. Simple really.

Until I realized she dropped off the face of the fucking planet.

The bathroom lights buzz when I flick them on, and I freeze when I finally get a good look at my reflection. All I’ve seen of my face in fifty years has been blurry images on the surface of water, and fucking hell, it looks like I’ve…well…spent fifty years in a cell without sunlight.

A shower is tempting, more tempting than what I imagine the whiskey would taste like here, but I can’t stand another minute with hair falling in my eyes or the incessant irritation of an overgrown beard.

So, I pay Elspeth another visit, her eyes widening to impossible proportions when I ask for something sharp, preferably a knife. She remains stunned for a few painful seconds but then kindly points me in the direction of some toiletries tucked into a corner of the lobby. I help myself to the comically small products and make my way back to my room, dumping my arm full into the empty sink.

Half an hour later, a pile of jet-black hair has fallen to the tiled bathroom floor. I rinse the razor under the faucet and drag it back down my jaw, revealing more pale skin that looks more grey than ivory. Once I’m finished, I splash water over my face, discarding the razor and glaring back at my appearance.

It’s better. Less frightening. I’ve gone from looking like a fifty-year-old hermit who has never seen the light of day to a somewhat well-groomed traveller in his late twenties who has maybe seen the sun but…hates it.

I shrug, turning away from the mirror.

My shower is nothing short of heavenly—coming from someone who was born in hell. But most of it is spent with my forehead pressed against the cool tile, lukewarm water running down my back, cleansing skin that hasn’t been touched since those chains were locked into place. The water burns hotter there, too sensitive and raw.

I need a drink. Or several. Maybe a slight buzz would clear my palate and make it easier to catch her scent in the wind. Being without Sena this long must be messing with my head. Or maybe it’s the high stakes now that my freedom is on the line.

Alaric didn’t give me a timeline, and he didn’t tell me what would happen if I were to fail, but I won’t. I never have. The Hound doesn’t fail his hunts—I was quite literally born for them. Forged to fulfill a need. To track down souls that need repenting and enforce the punishment necessary to redeem them. To be the right-hand man to the Devil—to Pyra. The lackey doing her dirty work, and fifty years ago, it was an honor to get my hands dirty. To worship the ground she walks on.

Five decades in a cell has made me question some things.

It’s not Pyra’s fault; she can’t interfere on a planet that does not belong to her. It’s not even entirely the King’s fault either.

I blame myself for my capture. I hadn’t seen the signs. I hadn’t put the pieces of her plan together until it was too late. I slipped, and she stabbed me in the back when I stumbled.

Now that I think about it, I suppose my perfect record of successes died that night. Though if the grey sky in the north is any indication, she never did find what she was looking for. Or…what we were after didn’t exist. She was always more optimistic than I was.

It’s tempting to linger on the what ifs, but I have a far more important task at hand.

Stepping out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist, my gaze drifting to the tattered blanket on the bed beside me.

Find a drink, then find the girl.

23

Lucina