Private Tales Where Even the Stones Scream

Keres’ whole body sagged like a marionette with its strings cut, the aftershock of being torn from that nightmare leaving her hollowed out and shaking. Her skull still burned, a low white fire gnawing at the back of her eyes, and her chest rattled with every desperate gulp of air she could force into her lungs.

His shadows coiled around her again, muffling the echoes, and for the first time she didn’t fight them. They were cold, yes, a sickly violation, but compared to the voices, compared to the tearing claws in her mind, they were a fucking blessing. Relief broke from her throat in a broken sob that slipped free before she could choke it back.

Her body pitched forward, catching herself on her hands before she collapsed completely, but bile and blood surged up her throat all the same. It splattered dark across the marble floor as she coughed and heaved, her trembling limbs barely holding her weight.

When she finally lifted her head, her lips were still smeared red, her skin ghost-pale against the dark, damp tangles of her hair. Her black eyes glistened as they fixed on him, on the sight of his tongue dragging across his fingers, tasting her blood.

The scowl cut deep across her features, and though she bit her tongue, the words etched themselves clear in the fury of her expression.. fuck you.

But she did not speak them. Not here. Not now. Not when she could still feel the grip of that circle, that blood, dragging at the edges of her mind, waiting to claw her back under.

Her throat worked as she swallowed down copper and bile, and when she finally rasped words, they came hoarse and low.

“…You got what you wanted.” she drew in a ragged breath.. “Now what?”

Keres startled violently when the icy fire licked up her tattered clothes, her hands flying instinctively to slap at the pale flame. The unnatural cold burned straight through her palms and left nothing but the smell of scorched cloth behind.

She scrambled backward until the closest stone bit into her spine, curling herself into its rough curve, arms folded tight over her knees to shield what little she could from his eyes. The chill of the chamber raised a tremor over her bare skin.

Her gaze snapped up at him, dark eyes glinting with a furious glimmer that her trembling voice couldn’t quite match.

“What the fuck am I supposed to wear n—”

She cut off when she saw the shadows pooling like ink at her feet, rising in coils that brushed her calves and knees, reaching higher. Her arms dropped automatically as she pressed harder against the stone, her breath catching.

“What are you—”

The words broke into a gasp when a band of cool shadow circled her throat, not choking but holding. Others slid across her ribs and belly, tracing the ridges of her hips.

Her head fell back against the stone with a dull sound. A shudder went through her, not the sharp flinch of panic this time but something else, her taut muscles softening under the spectral touch. For the first time in gods only knew how long, the relentless ache of her body eased. The shadows kneaded at her, massaging life back into limbs that had lain on cold, damp stone for too long.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as the tension bled from her. Her dark eyes fluttered closed, lashes trembling against her cheeks. The magic was twisted, she knew that, but it held back the voices. It muffled the scratching claws on the inside of her skull. It soothed and caressed and.. Fuck.

A sound escaped her throat, half sigh, half sob as she let herself sink into the cold, alien embrace of it. Disgust and relief tangled together, and she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Keres had almost leaned into them, those shadows, when they vanished with a snap of his will. She sat there for a heartbeat, chilled and suddenly aware of her own flushed skin, the starkness of her breath. Her stomach clenched as shame surged hot in her cheeks. They were his, she reminded herself. His hands, his touch, his gift to give or rip away.

She kept her head down, staring hard at the stone floor until the scrape of a door made her eyes dart upward to the man, or what was once a man, who stood there awaiting instruction. Her gaze snagged on the grotesque collar biting into his throat. The sight hollowed her chest. She couldn’t look away. A thrall. A slave stripped of self. Was that to be what became of her, too?

Her jaw clenched, the bone creaking, when Shrike dismissed her with a lazy cruelty that made her bare skin prickle. He didn’t even need to say more, the degradation of being paraded out unclothed was enough.

But she would not let him have the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. She rose, defiant in her nudity, standing tall even though her ribs jutted sharply beneath the pallor of her flesh and the coppery stain of her blood still glistened from her lips to her chest. The bitterness of iron pooled on her tongue, but she swallowed it down and walked forward with a trembling body and a lifted chin, her stare fixed on the corridor ahead, not on him.

A bath. Clothes. Dinner. She hated the way the words coiled in her mind like promises. She hated more how much she wanted them. Could she afford to spit in his face now, when her skin still burned from the phantom kneading of shadow and her stomach gnawed at itself hollow? No. Not yet.

The thrall led her wordlessly. The water in the bathing chamber was warmer than she expected. Almost scalding, but she sank into it anyway. She scoured herself raw, fingernails raking across her skin as though she could scrape away the blood, the grime, the humiliation, the memory of cold shadows kneading at her bones. She stayed until her skin reddened and her knuckles burned, until the water lapped red and cloudy.

When Shrike had said she'd be clothed, she soon realised that had been a very loose term.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she growled under her breath as she held the garment against her.

It was a sleeveless slip of black, soft and gauzy, spider silk by the look of it. Almost beautiful. Almost. Except it was so sheer she might as well have remained naked. A single silver brooch in the shape of a spider held it all together, an afterthought of modesty.

Her fist clenched the fabric. She wanted to shred it into ribbons, to leave it on the floor in defiance. But her stomach turned, hollow and insistent, and she muttered to herself, voice bitter as ash.

“Food… food… food…”

She stepped into it, tugging the gossamer thing over her raw skin, jaw grinding as it clung to her frame. Her dark hair, still damp, she pulled over her shoulders in some small attempt at coverage.

At least she was clean.

The corridors blurred together as she wandered later, half aimless, half straining to map the keep in her mind. But it was a labyrinth of the same dark stone, stair upon stair, door upon door. It was hopeless. Still, she tried.

When she was finally found and brought to him again, her scowl was set deep. The thrall escorted her inside the chamber and left her with the scrape of the closing door. Alone, with him.

She didn’t move at first, only stood there in silence, her eyes raking across the study, the desk, the tapestry, the glinting wine and plates stacked with food. Her stomach betrayed her before her pride could catch it. The growl was so loud she startled at it, her lips pressing into a hard line as she covered the noise with a sharp little clear of her throat, as though that might erase the shame of it.

Her eyes cut to him, still bent over his desk, the scratching of quill on parchment unbothered. And so she huffed quietly, keeping her words locked tight behind her teeth lest she risk being left to starve..

"Evening." she muttered dryly.

Her eyes rolled at his barb about brevity, though she wisely kept her tongue still. No shit, at least he's observant.. The steady scraping of quill against parchment felt like needles on her nerves, but at least when his order came, it was the one she’d been waiting for.

She didn’t hesitate. The moment he bade her to eat, she slid into the chair and reached for the food, hands moving with a desperate efficiency. There was no attempt at grace, no pause to savour, only the instinctive fear that he might change his mind and snatch it all away before she could fill her stomach.

Sweet fruit burst across her tongue, cheese so soft it practically melted, meat so rich and tender she almost forgot to chew. She’d never tasted anything like it. Her eyes stung, treacherous with the threat of tears, but she blinked them away and stuffed another mouthful between her lips.

When he demanded his little confession, she slowed only long enough to mutter the words, muffled around food..

“Nicest garment I’ve worn… best meal I’ve supped…” Her dark gaze flicked toward him, flat with sarcasm, before dropping back to the plate.

“Thank you, oh great and glorious host,” she droned, biting down on a hunk of roast meat as though it were his throat.

The sharp snap of the quill made her flinch before she could stop herself, shoulders jerking at the sound. She stared at her plate, swallowing hard and mentally scolding herself. Just make it to the end of the meal. Full stomach. Soft bed. Then she could crawl into oblivion for a few blessed hours.

Then he mentioned Roul.

The hand that had been holding a grape halfway to her lips stalled, fingers tightening on it until the skin burst and purple juice leaked over her knuckles. She blinked once, slow, before forcing her expression back into something neutral.

“Not really,” she said, the words flat but careful, “We were on the same ship, that’s about it. Wouldn’t call him a companion.”

Her eyes flicked to him and then away, shoving the ache down, pushing food into her mouth with a little more deliberate decorum now, if only to keep herself from stopping altogether.

When she spoke again her tone had changed, the brittle humour creeping back in like a shield.

“So, what is this exactly? I repulse you, and yet you give me a bed, food, and…” her gaze dropped to the spider-silk clinging to her skin, “…clothes.” she said with a dry little huff.

“If you can call it clothing,” she muttered.

“Am I a prisoner? A slave…?” she tilted her head, “…or your new best friend?” she whispered, lifting a hand and letting it fall against her chest in a little mock flourish as though hoping for the latter.

"If you want to talk boys, i'm here for you."

Her eyes rolled at his answer before she could stop them, a sharp flick of black at his pompous declaration. Gods, he had to lighten up. Every word out of his mouth sounded like it was carved into stone.

She watched him crumple the parchment and toss it aside, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line at the answer he gave her. Slave. Master. Like it was that simple. Like she hadn’t just happened to wash up here and been plucked off the beach like a shell to add to his collection.

She opened her mouth, the beginning of a sharp retort rising up..You’re not my anything.. But then he spoke of rewards and punishments and she bit it back, jaw tightening until it ached.

Her gaze dropped to the table, to her fingers stained purple from the grape she’d crushed, and when she spoke her voice was quieter, rougher, stripped of the usual barb.

“…Please don’t make me go back to the chamber,” she said at last. The words tasted like ash. She hated the plea, hated the smallness of it, hated that her fear was true.

She could still taste her own blood on her tongue no matter how sweet the fruit, could still feel the chant clawing at the edges of her skull. It would take more than cheese and wine to scrub that clean. And she doubted anything would scrub away the memory of what it felt like to have a soul that strong trying to scrape its way inside her mind, trying to take hold of her entire body.

Her fingers curled in her lap, nails biting crescents into her palms as she forced herself to look at him again, dark eyes steady but dull with exhaustion.

“I did what you asked,” she added, voice low. “You got the answer you sought.."

Her stomach churned, a sick heaviness settling there that had nothing to do with how quickly she'd devoured her food. Just a taste.. The words clanged around in her head like iron striking iron. If that had been a taste, what was the meal? Would she even live through it?

Her eyes tracked him as he rose, every inch of him radiating control. Her jaw set hard, a muscle twitching in her cheek when his palm cupped her face. She glared up at him, dark eyes glistening, but she forced it to read as rage rather than fear, a silent determination not to let herself cry.

She bit her tongue until she tasted copper as he spoke of her like a thing, a possession. The word belong hit her like a slap, but she stayed still, breathing through the spike of fury.

Then, he spoke of making her stronger, and at once, fear and ambition warred against one another in her mind, hot and cold all at once. Curiosity was her cavalry. If she was to be dragged through hell, she wanted to know what weapons she’d come out with. Her head tilted slightly against his hand, a predator’s motion caged in her.

“…How?” she asked at last, both intrigued and terrified of what his answer might be.

Her stare only sharpened, blazing like flint struck against steel as his claws dug into her jaw. Gods, she hated him. Hated the smug certainty in his grip, the way he claimed to see through her like she was nothing but glass.

“My stomach is just fine,” she shot back dryly, the words rough with restrained venom. When at last he let her go, she rubbed her chin where his claws had left it aching, eyes narrowing on the glint of the serpent ring before it disappeared into his pocket. Another secret. Another tool. Her curiosity pricked like a thorn, no matter how she tried to shove it down.

“Convicts?…” she echoed, one dark brow arched in suspicion. “And what grand crimes have they committed, hm? Washed up on the wrong island?” she muttered.

Her lips pressed thin. If this was to be her so-called “strength,” she wanted to know exactly whose blood would be on her hands.

Keres let out a quiet huff as he asked about her conscience, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug that tried to look indifferent and landed somewhere between insolent and exhausted. Her brows lifted as he threatened her with a pyre however..

“Burn me?” she said, amusement razor thin. “Save your tinder, Shrike. I’m far more valuable breathing than crispy or you'd have killed me already.” her arms folded.

Her face burned, each blow landing sharp and hot enough to leave her reeling, her skull snapping first one way and then the other. The taste of copper bloomed fresh on her tongue. Instinctively she tried to shrink from the next strike, arms curling in, only for his hand to knot in her hair and wrench her upright, her scalp screaming as he dragged her across the chamber.

She’d steeled herself for hooks and knives, for cold iron and whispered curses. But the word that left his mouth was the last thing she expected. A fucking minotaur?!

Her head jerked up at the sound, eyes glassy, breath catching as her gaze snagged on the shadow hulking in the far corner. She could make out horns, shoulders like carved stone, a faint shift of massive weight in the darkness. Her pupils blew wide, black swallowing what little white remained.

Her hands shot up to his wrist, fingers trembling, either desperate to pry him off or to stop him from letting her go. “Alright—alright! I’m sorry—” the words tumbled out ragged, her voice cracking with panic. “I’m sorry! You’ve made your point—” She swallowed, forcing the words he wanted past the knot in her throat. “I’m afraid. I’m wretched. Brazen, petulant, foolish—an outcast, a slave, I'm worthless.”

“I’ve learned my place.”

It was all she had left to give him, every shard of pride broken and laid out like an offering, her hands still clutched at his wrist while she stared at the beast in the shadows, waiting to see if he would release her, or cast her forward.

Keres’ palms and knees smacked the cold black stone as she stumbled forward, spinning to face him, panic blazing in her eyes. The door slammed like a hammer behind her, cutting off his silhouette and the faint light from the hall.

“No!” Her cry cracked, echoing off the barren walls, swallowed by the dark. The sound of the beast answered her instead, the heavy stomp of a hoof that made the floor and her heart tremble.

She bolted to the door, fists pounding against it hard enough to bruise and burst her knuckles. “Shrike!!” she shouted. She was halfway to another plea when it hit her that pleading had never bought her anything here but more cruelty. She let out a roar of frustration. "You fucking coward!!!"

“What's wrong, too weak to do it yourself?” she barked at the door like a feral thing, her voice a snarl. She slammed a bare foot into the door, toes cracking, her nails bleeding. “Cock! Not! Big enough!?” she spat, each word punctuated by another kick, another shoulder slam, another thud of pain. “FUCK!!!”

Her forehead pressed to the cold door for a moment, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Tears streamed hot and silent down her cheeks and she slid down the door to her knees, trembling as the hoofbeats drew closer.

Roul. She wanted Roul. She wanted that stupid cabin and the smell of salt on the air, a little peace, a little safety. Instead it was just another cell, another mistake, another fuck-up in a life of fuck-ups. And, as far as major fuck-ups went, this was about to be the fucking worst of them.

Her fingers curled against the stone, nails biting. She would fight it. She would piss it off enough that it would hit her hard enough and kill her quickly and free her from this hell.

Keres moved like something half-haunted, half-reborn, every step a reminder of what had been taken, and what had been given in return. Dried blood still crusted in the creases of her hands, streaked down her face, neck and chest, smeared in dark stains where it had once run fresh and hot. Beneath the thin sheet that clung to her, her body ached, raw muscle, torn flesh, each heartbeat a dull throb that reminded her she still lived, though the reason why remained tangled somewhere between terror and want.

The thrall’s hand was light at her elbow as she was led through the dim halls, the scent of salt and blood replaced by something sweeter, strange and sharp, like pine and honey, like the breath of the deep woods. When the door opened, the warmth and the soft light inside made her pause.

Her eyes drifted over the room, the draped tubs, the flicker of candles, the strange stillness of him standing by the window. The Shrike, caught in the silver wash of moonlight, looked carved from the night itself.

Her brows arched slightly as he spoke, not turning. His voice held no invitation, only command, but the words caught her off guard. Sap from the tree at the heart of the world. Impossible. A myth. A sacred relic of the gods themselves. And yet… there it was, gleaming and viscous, golden in the candlelight.

Keres hesitated, the sheet clutched close to her breast as her gaze flitted from the tub to him, a silent question lingering in her eyes before falling away. She let the linen slip from her fingers, pooling at her feet, and stepped forward.

The scent enveloped her as her toes touched the surface, warm, thick, almost alive. She sank slowly, the syrup clinging to her skin like molten sunlight until it lapped at her shoulders. The blood dissolved away in rippling tendrils, peeling from her in rust-red wisps that sank into the golden depths.

The pain fled her body in an instant. Every tear, bruise and mark soothed, silenced, healed in a wash of radiance that made her gasp aloud. Her breath hitched, then broke, and a tear slipped from the corner of her eye, tracing through the stain of blood still on her cheek.

Her head fell back, her matted dark hair now slick and heavy, and her lips parted on a trembling whisper.
“Thank you…”

It wasn’t submission this time, not quite. It was something quieter, a fragile thread of wonder, spoken as if she feared the sound of her own voice might break the spell. Her dark eyes opened on him, watching him silently over the rim of the tub.

Keres had drifted into a state that felt halfway between waking and dream, the sap’s warmth seeping through her until she could no longer tell where her body ended and the amber began. The ache was gone now, replaced by a slow, liquid heaviness that tugged her deeper into stillness.

The ache in her limbs was already gone, scrubbed away as if her body had never known pain. But her mind… her mind still remembered. The echo of it, the taste of blood, it lingered in the marrow like smoke clinging to old wood.

She almost didn’t hear him when he spoke, his voice threading through the haze like a distant tide. Her dark lashes fluttered, and she lifted her head, watching him through the veil of her dark hair.

There was something different in his tone, not command, not cruelty, though it flickered only for a heartbeat before it was gone. She followed the movement of his hand as he dipped his fingers into the sap near her knee, the tiny ripples of energy spreading out to touch her skin. The faint contact made her shiver.

When his tongue brushed the golden syrup, she felt the faintest twist in her gut, not revulsion, but a strange, mirrored hunger she didn’t understand. Her eyes lingered on the ruby gleam of his irises as he watched her, and the silence between them stretched long and fragile.

When he finally spoke again, offering her choice, it took her a moment to process the word. It was such a foreign thing. She blinked slowly, as though waking from a spell, and followed his gesture toward the wardrobe. Fabrics of every hue shimmered softly in the candlelight; silks, velvets, linens. So many colours she hadn’t seen in so long, that she had never before worn. At least they were more than spider silk.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Then, softly: “…Why?” Her voice crackled like old paper. She cleared her throat, tried again. “Why the kindness, now? Why such expense on a slave, if that's what I am?.."

Her gaze drifted briefly to the thrall by the door for a moment before they returned to the Shrike, searching his face for some trace of motive she could understand.

“Him?.. Not you?,” she murmured, leaning her head back against the rim of the tub.

Her fingers broke the surface of the sap, trailing a thin golden thread that gleamed against her skin.