Private Tales Where Even the Stones Scream

She didn’t know why she had asked. Perhaps she had assumed that he might call on her. Perhaps it was the pull of his shadows, the cold comfort they offered in their strange, inhuman way that she was beginning to quietly crave.. Or perhaps it was simply that she hated being alone. She had spent so many nights in solitude, curled against nothing, until she had found Roul, or he had found her, and she had known warmth, closeness, the comfort of someone beside her. Shrike was not that. Shrike could never be that. Yet perhaps this mindless thrall could serve as a pale imitation, and so she did not refuse it, if only for a single night of peaceful sleep.

She tilted her head, studying him as she considered his answer. “So,” she murmured softly, “you have too much coin and too many possessions, and nothing to do with it all…” Her voice carried a hint of wry amusement. “What else would you do with an armoire full of ladies’ clothes? There are no other women here. I suppose you’d rather I look presentable than wear the tattered rags I washed ashore and slept in several dungeons in..”

Keres cast her gaze to the second bathtub and stood then, unabashed, the sap running down her body like molten honey, catching the moonlight and candle glow, tracing the curve of her shoulders, her breasts, the slope of her hips. Naked, unashamed, she faced him as she stepped out.

She flinched at the bite in his tone. The way his words struck, cold, and deliberate, made something in her chest twist sharply. She had not seen another woman since the dungeon, since Elide’s sneering face had been the last she’d known before waking in his. She was about to say as much when he mentioned her — when he invoked Roul without speaking his name. The meaning beneath it struck harder.

Her throat tightened. She swallowed the ache, the fury, the hollow pang of longing that came all at once. Her eyes burned, shimmering with tears she refused to shed. A shaky breath escaped her lips, and she forced her chin up, defiance standing in for dignity.

“I will take your thrall to bed,” she said softly, the words trembling with restrained venom. Then she turned, stepping past him and into the second tub.

The water was cool as she sank into it, and she began to scrub - not gently, not with care, but as though she could scrape away the memory of everything. Her skin flushed red under her hands, her breath ragged with the effort, until she was clean and the sap was gone.

When she rose, she wrung out her dark hair and wrapped herself in a cloth before crossing to the wardrobe.

Inside, among silks and satins of stolen splendour, she found something from Amol-Kalit, a set of loose silks soft as whispers. The colour of midnight, trimmed in silver thread that shimmered like starlight when it caught the light.

The camisole hung low at the back, held by delicate braided cords that crossed over her shoulders and tied between her shoulder blades, leaving her spine bare. The fabric clung just enough to hint at the curve of her breasts and the narrowness of her waist before falling free. The matching trousers were cut from the same black silk, loose and flowing, almost translucent when she moved, gathered at the ankles with small silver cuffs shaped like crescent moons.

When she pulled the silks over her skin, the cool touch of them soothed her raw flesh and she gasped quietly. She had never worn anything so fine in her life.

He hadn’t liked her choice, she could tell. The hard line of his jaw, the flick of red eyes over her before he turned away, that faint, barely contained fury that seemed to live just beneath his skin. Was it her defiance he despised, or the quiet dignity she’d managed to reclaim? The silks felt cool and light against her skin, comfortable in a way that almost felt like mockery. They did nothing to hide the pale latticework of scars on her back, each one a relic of her punishments, though the bruises and gashes from earlier had vanished beneath the sap’s magic. She felt almost whole. It unnerved her.

Her brows furrowed at his words. Conditioning. Executions. She nearly snapped back at him, nearly told him what he could do with his conditioning, but she caught herself, biting her tongue until she tasted blood. The thought of whatever awaited her in the morning curdled in her stomach. She only glared when he dismissed her so easily, fury burning in her eyes and trembling behind her lips, before turning to follow the thrall out.

When they reached her chamber, she regarded the thrall silently, unease flickering through her as his blank eyes turned toward her. “Get into bed” she ordered quietly. The thrall obeyed, folding onto the bed with puppet-like precision. “And close your eyes,” she added after a beat, suspicion prickling down her spine, wondering if the Shrike could see through his eyes too.

When she finally slipped into the bed, she turned her back to the thrall and pulled his arm around her, gripping his wrist until he held her tightly. The warmth of another body, even a hollow one, steadied her shaking. Only then did she allow herself to cry silent tears that bled into the pillow until exhaustion dragged her under.

---

By morning, her stomach was a knot. The murmurs of the gathered thralls and wardens filled the air, their stares following her. Why were they all looking at her? Her heart hammered so loud she thought they might hear it.

The sunlight caught her dark hair, left soft and shining from the sap’s cleansing, and the wind played at her silken clothes. It should have felt freeing, but under so many eyes it felt like being stripped bare again.

She looked to the three figures in the stocks, each filthy and broken, their misery as tangible as the scent of rot. She didn’t know why her feet wanted to stop, why she couldn’t look away from the elf’s shredded ears. Something about the sight turned her stomach.

She searched the crowd, and when she didn’t see the Shrike, she almost dared to breathe. Until a voice like cold iron slid into her mind.

A red dawn. Are you prepared?

Keres spun with a sharp gasp, eyes wide, expecting him at her back. The air itself felt wrong, too close. Then her gaze lifted to the battlements above, where a shadowed figure watched her like a god surveying his altar.

“Don’t fucking d—” She caught herself, jaw snapping shut before the curse could finish. A low, frustrated huff tore from her instead. “I hear enough voices without adding the living,” she muttered through her teeth, rubbing the back of her neck as if she could scrub him out of her head. She heard the dead, but they weren't in her mind like he was, it was a violation, it was unnerving.

Her gaze shifted back to the scaffold. Her throat tightened.

"Am.. I the executioner…?” she whispered, voice small now, lost beneath the sound of the morning wind and the restless crowd. Her eyes found the elf again, then drifted back to the battlement.

The voice inside her skull felt like ice under skin, intimate and obscene all at once. It burrowed in, naming things she had always skirted at the edges of, and the mention of them, of tearing a living soul free, made something in her recoil.

“N-no,” she managed aloud first, a stupid little sound that came out of her like a child’s protest. Her hands twisted in the silk at her waist.. She knew the way the dead clung and how to lure them close, how to pry at the seams between breath and bone. But a line lay there she had never crossed - taking a life while it still burned, dragging the light out of a body that still wanted to live. Necromancy had damned her enough as it was, but this was another calibre of sin.

The image she conjured in her mind made bile rise. “Can’t I just.. cut their throats and be done?” The question was half plea, half practicality, spoken so low she thought only the stones could have heard. Kill them quick, stop the suffering, stop the ritual. End it.

A laugh from the stocks cut across her inward shudder, the sound mocking. She recognised them too, she realised, and she cast a look up at Shrike.. For a breath she let herself feel the relief of not being alone in shame. The insults, the recognition, the casual cruelty of being sold and traded, each barb loosened that last, stubborn knot of mercy. If they could deride and trade lives so casually, why should she stand on ceremony?

Her mouth hardened. She had lived hunted for the power she bore, she had felt the dead press at her like friends and tormentors. The thought of taking a living soul, of learning to hold that kind of strength, still made her stomach drop.

Keres looked at the three figures again, at the elf’s torn ears, at the ragged man missing teeth, at the other broken face, and felt something settle like iron in her chest. The choice was no longer only for her conscience. It was a lever.

She had asked for power, and he was giving it to her. Her back straightened, her chin lifted.

'Alright...'

She swallowed, hair and clothes caught in the breeze as she stepped forward.. “Fine,” she said, voice small but steady. “If that’s what you want, if that’s what it takes, I’ll do it.” Her eyes flicked to the battlement, then to the crowd, then back to the stocks.

She feels the answer in the air before it comes, the Shrike’s clipped permission like a blade in a hand. She frowned, but didn't answer him. Her jaw tightened instead, and when Gwyddion stepped forward, the horned steward’s soft words caught her off guard.

Captive to captor..

It seems the king has designs for you...

Her brows knit. “It seems so,” she murmured, glancing up toward the dark silhouette on the battlement above.

The dagger he offered caught her eye. It was beautiful, in a dreadful sort of way. Trust the Shrike to send her a weapon both exquisite and cruel. Her fingers curled around it, feeling its weight, its chill. He had expected her to take the easy way out, but there was nothing easy about taking a life.

The crowd had gone quiet. The eyes on her were heavy, expectant, and she felt her pulse throb in her throat as she climbed the scaffold. Each step seemed to echo, her heart hammering against her ribs. The prisoners waited, all of them filthy, broken things.

It was the elf who drew her focus, who grinned at her with bloodied teeth. The same elf who had spit and called her a wench. She remembered him, and her stomach turned.

She stepped closer, taking a handful of his hair, the dagger lifting to his throat. The edge kissed his skin, and she could feel his pulse thrumming against it. For a long moment she just stood there, staring at the thin edge of the blade poised to end him. Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm. She was aware of everything; the weight of the dagger, the wind against her face, the quiet waiting of those behind her.

He expected her to fail.

Her hand trembled. And then, instead of cutting his throat, she pulled the blade back and grabbed his hand, slicing across his palm. Blood welled in a bright line, spilling freely. She dragged the flat of the dagger through it, coating the blade in crimson before drawing it across her own hand in turn. Her blood joined his, the droplets mingling as they fell to the wood beneath her feet.

She took a step back, raising her hand. Blood trailed in a thin line down her arm, and her lips parted as she began to speak.

The words were old, too old and long dead, and yet they came easily, tumbling from her tongue..

“Anarûl’esh vereth tal’kor nûm-vahr dras...”

By blood-bound tether, unbind the soul, come forth and be bartered.

The air changed. The wind picked up, whirling around her in sudden, sharp gusts that tore at hair and cloth. The crowd fell into silence as the sound deepened, humming through the wood beneath her feet.

The elf’s grin faltered. His breath caught. His body seized as something unseen began to stir inside him. Keres could feel it; the tug, the strain, the pull between his soul and his flesh. Her heart pounded as she reached out, bleeding palm open, and the air between them shuddered with a power that terrified her..