Private Tales Where Even the Stones Scream

Keres flinched at the whip’s crack, her chest tightening in dread as the air seemed to split with its song. “I took him to bed… because you told me to,” she bit out, teeth clenched, eyes glistening as she stared up at him, defiance and fear tangled in her gaze.

Her words died on her lips as the leather tore through air and flesh, slashing across her back with a sting that made her whole body seize. A sharp, involuntary cry ripped free from her throat, ragged and raw. Hot blood trickled down her spine, soaking the silk of her top, and she shivered violently.

Yet even through the pain, a thrill laced her senses, electrifying and maddening. “More… please,” she hissed, her breath trembling as she fought to steady her shaking hands. Her voice was a mixture of challenge and surrender, daring and need all at once.

“Don’t be a tease,”

The bite of the whip was too much to ignore. Each strike tore a ragged cry from her throat, her body twisting as though trying to flee the pain though she had nowhere to go. The chains rattled above her, holding her upright when her legs could no longer bear her weight. Blood ran down her form and spattered and dripped on the floor beneath her.

Fuck you.
Fuck you.
Fuck... you.

The mantra thudded through her mind with every searing lash, half curse, half prayer.

Her breath came in gasps, trembling and wet. She could taste copper when she finally dared to lift her head. A low, rasping laugh clawed its way out of her chest, broken and wild.

“Look at you,” she breathed, voice hoarse but edged with venom, “doing your own dirty work for a change…” Her mouth curved into a blood-smeared smirk. “Looks like I got that attention I wanted after all.”

She spat on the floor at his feet, defiance glinting faintly through the haze of agony.

“Come on, love,” she rasped, barely above a whisper. “Don’t stop on my account.”

"What I want, is to repay every ounce of pain you inflict upon me, ten-fold. I'm keeping note."

Pain muddled her senses, casting a haze over her mind as she struggled to focus on him. Her chest heaved with each ragged breath, black eyes blazing at him despite the drowsy weight in her limbs. When he shoved the handle of the whip into her mouth, gagging her, she let out a choked sound, growling low as she bit down on it, tasting leather and blood.

The bitter truth pressed against her mind, that she had thought herself triumphant. She had stolen the souls of three victims, harnessed them. And yet, to him, it wasn't enough. He had expected her to take to it effortlessly, to treat murder as if it were as natural as breathing. He had expected her to succeed without hesitation, without faltering, and when she stumbled, when she had to struggle, it had displeased him. Her success had been imperfect in his eyes.

Her feet slid in the blood slicking the floor as the shadows coiled around her ankles, cold and alive. Her heart thundered, and her stomach churned with a mix of exhaustion and terror. She had reached too far again. The ache of power, the weight of three borrowed souls, and the lingering dread of his scrutiny pressed down on her.

Then he invaded her mind. The shard of his will struck deep, tearing into her memories, her thoughts. Her head fell back, a scream muffled by leather tearing from her lips. Pain, frustration, rage, and desperation ignited inside her. He'd see it all; the misery and loneliness of her life, the quiet hours spent practicing blood magic, the first trembling steps she took to animate a corpse, the fire consuming her hometown, the mobs hunting her, the pyres she had been bound to. He'd see her first time she had found comfort in someone, in Roul, that it'd been him she'd thought of when she'd clung to that fucking thrall in her bed.

Every tear she had shed, every silent wish for a normal life, every whispered prayer for mercy that had gone unanswered. Every spirit she'd ever seen, heard, the voices that whispered, shouted, screamed...

And then.. he'd hear her voice - the dead words she whispered in her mind as she bled her offering onto the floor, trying to claw back what he had invaded. Her power, raw and undiluted, surged through the three souls she still held, a wave of death and life and desperation colliding in a single, unbearable thrum.

She lashed at him with her mind, fury and anguish burning through her, a desperate fight to reclaim even a fraction of herself. Her blood, her stolen power, her soul, all of it rose against him in a storm of noise and energy, testing the limits of what she could endure and what he could bend.

Satisfaction burned through her like fire in her veins. The shock that had flickered just briefly across his face filled her with a dark, dangerous delight. She had caught him off guard. The Shrike. The untouchable, unshakable tyrant. Her lips curved faintly despite the leather in her mouth, her chest still heaving with the remnants of effort.

Power still thrummed inside her, restless and alive, begging to be used. She could feel it pulsing through every nerve, clawing at her insides, promising she could do so much more.

When he tore the leather from her mouth, she drew a slow breath through her teeth, eyes like pits of black flame as he seized her jaw. His nails bit into her skin, but she did not flinch away. Her defiance was a living, breathing thing between them, a heartbeat that refused to still.

If she was afraid, she buried it deep beneath that fury. Only her heart betrayed her, a pounding, feverish rhythm that filled the small, cold space between them.

Then came his shadows. They coiled up her legs, cool and weightless, and she trembled, not in fear this time, but in spite of herself. The tendrils wound higher, soothing the torn flesh of her back, and her breath hitched. It was too much. Too cruel, too intimate, too confusing. A shudder rippled through her, her lips parting on an unsteady breath.

What would you have as a reward?

Keres’ eyes narrowed. “I want…” she began softly, leaning forward, the chains clinking, her face so close that her lips almost brushed his. “I want to be strong enough that when you look at me, you remember what fear feels like.”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes catching the faint red glint of his own. “Give me that, Shrike. Make me powerful enough that even the gods regret ever turning their eyes from me.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, “Or… kill me trying.”

Keres held his gaze, refusing to look away even as the whip slid like a serpent over her skin. The handle’s path down her throat left fire in its wake, and when he looped the cord about her neck, the rasp of leather made her pulse stutter. It wasn’t fear, it was rage, raw and shaking, fighting for a way out.

Each word he spoke landed like a blade, carving into every scar she thought had already healed. Empty. Alone. Worthless. The truths she buried so deeply he had unearthed with ease. And he enjoyed it, knowing the places that hurt.

Her breathing grew ragged as the whip pulled tighter. She could feel her pulse thrumming beneath the leather, her world narrowing to the pressure against her throat, the icy coil of his shadows and the sound of his voice.

She wanted to scream, to deny it, but she couldn’t, not when every word he spoke was true. So instead, her fury sparked through the cracks in her composure. Her eyes burned with a hatred that shimmered like heat off steel.

And when his thumb pressed into her mouth, tugging at her cheek, she didn’t pull back. She let her lips part, slowly, defiantly, staring up at him all the while.

Then she sank her teeth into him, hard. The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth as she bit down, harder still, until she felt flesh give beneath her teeth. Her jaw clenched like iron as she met his gaze, her muffled growl vibrating against his skin.

The moment his blood touched her tongue, she knew she had erred. The pain she’d drawn from him was satisfying, yes, but the blood itself was not mortal. It burned. Sweet, metallic, and wrong, and the moment she swallowed, it flooded through her like liquid heat. Her pupils dilated, swallowing the light.

The world tilted. Every heartbeat thundered through her ears until she could no longer tell if it was her pulse or his. Shadows rippled against her skin, cold and electric, while her body trembled under the sudden, dizzying rush of euphoria.

The sensation was like Shade, that drug from Teth she’d once stolen from a merchant caravan, but this was purer, sharper. Divine and poisonous in equal measure. Her breath caught as her body betrayed her, muscles slackening, limbs trembling with an overwhelming, hazy heat.

Her eyes found his through the fog. Defiant still, but slow now, unfocused. Her tongue laved the ragged pad of his thumb and she pulled another mouthful of blood from it. A deep, ragged breath left her as her body grew heavy, her back still bleeding but her nerves dead to pain.

The last of her control slipped through her fingers like sand. Her head tilted back, a lazy smirk twitching at the corners of her blood-streaked mouth as she met his gaze through half-lidded eyes.

She managed only a small nod, slow and hazy, surrendering not in will, but in the grip of the toxin that now coursed through her blood.

Keres did not fight. Her body drifted on a tide she could neither command nor comprehend. Anything that was not pain, not cold, not the whip or the ghosts gnawing at her nerves, she let the numbness take her. What was offered, she accepted in a fogged, spiralling haze until thought itself dissolved.

And then nothing. Darkness swept in like a tide, and she resurfaced in her chambers with a gasp.

Keres blinked hard. Her body ached. Her limbs were leaden, tingling with the phantom echo of the toxin that still pulsed weakly in her blood. When she pushed herself up a fraction she hissed as her head throbbed. Memories flickered in jagged shards behind her eyes..

The bite of the lash. Her mind slamming into his like a stormfront. Shadows coiling. The taste of his blood.. The thrall..

Keres groaned and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, dizzy and nauseous. Her back was no longer burning, at least. No longer slick with blood, but she felt the effects of the loss of it, still.
She lifted a trembling hand, searching blindly through the tangle of sheets until her fingers brushed warm skin. The thrall lay beside her, and she froze.

For a heartbeat revulsion twisted through her gut, not for him, but for herself, for what she’d allowed, for what she couldn’t clearly remember. The nausea surged up her throat, bitter and dizzying. He wasn’t with her. He wasn’t anything. Just a vessel. A warm, breathing puppet who would never refuse, never judge, never care for her..

And yet, he was solid, and warm, and the only comfort she had.
Keres let out a quiet, shuddering exhale and she shifted closer, drawn by instinct or exhaustion or the simple, pathetic need for something that didn’t hurt.

She rested her head on his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath grounding her more than it should have. Tears slipped free before she could stop them, warm trails soaking into his skin as she curled against him like something wounded. She closed her eyes and clung to the warmth, wishing for sleep to drag her back under.

Keres sucked in a sharp breath as his voice broke the quiet. Her spine stiffened, her blood running cold as the world seemed to tilt beneath her. She turned her head slowly, meeting those soft green eyes now bright with pain and confusion.

“I…” The word fell out of her, thin and useless.. No, she hadn’t known. Yes, she’d believed him mindless.

Her stomach twisted with shame.

He pulled back, anger flashing like a spark, and she flinched, not from fear, but from the truth of it. She had used him. She’d held him like a lifeline while assuming he wasn’t.. there.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, the words small and tight in her throat. “I didn’t know...”

He was still crying. Still trembling. And she had no idea if she should touch him, what would comfort him, what would make it worse, but she couldn’t just sit there uselessly. Her hand rose on instinct, hesitant, then settled gently on his shoulder.

Keres pushed herself upright, wincing slightly.

“I’m sorry he did this to you.”.. Sorry she’d been part of it. Her hand squeezed lightly at his shoulder.

“And… I can try to help you remember,” she murmured, earnest despite the ache in her chest. “If you want me to. Your name. Anything. I can try.”

Keres jerked her hand back the instant he flinched, fingers curling into a fist before she drew her knees in tight, arms winding around them as if to make herself small. The air between them felt suddenly too fragile.

“Threnody…” she echoed softly, eyes lowering. “Alright. If that’s what you want to be called.”

The name was mournful, heavy… fitting in a way that made her chest ache.

His question made her squirm slightly. She had no answer. Not one that wouldn’t make things worse.

“I’m… sorry,” she murmured, guilt pricking at her throat. “I just.. wanted warmth. I shouldn’t have assumed you were…” she cut herself off... A hollow thing..

He reached down then, and Keres watched with wary confusion as he pulled the lyre into his arms. Music?

“I do..” she whispered, surprised enough that her voice softened on instinct.

She tugged the blanket up around her shoulders, glancing uneasily toward the door and lowering her voice.
"But, play quietly,” she said. “He’ll hear.”

But despite the warning, her eyes lingered on the lyre, hungry for something gentle, something human..

Keres hadn’t expected how deeply the music would cut. How quietly it would move through her, slipping between the bruises and the raw places inside her chest like water seeping through cracks in stone.

When was the last time she’d heard a song? A tavern somewhere, with Roul beside her, tankard in hand. A din of drunken voices, a fiddle played too fast, a heartbeat of warmth she’d convinced herself she didn’t need.

But never like this. Never something meant for one listener. The first notes pried her breath loose. Soft, haunting, fragile enough that she curled in on herself without meaning to, tucking her knees to her chest, chin resting atop them as the melody unfurled around her like smoke.

His voice, the sadness in it. She felt it like fingertips pressing into old scars, too much like her own cycles of wanting and burning and losing and being broken for it.

Her eyes stung, but she swallowed the grief back sharply. She wouldn't cry now that she knew she wasn't truly alone here, now that he could see how fractured she was beneath the anger and the sharp edges.

But he cried still. When the last note faded and he bowed his head and covered his eyes, shoulders trembling, Keres’ fingers twitched with the urge to reach for him. To pull his hand down, to offer some kind of comfort, but she didn’t. She couldn’t risk him flinching again, not when she already felt stretched thin and hollow.

“You play beautifully…” she said instead, her voice quiet, a rasp softened by something delicate.. Her gaze dipped to her blanket, tightening around her shoulders. “It’s… nice to hear something other than voices.”