I wake on the floor, stiff and sore from yesterday's exhaustion. I get up and leave my bedroom.
The house is silent, Killar never came home last night. I slip out of the house, training sword in hand and step outside into the alley.
The sun is still beneath the horizon, the snow on the ground is cracking under my boots.
My body still aches from yesterdays sparring. The bruises on my ribs throb with every breath, but I push through the pain. There is no way back for me, only forward.
I tighten my grip and begin the forms Silas drilled into me. The steel blade cuts through the cold air, each swing warming the numbness in my fingers. The routine is my escape, it makes the world muffle, become irrelevant.
After a few minutes, my breath comes in ragged clouds. I am covered in sweat frozen on my skin. I check the horizon. The sun is rising.
It's odd. Silas should be awake by now, observing me from his creaky chair with his faint smug smile, lamenting over my footwork while smoking from his pipe.
But the chair is filled only with snow.
I perform one last set of positions, slicing through an invisible enemy. Then, wipe my brows, trying to get rid of the ice within. I decide to go inside.
"Silas?" I call out as I enter.
He is still in the armchair, exactly where he fell asleep yesterday. The wool blanket is still covering him. His head tipped back slightly, eyes closed, mouth open.
"You are sleeping late," I tease, moving to put the kettle on.
He doesn't answer.
The silence in the room suddenly feels heavy. Oppressive.
I stop. I listen for the sound of his breath.
Nothing.
"Silas?"
Panic arises in my chest, cold and sharp. I walk toward him, my steps hollow.
I reach out. My fingers touch his hand resting on the armrest.
His skin is ice cold.
I jerk back, my breath catching in my throat.
"No, that can't be," I whisper. "No, wake up. Please."
I shake his shoulders. His head swings to the side, his eyes half open revealing only whites.
He is gone.
I stumble back, looking down at my hands. My palms feel ... sticky.
I blink, blood coats them to the wrist. Thick, red blood, dripping from my fingertips onto the floorboards.
"Not again," I gasp.
I look at the floor. The crimson stain is spreading from beneath Silas's chair, crawling across the wood like a living thing, crawling toward me across the floorboards. It reaches and touches my boots.
"Stop it," I cry out, backing away until my spine hits the wall. I slide down, curling into a ball. "Stop it!"
The blood turns the whole room red. The smell of iron fills my nose.
...Kill...
The voice emerges from the darkest corner of my mind.
The world loses its colour. Blue sigils flare on the walls, on Silas's dead body, on my own skin.
...Break it...End it...
"NO!" I yell, clutching my head. "I won't listen to you! Leave me alone!"
My throat tightens, choking off the scream. I am drowning in the memory of white marble and red blood.
***
The front door slams open.
The noise shatters the oppressive hallucination. The blood vanishes. The sigils fade.
Killar stands in the doorway. He looks at me, huddled on the floor, shaking.
"What happened?" he asks, his voice sharp.
I can't speak. I am unable to form words. I just raise a trembling hand and point toward the armchair.
Killar freezes. He looks at Silas.
For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then, with slow, deliberate strides, he approaches the chair. He places two fingers on Silas's neck.
Then, without a word, he turns and walks into the washroom.
CRASH
The sound of shattering glass explodes from the room.
"You left me alone, you old bastard!" Killar roars, his voice cracking.
I flinch, tears streaming down my face.
Killar storms back into the living room. He ignores me. He ignores Silas. He goes straight to the loose floorboard where the coins are kept and rips it up. He stuffs the coins into a bag. He grabs bread, dried meat, anything he can reach.
He even snatches the long steel sword from the wall, the one that belonged to Silas. He pins it to his belt.
"Where ... Where are you going?" I manage to say between sobs.
He strides to the front door, his hand on the latch. He finally looks at me. His eyes are filled with cold and hard fury.
"I am leaving this tomb," he spits, "I don't want to rot here like him."
"What about us?" I whisper. "What are we going to do?"
He laughs, a harsh, barking sound. "There is no we. You were his project, Seraph. Not mine. You're nothing to me."
"Killar, please ..."
"I am going to the Blood Rats," he replies coldly, "for good."
He kicks the door open. The morning light floods in, harsh and blinding.
"Don't follow me," he warns.
Then he steps out and slams the door shut, leaving me alone in the silence.
***
I stay on the floor for hours, watching the dust motes dance in the light, waiting for Silas to breathe. He never does.
I stay until Eira comes the next morning. She takes one look at me, then at the chair and weeps. She covers his body with a white cloth, hiding his face.