Page 18 of Between Smoke and Shadow

SEVEN

HARRICK

It’s her.

Even without seeing those blue eyes, I know. I can’t explainhowI know. Her brown hair is shorter than the girl’s from my memory. Her limbs are thinner. Her cheeks are sunken, and the wounds on her face distract from almost everything else. Still, I know her.

All those cycles ago, I’d seen her on her worst day. Something about that moment marked my soul, bruising me from the inside out. I spent far too long wondering what became of her, until eventually, I convinced myself things got better. The same cowardly lie I always tell myself. Because things don’t get better, not for people like her in places like this.

I tilt my chin to look at my reflection in the ceiling, fighting waves of nausea. The woman,Rune, is crying. Soft sobs and sniffles that never run out. It’s better than silence though. At least I know she’s still breathing.

Who knows what else they’ve done to her.

Other than Tora, I’ve never really helped anyone before. There are always Committee members or guards lurking over my shoulder, advising me on what I can and can’t, should and shouldn’t, do.

But this morning, I was alone. I’d been headed for the arena after my disastrous loss, needing to sit and sulk and maybe break a weapon or two. I couldn’t go during the day, when the trainers would be there to lecture or give theories as to what went wrong. I already know what went wrong. I’vealwaysknown.

It wasn’t that I was too slow. It wasn’t that protecting Tora stole my focus, not really. I failed because I’m not the Architect’s most powerful descendant. My eyes may be darker, my magic may run thicker, but my abilities have a limit. And Malek bests them every time.

As I stand here, I wonder what it’s like to be Rune. I’ve never seen someone as defenseless as she was in that hallway. I could have killed her, and we both knew it. I’m still thinking about it, that unspoken horror that hangs between us, when the bathroom door cracks open.

Rune hesitates. She’s still wearing the mask, my folded red handkerchief, but it looks like she washed her face. The smeared blood is gone, leaving only the wounds themselves. A deep gash on her chin and a long scrape on her cheek. She’s trembling again, mouth bobbing softly, like she can’t decide whether to speak.

“I’m here,” I say. I want her shoulders to relax, for her to smile, even if barely. Instead, she flinches, like she was hoping I’d be gone. She braces herself against the door as if it’s a shield. After wetting her lips, she speaks in a rush of words I almost don’t catch.

“If you are going to kill me, please do it quickly.” She raises her chin as she speaks, and I know she’s trying to sound brave. Unaffected, like she couldn’t care less. But her words vibrate like they’re about to shatter all over this corridor.

I don’t respond. There’s nogoodway to respond to a request like that.

“Please,” she says again, lowering to a whisper. “I have suffered greatly, and as much as I don’t matter…” She trails off then, sucking in a quiet sob. “I’m still a person, and?—”

She says something else, but it’s impossible to make sense of it. She’s crying too hard, and my insides are burning and I don’t know how to describe this horrible, rotten feeling she’s pushing into my bones. It’s more painful than injured magic. More horrific than any cut I’ve suffered in the arena.

I do the only thing I can think of, what I’d do if this was Tora crying. I wipe the tears from her face.

But she doesn’t react like my sister. She doesn’t shove me away to wipe her own tears. She doesn’t get control of her breathing and make an off-color joke. Instead she tenses. She jerks away like I’ve struck her, and she trips in the process. As she crashes to the ground, something—I think her elbow—strikes the tile. She freezes, collapsed on the floor, breath erratic. She looks like an animal, trapped with no escape.

I catch the door before it closes and slip into the bathroom, standing over her. I wish she wore a servant’s veil instead of my dark handkerchief. If she could see me, she would know I’m terrified too.

I weigh my options:

I can leave, but she’ll never find her quarters like this.

I can drag her, but she’ll panic and think the worst.

We can sit here all night, but that will only lead to more problems for both of us.

“Rune,” I say finally. She flinches but otherwise doesn’t move. Even though she can’t see me, I move slowly, lowering to the floor until I’m knelt before her. “Rune, I’m going to take off the mask. I’m going to take it off, and you are going to look at me. And I amnotgoing to harm you. You have my word.”

I’ve given her my word several times now, but it’s clear that doesn’t mean anything to her. She’s still crying as I untie theblindfold, tears falling from her closed eyes. I press the blindfold into her hand, and then, I wait.

After several minutes, her breathing slows. Her eyes are still closed, and she hasn’t said a word, but I think we’re getting somewhere. I’m trying to think of something, anything, to make her trust me.

And then, her eyes open. Vibrant blue and wide like an Old World deer. Depthless, innocent.

A strange breath releases from my lips. I can’t explain the blend of emotions that crash against my chest. The Architect claims eye contact is common in the Old World, but here, it’s rare. Beyond my family, I’ve barely seen anyone’s eyes. Whether it’s a woman I’m sleeping with or my closest friends, they tend to keep their masks.

Out of respect, they tell me.

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