Page 117 of Bound By Darkness

She gives a signal, and the guards move into position, activating the hidden mechanisms deep beneath the castle.The sound of ancient stone shifting echoes through the chamber, followed by the unmistakable sound of flowing water.I watch as it begins to trickle in from unseen openings along the walls.

Ruairi doesn’t react at first.He’s been locked down there for weeks—he’s endured darkness, silence, and isolation.But now, he straightens, his body stiffening as he notices the slow, steady rise of the water pooling at his feet.

He glances up, his eyes locking onto Aoife’s."What the fuck is this?"

"You wanted to be untouchable," she says, her voice almost bored."Let's see how well you do when the water starts rising."

Ruairi snarls, lunging at the rope that still hangs above him.But the effort is wasted as my guard pulls it out of his reach.

“You’re going too far, Evie.It’s time to end this charade,” he yells.

Aoife stands at the edge of the pit, still as a statue, her posture carved from iron.To Ruairi, she must look unbreakable—cold, ruthless, every inch her father's daughter.

But from up here, I see the truth.

There’s a tremor she tries to mask.A slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curl too tightly at her sides.Beneath the sharp tilt of her chin and the merciless gleam in her eyes, something deeper stirs.

Guilt.Doubt.Grief.

Ruairi doesn’t see it.He only sees the executioner standing above him, ready to deliver the final blow.

But I see the girl bleeding beneath the steel.

The girl fighting not just him—but herself.

Still, I stay silent, letting her have this moment.Letting her bury the pieces of herself she's not ready for anyone else to carry.

The water continues to rise, a black tide devouring the floor, inch by merciless inch.Ruairi shifts his weight, fighting to keep his footing as the pit stirs around him, the current dragging at his legs like a thing alive, hungry for flesh.The water laps at his knees now, cold and unrelenting, seeping through his clothes, clinging to his skin like a death shroud.

He grits his teeth against the chill sinking into his marrow.I hear the falter in his breathing, the crack in his composure he can no longer hide.

He’s not panicking yet.

But the pit is patient.It waits with ancient hunger, tightening its grip with every heartbeat, every shallow gasp that tears from his lungs.

I see it in the frantic darting of his gaze, the way he scans the slick, unforgiving walls for an escape that doesn’t exist.I see it in the way his hands flex and curl as if he could tear through the stone itself if only he fought hard enough.

But the pit will not be cheated.Soon, it will consume him.

Aoife crosses her arms."Say the words, and I turn it off."

Ruairi glares up at her."Go to hell."

Aoife exhales slowly, a shudder of breath that barely stirs the air, then gives a curt nod to the guard stationed at the control panel.

The gears whine and groan, and the pit answers as if awakening to its hunger.The current surges, the water climbing faster now, dark and glistening, alive with malicious intent.

Ruairi curses, the word torn from his throat raw and ragged.He slams his fist against the pit wall, the sound a dull, hollow thud swallowed almost instantly by the rushing water.It floods up around him, icy and relentless, soaking him to the waist, weighing down his limbs with cruel hands.

I watch him grapple with himself, forcing breath into his lungs, counting heartbeats, searching for logic in a place that has none.He’s trying to believe this is still a game.That Aoife will break, that someone will call it off, that salvation waits just beyond the next moment.

But salvation doesn't live here.Only the slow, creeping weight of inevitability.

And then I see it—the precise instant the doubt seeps in, threading through his mind like poison in the blood.His gaze stutters, and he loses focus.His hand, mid-clench, falters.

In that fragile, unguarded second, the pit seems to expand its walls, stretching wider, the ceiling climbing higher as if space itself mocks him.

The world tilts, unsteady, dreamlike.

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