Page 82 of Rok's Captive
Her scent fills the chamber, her every movement drawing my attention like a shadowmaw tracking prey. Every sound, every shift in the air sharpens to a painful degree.
Her eyes flick to me as she dresses, as if she knows something inside me is unraveling. She doesn’t vocalize, but the way she watches me—alert, cautious—makes it clear she senses the change.
I can’t stay still.
So, I pace the chamber.
She finishes dressing, pulling on her strange foot coverings before turning back to me.
Her gaze is steady, her expression unreadable, and for a moment, we simply stare at each other, the tension between us thick and suffocating.
Then she crouches.
I stop pacing, my head tilting as I watch her. She picks up the sandfin bone, using it to carve into the dust at her feet.
“This is me,” she says, pointing to the figure she draws, then to herself. “Justine.”
I nod, giving her the chin jerk she recognizes as understanding.
She draws another figure, larger and broader, and points to me.
My chest tightens.
She’s trying to communicate.
I crouch beside her, studying the marks in the dust as she continues to draw.
The next shape is a stone formation. Familiar.
The place where I found her.
She points to it, then to herself, then to other figures she draws—many grouped together.
I lean forward, touching my brow to hers. With a breath, I close my eyes. “My clan.”
“No.” She shakes her head, her hair tousling on her shoulders. “Not your clan.” She points at the figures again. “Not Rok’s.” Shaking her head again. “Mine.” She touches her chest. “Justine’sclan.”
Her words flow again, faster now, her tone rising with urgency.
My brow furrows, trying to piece it together. She repeats the motion—pointing to the stone formation, then to herself, then to the others. She vocalizes the same sounds over and over, pointing at each figure.
I tilt my head, my brow furrowing.
She draws something else—a new shape, a circle with radiating lines.
Ain.
My chest tightens.
Justine gestures toward Ain, then picks up a small stone from the ground. She holds it high, above the figures, and then lets it fall, the rock landing in the dust with a soft thud.
My glow flares brighter, but she doesn’t notice. She’s already moving, drawing more figures around the fallen stone. Tiny, crude shapes that surround it like a gathering.
She points to the stone formation again, then back to the figures, vocalizing softly, her tone urgent and pleading.
My claws curl into the stone floor as I try to make sense of her meaning.
The stone. The figures. Ain.
