𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉
Coughing... cough. Dammit, it continues relentlessly. I can't even make my steps steady—just stumble around because of my sore, burning throat. Reaching my desk, I ran my hands over the wooden apothecary, grabbed my flask, and took a long swig of the elixir. Gulping it down, a sigh released my lips as the pain fades, then toss the empty bottle aside and glance back at the parchments scattered across the wooden floor. My ink-stained hands won't leave a mark on me.
Darkness fills my room as I look around with slumped shoulders. I have not seen morning light for—what—three days straight? Ever since Eva…
Exhale. No—Lady Executioner. That's who she is now. Her defeat at the hands of Orlendar's Reapers.Â
Big Sis is truly trapped there. Even a return would be no salvation—the Ivorians would do worse to her.
"Fuck!" I remember something. My gaze lands on the thing I've been craving—the source of my restless thoughts—and stumbling toward my wall, tripping over the mess in my room. A rush of excitement surges through me as I rummage through the papers, tossing them here and there.
"Aha!" Found it.
A wooden box from the hill of Pariet's peak. I crawl to my bed and prop myself against it, not taking my greedy eyes off the box. Unlocking it with my dirty purple fingers, I exhale—and disappointment floods me.
"A piece of paper? That's it?"
I pick up the parchment and examine it. The edges look like it's torn from its original place—a journal, maybe? I have no clue. Still, I can't deny the powerful urge to write something in it.
I glance to my side, where my pen rack lies spilled and scattered across the cold floor. I hover my hand over one for a moment before picking it up and spring to my feet, walking over to my desk.
Taking my seat, I release another sigh and contemplate what to write. What if… Something poetic? Ugh—pathetic. Still, I write:
"Where the tide turns."
I hum at the sound of it before laughing at my own words. My heart leaps; blood pumps faster through my veins, goosebumps rising on my arms. A sudden shriek of thunder strikes, followed by a flash of lightning. I swipe my head to look outside the window with my wide, stormy gray eyes. The sky has turned dark—I'm pretty sure it was sunny just moments before.
The smell of dampness fills the air and the room within, as rain pelts the glass, and a howl of wind lashes the curtains inward. And that's when the nerve hits—the paper—
I spin back to my desk as the wind tosses around all my parchments... except the one I just wrote on.
A bitter laugh tears out. Anyone passing by would swear madness has taken root.
I slam my palms on the table and glare at the parchment, a challenge.
"Indeed!" That's my checkmate. Hah!"
Madness—yes. Conversation's only with ghosts and paper now. A hand wipes across my face before lifting the torn parchment high.
"I am the Black Woman haunting your nightmares. This is no mere threat, my dear—remember this: I will be your downfall... Ethan Hathquill and the Crimson Reapers."