Drifting in the Void

  Days had passed since she had arrived here. She had come as his sacrifice—to be nothing more than a meal. She was supposed to die. And yet, here she was, in his sanctuary.   She couldn’t see a thing, only feel. The space around her felt like a room—at least, that’s what she thought it was. She had to feel everything in the chamber, groping blindly for purchase. She bumped her legs on furniture twice and even hit her head once when she tripped and fell to the floor. The room was cool, faintly scented with lavender, with a trace of sulfur underneath.   Her body ached. This chamber felt like a new kind of prison, though at least it wasn’t the same one she’d been trapped in for most of her life in Ravenlight. She had spent endless days forced to scrub floors in spaces she couldn’t see.   She had once been the daughter of a lord. Her father had loved her more than anything. But as she grew older, she lost her vision for unknown reasons. Her father had remarried—a lady from another village who had a daughter named Alice. At first, her new stepmother, Lady Pennyfeather, had seemed kind. Ursala couldn’t put her finger on why, but there had always been something unsettling beneath her smiles.   Perhaps it was the small jabs about her father spoiling his sightless daughter. Perhaps it was something else. But when her father died, so did every kindness she had ever known. She was locked in rooms, forced to clean on her hands and knees, given only scraps to eat. Her heart ached from loss.   When the time of sacrifice came, her stepsister had been drawn in the lottery. Ursala had wanted out of her hell. She had said to the Chancellor, trembling yet resolute:   "I’ll do it."   Her stepmother had snickered with satisfaction.   "Ursala… why would you…?" the Chancellor asked.   "We need it, don’t we? Who needs a blind woman?" Her voice hadn’t wavered. She wanted this. It was her only way out. No more grief, no more locked rooms and endless chores. She wouldn’t have to feel the loss that no one else understood.   She had been bathed, cleaned, and redressed, sent here in a gown of light velvet—less constricting than the ridiculous one she had arrived in. And yet, he had not consumed her. He had not granted her the death she had hoped for. Instead, she had traded one suffering for another—a new hell she couldn’t see. She sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her bruised shin once more.   The heavy door creaked open. She feared it would be Emory again, the stuffy butler who had called her a waste of good demons’ space. He was kind, in his own rigid way, always bringing her food and placing it in the same spot. Others had come and gone, but he had remained constant.   "Ursala, come to me."   The voice made her tilt her head toward the sound. It was him. Julian. The Guardian. Something in his tone made her skin prickle. It was slightly unnatural. She opened her senses—he smelled of ash and blood. She should have been terrified, yet she slowly rose to meet him.   She took slow, careful steps, testing the path toward his voice. Each step was measured; she still felt the sting on her shin from her earlier fall. The hem of her dress dragged along the floor.   "Stop," Julian commanded. She froze.   "You’re hurt," he said, his voice softer this time.   “I… may have tripped,” she confessed. Something about this moment felt strange—like it always did when he was near. She heard him move, just barely, before the hem of her skirt was lifted. Cool air brushed her skin; his fingers skimmed the bruise on her shin. She winced.   “You tripped?” His voice was low, almost curious.   “I haven’t memorized the room yet,” she murmured, her voice small and foreign even to herself. The fabric fell back into place. He was standing right in front of her—she could feel his presence, heat and shadow, close enough to touch.   “Is that how you survived until now?” Julian asked quietly.   “I don’t think you want to know about my life before this.” She tilted her head away from his warmth. He certainly didn’t want to hear about locked rooms, scrubbed floors, and invisible wounds.   “I want to know everything. But you’re going to be living here, and this isn’t going to work if you stay fragile and mortal.” His tone carried the edge of someone used to command.   “You could end me,” she offered softly, as though that would help.   “Never.” He hissed the word, annoyed, and then he was gone. The door shut. She sighed. Why was this so hard? She was supposed to be his food—something to sustain the magic here. Yet he refused her even that. Now she drifted in the in-between void, trapped in this chamber, and in the prison of her own mind.   She hated that sound—the door closing, leaving her alone. Except here, she knew nothing; the only things she had were her senses. A cool stone table, a hearth radiating gentle heat, a large bed with heavy sheets, a wardrobe she had found, a small bathroom, tiny tables scattered around. It was difficult to get around. She moved slowly, shuffling toward the bed, and lowered herself onto it. The mattress dipped beneath her weight.   She missed her stupid little room and cot. She missed her tiny, poorly stuffed bunny her mother had made before she died. Lady Pennyfeather had probably burned it by now.   Ursala sighed inwardly. She could barely form pictures in her mind of the things she remembered—a faint shadowy man who represented her father, the silhouette of a female shadow for her mother, the shapes of the trees in the garden. She chased the shadows in her memory, but they slipped away each time. Time felt endless, stretching on, until someone finally brought her food.